I want to live at Ikea

photo by Karen Tam

Claire and I went to visit Elizabeth on her sixth night in the emergency room in Winston-Salem. On the way home, we decided to swing by Ikea in Charlotte. She's never been and it was the closest we've been in a while.

Ikea isn't hopping on a Wednesday night. We wandered through, looking at well-designed kitchens, trendy light fixtures and perfect paint colors. My favorite parts, though, are the complete homes, fitted into a 375 square foot space, a 600 square foot space and others. There are no dirty dishes waiting in the sink, no bills to be paid, no clothes hanging on chairs. The people aren't home and the space is spotless. Obviously, invisible beings sneak in after business hours and tidy up. I'll bet the washer and dryer work. And there isn't any mental illness.

I want to live at Ikea.

But I don't and so I just keep muddling through the messes. Elizabeth spent a solid week in the ER, over-sedated, restrained, no art supplies (she hurt herself with them), no phone (she kept calling 911 to get her out of there), no books, no school (she wasn't admitted so she wasn't eligible for the hospital school), no visitors except me, no exercise, and eventually no TV (taken away for her bad behavior). I finally took a photojournalist in with me on Wednesday, sponsored by an organization that provides information on mental illness to legislators. Elizabeth's hair is matted and wild, her skin ashy, self-inflicted sores on her hands. The journalist's organization was disturbed enough that on Thursday afternoon they contact Health and Human Services, the state administrative body that supervises care of the mentally ill.

I spend Thursday morning on the phone with the child psych fellow at Baptist, arguing for her to be admitted there. Not possible, he says, she's too high acuity. We have to wait for a bed to open up at Butner. Butner may be a ten week wait, I counter. He then tries to explain mental health care in NC to me. He suggests next time we choose a PRTF closer to home. I then explain mental health care in NC to HIM. There are 29 PRTFs in NC. Each takes 12 or fewer children. She doesn't qualify for many of them. The closest is 80 miles away from Chapel Hill. They kicked her out. He explains that they are upping her meds, hoping to sedate her. I don't feel that I have any choice but to agree. He's not unkind, but he doesn't seem to get it that anyone might have difficulties behaving in a small room for a week.

Interestingly, that night at 1:00 am I get a call from the on-call psych resident. I'm out cold and beat on the alarm clock for a while before I realize it's the phone. By then, she's hung up but I call back and get her. It's been a hard night, she tells me. They've shot her up with haladol and she is sleeping now. But the decision has been made to admit her to Baptist's "Behavioral Health" unit, the very one that turned her down that morning. I ask why the change? Not sure. I suspect that now that HHS has become involved, keeping a 12 year old restrained and sedated in an ER bed for a week now looks a little, well, archaic? contrary to the Hippocratic Oath? First do no harm. The harm that has been done to her in the last few weeks may be irreversible.

I go up last night to see her and scope things out. It's a beautiful unit. The rooms are large and the staff is friendly. They have a one-on-one security guard assigned to her at all times. She had finally gotten a bath and some lotion on her skin. The desk clerk was braiding her hair. For the first time in two weeks I feel she is safe and cared for. We have friends who work at Baptist, friends in positions that they can be advocates for her. I sleep well when I return home.

It's not perfect. I argue with the charge nurse over some of the drugs she is given. The nurse wants to override Butner's six week observation, testing, and diagnoses. She's psychotic, the nurse says. No she isn't, I say multiple times, my voice steadily rising. She counters that she seemed disoriented and showed disorganized thinking during the one afternoon she had observed her. She's drugged out of her gourd, I tell her. I show her a picture of Elizabeth a few months ago, hair groomed, big smile, the lights on in her eyes. The nurse looks away and stops arguing.

They call me at midnight to tell me they have had to give her thorazine and put her in seclusion. She kept pushing the call bell and finally pulled it out of the wall. Shit. I forgot to tell them how scared she is of the dark and how she'll do anything to keep someone with her. Her worst times are always at night.

The downside to this is that she is off the waiting list for Butner. I'm not sure what that means for the long term. Our case manager and a family friend are working together to write applications to new PRTFs, even though the case manager doesn't get paid since Elizabeth is in the hospital. There ARE some good guys here.

People wonder how such a thing can happen. It happens because we let it, because we hide mental illness away out of shame. If this were a child with cancer, would we sit quietly by? I don't think so. If we treated the physically ill like we do the mentally ill, it would mean that we required the emergency appendectomy patient to wait a month for surgery. The breast cancer patient would be turned down at hospital after hospital because they had already taken a patient from Orange County and the waiting list for Orange County beds was three years out. The epileptic would be asked why he was refusing to control himself. The brain cancer patient who had private insurance would be told that insurance would cover just one chemo treatment every month, even though the accepted protocol for his illness required it daily for three weeks each month. He might find that his doctor won't take private insurance because only Medicaid covers the full amount. Another patient might find her doctor wouldn't take Medicaid because the state was so busy auditing practitioners that it left no time for them to practice.

Private insurance companies can't make money off of mental illness, so if they cover it, it's only half-heartedly. If this were Claire, back in the days when we could afford insurance, we'd be up a creek. Luckily Elizabeth has Medicaid as part of her adoption assistance as a high-risk child. It's not perfect, but it's far better than anything else I've seen. But that is being cut too, under the misguided notion that it might save the state some money. State Medicaid dollars are matched by the federal government and so cutting one state Medicaid dollar loses us two. And the kind of care she was getting in the ER costs us tons. It's ineffective, even harmful care at high prices.

I'm not ashamed of her illness. She is my beloved child, created in the image of God. So are the other children languishing in ERs across the state. First I will get my child taken care of, making as much noise as it takes. But even then, I have no plans to shut up.

Along for the ride

You may feel like you've read this post before. I certainly feel like I've written this post before. But trust me, it's a whole new episode.

After three days in the Baptist Hospital ER, Elizabeth's PRTF reconsidered and agreed to take her back. It took a good 24 hours for the Hospital to change courses and let her be discharged to them. Taking her back was the right thing for them to do. I was a little nervous, but overall I was okay with this. They are, after all, a facility that works with kids with behavioral problems. Everyone deserves a second chance to get it right. They assured me they were ready. They weren't.

Once again on Friday night, three days after they took her back, they take Elizabeth to the ER. When I talk to her on the phone, I have to admit that her actions are logical, at least once you understand her logic. The PRTF told her that if she acted up again, she'd have to go to Butner. As she said, "I wanted to go to Butner." Duh. What would you do? She has discovered a way to control the world to reach her goals: feeling safe and liked. That's not crazy. But it sure as hell makes life difficult.

The immediate problem is that there doesn't seem to be a child psych bed available in the state. Some feel that she is too difficult for them to handle. The ones that can handle her have no beds. It doesn't help that it's the weekend. Butner, being the state hospital, is mandated to take her, but only if there are beds. They don't have any either, so Elizabeth waits in the hospital. She's only been there about 50 hours this time. Our record is 74 and I suspect we'll beat it this time. She tells the nurse she can speed things up and so she starts acting out. They have to sedate and restrain her. I don't really blame her. Those little cubicles make me a bit violent too.

I spent all day yesterday working to keep her from going back to Butner. If we reward this behavior by giving her what she wants, it will take a long time to unlearn it. The social worker there reads me the list of places she has tried. Finally I have to admit that I can't fix this one and start thinking of how to redeem it.

A digression: as our legislators talk about cutting the budget, one of the areas that may be cut is mental health. One result of that is children and adults waiting weeks for a hospital bed. This is not acceptable. People with mental illness do not need to be stuck in a tiny cubicle waiting for treatment. Taxpayers are not saving money by doing this. I would guess that her ER treatment is far more than it would be in a properly staffed unit.

And how am I doing?

When I was a child, we used to fish in the creek near our house, using chunks of bologna as bait. I never caught anything, but I did love seeing my bobber go under and then pop back up empty. I am like one of those bobbers. I may go under for a brief violent moment, but I pop right back up. Last weekend I crashed for a day; this weekend I am merely resigned.

I love my daughter. But I can't cure her nor fix her; I can only love her as she is and work to shape her world so that she can be successful. Sometimes it works, much of the time it doesn't. And so I shift gears and try something else. So often I tell my students, "The only reaction you can control is your own." It's good advice if I do say so myself.

I find solace in dark humor shared with other parents of children with mental illness, in a beautiful handwritten card from a friend, in an unexpected gift. I find joy in small moments that are all the more precious because of their dark setting: eating ice cream under the "supermoon" last night; holding one of the kittens who looks up at me adoringly; watching a student collapse in giggles; having dinner with Claire and listening to her tell a funny story. I feel contentment in doing my job well, in having a conversation with a friend, in rereading a book I love. I am not unhappy.

On Friday, after I received the call telling me Elizabeth was headed for the hospital, my friend and I talked. She works with cancer patients and we talked about the fact that sometimes one has reason to be sad. It's not pathological. It's a normal part of living and doesn't always need to be treated. I have moments where I am unhappy about my life. But I have many more moments when I am content.

The truth is that I am proud of both my daughters. I have no desire to trade either one of them in. They are who they are and I am honored to share their journeys.

Even the one who tells me she likes Butner because their padded room is nicer.

Always Lent and never Easter

Maybe it's because I've been up since 4:00 am after falling asleep at 2:00 am that I'm even finding this funny, but I am obviously into dark humor . . . do you find anything at ALL funny in the fact that my child got kicked out of a PRTF for bad behavior? Five friggin' days she made it before they said they couldn't handle her. And they only have two kids. No one ever gets kicked out of PRTFs (that stands for psychiatric residential treatment facility). I could do a blog post on things Elizabeth has been kicked out of, but I can't remember them all.

They took her to Baptist Hospital and left her in the ER. She's been there the last 24 hours. SueAnn of Baptist just called me and said they are waiting to get on Butner's waiting list (That's kinda funny too—waiting to get on a waiting list). SueAnn gave me the number to talk to Elizabeth, which I just did. Her first question, "Do you hate me?" I assured her I didn't, but that I was sad that this had happened. She said, "Well, I told you I wanted to go back to Butner." She was remorseful that she had put me to trouble and that I was sad, but seemed very pleased that she was going back to CRH. It's one of the hardest things I've ever done, but I'm not rushing down there. There is no sense in reinforcing something more than I have to. She's coloring, snacking, and watching TV.

I played online solitaire for two hours in the middle of the night. It kept asking me "Are you ready to give up?" And I kept having to hit "yes". And I am.

Our QP (mental health case manager) called last night and she was livid. I think I take some comfort in the fact that everyone in the mental health field that I've talked to is incredulous. So much for the Methodists. Maybe the Episcopalians will take her. Baptist Hospital will keep her in the ER overnight but they don't want her either, so they plan on holding out until Central Regional will take her.

Ah, so it goes. It's not an earthquake, tsunami or nuclear meltdown. If I had health insurance, I'd go check MYSELF into the psych ward. But I don't, so I can't. Hell, I can't even afford to be suicidal. I think I'll go eat some chocolate. Maybe it's not the healthiest coping strategy, but I guess it's not the worst either.

At least gas and the laundromat are cheaper in Butner. And I won't give up. But I sure am tired.

Never can say goodbye . . .

Even though the pain and heartache

Seems to follow me wherever I go

Though I try and try to hide my feelings

They always seem to show

Then you try to say you're leaving me

And I always have to say no...

Tell me why

Is it so

That I

Never can say goodbye

No no no no, I

Never can say goodbye

This is one of Elizabeth's favorite songs. She loves the Jackson Five and she sings along loudly with this song. I found myself singing it as I left Butner for what I hope is the last time for a while. It was hard for me to leave too.

Goodbye laundromat. Goodbye Credit Union with your nice tellers. Goodbye Bob's pie. Goodbye Butmoor with all your fast food. Goodbye Stem. Goodbye this chunk of my life.

On Friday night when I visited her, she cried about going to the new school. She wanted to go home to me, to her sister, to her cats. She was sure we didn't love her. She was sure she wouldn't live with us until she was 18. I held her in my lap like I did when she was little and rocked. She wasn't pacified by talk of ponies, the campus cat, the pool, the climbing walls. She wanted to go home. And if she couldn't go home, she wanted to go back to Wright School. And if she couldn't go there, she wanted to stay at Central Regional Hospital. Elizabeth is a big fan of "better the devil you know than the devil you don't." Truth be told, I was scared too. Goodbyes are so hard.

I had to fly to Atlanta on Saturday morning for a family funeral and then back on Sunday. On Monday, CRH would take her to the new school, where Claire and I would meet her. I explained the plan over and over again. She was still anxious. She had learned the CRH jargon and routine and was looking at having to learn it all over again.

Goodbye overhead assistance calls. Goodbye courtyard ball games. Goodbye high acuity unit. Goodbye visiting rooms. Goodbye nice nurses who braided her hair. Goodbye Ms Cox and Dr. Gazzola. Goodbye long halls and shuffling men with vacant eyes.

I am grateful for her stay in CRH. Butner has always been a nightmarish place to me—so much pain there, with the prisons, and substance abuse rehab, and the state mental hospital, and myriad other institutions. But I've found the pain is balanced by a great deal of caring. After our first night, I can say we received some of the finest care we've ever gotten. Part of it was that the staff had the time to be intrigued. Her psychiatrist had a caseload of six; her social worker, four. Value Options, North Carolina's Medicaid gatekeeper, wasn't on their backs to kick her out after ten days. Six weeks let them do a lot of testing and we left with diagnoses that feel right to me and have some hope attached.

Her primary diagnosis is Disruptive Behavior Disorder, a little worse than ADHD but not quite so bad as conduct disorder. She also has anxiety disorder, nos. That means it doesn't look like most people's anxiety. And complicating it all is a brand new diagnosis of severe receptive-expressive language disorder. I've been diagnosing something similar to this for years, but have always been poo-pooed. When people talk, Elizabeth drowns in an ocean of words. Kids with this disorder have a very hard time in classrooms because teachers talk so dang much. You know how the adults in Charlie Brown videos sound? That's how she hears language. She loves lists and worksheets because she can take in language at her own pace.

Today she and Ms Mary, one of her favorite nurses, arrived in Winston about the same time I did. She didn't seem particularly glad to see me. But she was very upset about Ms Mary leaving and stood at the window and silently sulked as she left. We will probably never see Ms Mary again and Elizabeth knows that. She has a hard time with people who are in her life for a short time and then disappear. It's a painful fact that object permanence doesn't seem to work with people. I've never liked that fact either.

We walked down to her cottage. This is a brand new program in a 102 year old institution. They work with kids from ages six to twelve for four to twelve months. Elizabeth is one of the first two kids, both of whom start today. The staff is excited and ready to get going. I feel confident that they will make this placement go well, both for Elizabeth's sake and for the program. We went through her clothes and put them away. The other new kid arrived and we went out to greet him. She had her physical and then we said our goodbyes and left.

Goodbye . . .

Getting there from here

Saturday night, sitting in the Espresso Laundromat in Butner, NC, drying laundry and watching Jeopardy with Claire. After I posted this as my Facebook status, I got lots of emails asking how I got to that place.

Answer: I got on I-85 in Durham and drove to exit 189 in Butner, present home of Bernie Madoff.

I know that's not what you are asking. And that's not really the answer. But lately that's about the best I can do, even as I know that requests for information are expressions of caring. Facebook sentences are so much easier than stories and Facebook friends offered concrete expressions of help in ways that didn't seem to come from other sources.

But today the right person asked the right question in the right way, one that wasn't an attempt to judge or fix. It was someone who didn't know me and who had too much pain and too little time to care at that moment. But he did. And then the wrong person—or at least one that I had no expectations of—offered an act of kindness so helpful that I wanted to cry. And the combination of these two events allowed me to breathe and think and tell a piece of the story.

I didn't expect to be in Butner, home of the state mental hospital, something to be avoided at all costs. Elizabeth has been in a therapeutic foster home, called level II care in the mental health system, ever since she hurt me last spring. The foster home was going fairly well, but school was not. She seemed happy enough, but "Aunt Jackie's" wasn't home and after every visit, going back to the home was an ordeal.

In January she went on a church youth group ski trip. She had a good time and did well. She was out of school on Monday, so I offered her the chance to spend the night and go back to Aunt Jackie's before I went on to work myself. We had a wonderful Sunday evening, playing board games with Claire and her boyfriend, pretending to be the kind of family we aren't and doing a damn good job of it too. Such a good job that she decided she was not going back. She would force me to wreck the car or hurt me badly, but she wasn't going back.

When we got to Aunt Jackie's, a neighbor observed our struggle, and thinking some poor white woman was being mugged, called the police. They came and took Elizabeth to Duke's ER. We spent about four hours there, sitting with our Kenyan sitter, talking to the psychiatric social worker, and I assured her that Elizabeth usually calmed down after an ER visit. Elizabeth said all the right things to the doctor and she released us. Elizabeth's therapist came to take her home.

After a great deal of difficulty and help from Duke Security, she arrived at home. But not for long. Two horrible, unprofessional and humiliating police visits later, we arrive back in the Duke ER. Same Kenyan sitter. Same billing clerk. Same nurses. Same room. The resident psychiatrist informs me that they really aren't there to work with undisciplined children and will probably send us home. I inform her that we will probably be back for a third time. She rolls her eyes and goes up to find the attending.

The attending decides to admit, but Duke has no psych unit. They tell me it will be days before a bed can be found in the state. I expected this. I push the now sleeping Elizabeth over on her gurney and crawl on with her. Later I feel our sitter cover both of us with a blanket and slide a pillow under my head.

In the morning, I give thanks for the hospital wireless while Elizabeth watches TV. The TV gets stuck on the golf channel. Finally they call the TV remote technician (who knew there was such a position?) and she comes and switches us to Disney. Later, miraculously, we're told that a bed has been found, in Central Regional Hospital, a 452 bed hospital for those with mental illness. It's a state facility. They have 32 child and adolescent beds and Elizabeth gets one of them. She is stoic as we wait for the sheriff's deputy to come and take her to Butner. The deputy is terse and won't look at me. I follow in my car. We've only been in the ER for 24 hours, which must be a record.

When we arrive, I ask to see Elizabeth, but I'm told that they are doing intake and I can't see her yet. I sit in the lobby and cry. It's the change of shift and people walk by me, people who are nurses and social workers and doctors, and they pretend not to see me. It's time to go home. I wish I had a friend who would call and say "I'm on my way!" but no one does and I can think of no one to call. I ask again to see her. Not yet. After three hours, I ask the receptionist to call. She does and is told that I can't see Elizabeth, that they aren't convinced I'm her legal guardian.

I'm tired and hungry and scared and lonely. That's my excuse. I can't believe what I'm hearing and I proceed to pitch a fit. The receptionist tries to calm me as I yell in the phone, saying things like you have no legal right, and I want to talk to a supervisor, and this feels like One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest to people too young to even know what I'm referring to. Finally they ask Elizabeth why she is in foster care and she tells them that she had broken my head. No, I had never abused her. I realize that the horrible treatment I'd received all day—the police, the resident, the deputy, here—all was because they thought I was an abusive mother who had no right to see the child she'd hurt. All these people who are part of the mental health system don't know the difference in a level II home and a DSS foster home. They think she has been taken away from me because I was a bad parent. They still aren't convinced.

But they do let me see her for a few minutes. She touches my name tag with her finger. F-0 she traces. That's her unit name. The 0 looks like a teardrop she says. That's because we're sad, I say. But the F stands for fine, and that's what we'll both be. She nods. I'll be back tomorrow, I say. She nods again.

She's been there a month now. We're lucky; at UNC she would be out in ten days. Here they can keep her longer. Her social worker has a caseload of four; her psychiatrist has a caseload of six. I can't ask for more. They feel she is over medicated and pull her off most of her meds. They feel her diagnoses are not accurate and are intrigued enough to want to find a new one. They are kind enough, but it's a cold place, with lots of locks and rules. I can't even see her room. But at least they no longer think I'm a bad parent.

And so I drive the 54 mile round trip to Butner on a daily basis. I now do all my banking in Butner, and since the dryer died, I dry my laundry here as well. I eat most of my meals in the car. I've become preoccupied with finding my way around the little town and I drive back roads while the laundry is in the dryer. I find the even smaller town of Stem and good barbecue and wonderful pie.

If I can't know where we're going, I have to know where we are. And I don't know where we're going and I'm not in a huge hurry to find out although there is a lot of pressure to do so. Events seem out of my hands and I watch with mild interest as people make decisions that they pretend I have a say in.

See, it's not a good story, just a list of unpleasant events. There is no ending, happy or otherwise. There is not even a take-home point. Maybe later.

Following one's heart

Way before Claire was born, I had picked out two of her godparents. It seemed like a no-brainer to me: they were social justice Christians, great fun to be around, and I knew they would take the job seriously. I was right, too. Claire was eleven days old when Bob dragged my soon-to-be-homeless self around, found every low-income deal available, and walked me through the paperwork. On the day of the closing, he and Bobbie showed up to paint. Bob has made home repairs, laid laminate flooring, done my taxes and makes me laugh. Bobbie gave Claire her first haircut and on my birthday one year made a cake for Claire to decorate for me, complete with all the sprinkles a little girl could dream of. She tells the funniest stories one could imagine.

Their house, a log cabin in the woods in Apex, was a gathering place of sorts for lots of people. Both my girls learned to swim in their pool. My over-confident niece almost drowned in their pool and THEN learned to swim there. Both Claire and Elizabeth watched "Frog and Toad" and "Balto" too many times to mention. They loved the bunny house and Elizabeth still played with it on her last visit. Bob and Bobbie's daughter's family lives just down the street and so visiting was like getting a great two-for-one deal. We have Christmas dinner there yearly.

But it's the nature of life that all good things come to an end, and Bob and Bobbie finally decided they needed to make the logical decision to sell the house, move into Chapel Hill, and get something with a first story bedroom. You know, that aging thing. They found a great house, full of light and quite near to me, and moved in. I was really happy they were so close to me. My parents could stay there when they visited. But . . . .

It was not a surprise that their decision was difficult for their grandchildren. What surprised me was how difficult it was for MY kids. Claire was very upset; she no longer enjoys the swimming like she did when she was younger, but she said, "I feel like a piece of my childhood is being sold." I explained the reasoning behind their decision, and that just made her even madder. "I DO NOT see Bob and Bobbie as being old," she said. Elizabeth cried. She still enjoyed the pool, and Bob and Bobbie's grandkids, and seeing her friends at parties there. She and a granddaughter and their friend went looking for Jesus there and claimed to find him by the well. In her mind it was like a shrine.

When the first offer came in, an inspection was scheduled, one that found some structural damage that had to be repaired. They were there almost every day, supervising workmen and knocking down the spider webs that are inevitable when one lives in the woods. At their new house, they hung pictures and enjoyed the back porch. Finally the work was done and the house could go back on the market. But . . .

I saw them at church Sunday and they asked if I had heard their news. "You sold your house?!" I asked. Bobbie laughed. "Yes, to ourselves." I was trying to work THAT one out when Bob said that they were selling the new one and moving back. "Why?" I wondered. It turned out that as a potential buyer got more serious, they felt the loss more strongly. They couldn't stand it. Their common sense decision wasn't the right one for their hearts.

The moving wasn't physically easy nor will be the moving back. But they are moving downsized possessions into a spotless house that they have loved for 27 years, and couldn't we all use that kind of spring cleaning? My kids weren't even surprised. "Oh good," they both said matter-of-factly.

My starting a school has disturbed some of my friends, who feel like it is an illogical and risky thing to do. I'm sure Bob and Bobbie will take a hit financially with selling the new house in a down market and moving back. But often, what looks like an illogical thing to do is something one's heart demands. What good is money if your last twenty years are spent in a lovely safe house that makes you miserable? What good is taking a safe job with a guaranteed salary when my heart tells me I can provide more that a subpar education for my child and others? What good is it to major in something marketable in college when your heart tells you that safe thing is all wrong? What good is having a "real job" if what you really want to do is start a brewery or an organic farm? Why adopt a child who will almost certainly have problems? Conventional wisdom isn't the highest order of wisdom. If we'd listen to our hearts more often, we'd all be happier and saner.

The truth is, there is no safe thing. Most people regret the things they didn't do more than the things they did. And thus, another reason that I am happy that I chose Bob and Bobbie for Claire's godparents. They know what's important and they listen to their hearts. I'll miss their being so close. But I'm glad my kids and I have the example that the "right" thing isn't always the best thing and that it's okay to admit a mistake and ask for a do-over. It's a pain for Bob and Bobbie at the moment. But I hope it will truly be a good story later. It already is for us.

Saved by a song

The year I was 32, I started feeling constrained by my life. Unmarried and childless, I held a very intensive job at a boarding school. I worked like crazy during the year, but I was lucky enough to have my summers off. I needed to be somewhere different. That summer I planned a six-week budget trip to Ireland, Scotland and England. I was by myself and knew only what the Let's Go travel guide told me. I budgeted $25 a day based on a friend's experience, not realizing the dollar had done poorly in the last year and this came out to about 20 pounds a day.

I flew into Shannon Airport and had my first financial shock when I realized the taxi into town would cost me seven pounds. As I stood there dithering, a RC priest bounded up, thrilled to meet someone from the United States. He was even happier to find out that I was from North Carolina, home of the great Jesse Helms. He had lots of questions about that fine man. I swallowed my pride and answered as kindly as I could. He offered to give me a ride and gave me my first piece of advice: "Don't bother with the cabs, hitchhike!" As I later told my skeptical parents, "But a priest told me to!"

Twenty-three years ago, Americans were loved in Ireland, and I had no trouble getting rides. I looked Irish enough that they were sure I must be related to some friend of theirs now living in the states and there were numerous inquiries about relatives in Boston and Georgia. I enjoyed those encounters because I knew no one. Being on my own was still new to me and I often hovered on the sidelines watching in pubs and towns. I quickly discovered the food wasn't good enough to waste my precious money on, so I subsisted on chips and warm Coke. I was lonely.

One morning I woke up in Doolin and decided to take the boat to the smallest of the Aran Islands, Inisheer, or in Irish, Inis Oírr. If you look for transportation to this island now, you will find several different ferry lines that go there, large boats that serve drinks and snacks. That option wasn't available then. I was told a small motor boat would be delivering a goat to Inisheer, and for a few pounds, I was welcome to go along. That seemed fair, so I climbed aboard and we set off over the choppy sea in windy conditions. There were four or five other travelers, all men, and they switched back and forth from English to Irish. The goat was absolutely cool with the trip and sat calmly on his seat. I was trying to be at least as cool as the goat, but it was becoming increasingly difficult as my stomach started heaving along with the waves. I consoled myself that the journey was under an hour and we would be there soon.

Then the boat stopped. The language switched entirely to Irish and became loud and excited. I became even more nauseated and anxious. Bobbing along in the Atlantic Ocean in a small nonworking motor boat with no radio was not a comfortable situation. The goat and I looked at each other. I tried to be as calm as he was, but as the discussion got louder, I found it hard. Several of the men held one by the belt as he leaned over the stern and looked at the propeller. He exclaimed loudly, and I gathered the problem had been discovered, but I had no idea what it could be. The others shouted advice and finally he was pulled back in the boat, clasping a plastic bread wrapper that had become entangled in the propeller. We all cheered except for the goat, whose expression never changed.

Twenty extra minutes on the ocean had not done my stomach any good, but I was not about to complain. We pulled up to the dock on Inisheer. It seemed like the whole town had turned out to greet the goat. I sat back, waiting for the honored guest to get off first, but the captain of the boat turned and bellowed, "Let the lass off first, she's about to puke!" I really couldn't argue with that, so I staggered off and sat until my stomach returned to normal.

There wasn't much on the island except rock walls. They are interesting because they are so individual that natives can tell you whose handiwork each wall is. But they aren't interesting for long, and so I found the only pub in town and went in. They looked at me pityingly, the wind-blown, green-faced, and homesick lass. I ordered a bowl of soup and sat down as the sounds of Irish surrounded me, both from the people in the pub and the radio that was playing. I had five and a half weeks to go on this trip and I wasn't sure I was going to make it.

As I sat there blinking back tears, suddenly the unmistakable beginning of Derek and the Dominoes' Layla blared from the radio. I sat up in surprise and then smiled. The people in the pub smiled back. And the world seemed a bit smaller and kinder.