The Cycle

It has been a while! So, for us Jews, another year has gone by and a new year has begun. Let us hope, as always, for a year of health and peace! A really close and dear friend of mine has been diagnosed with esophageal cancer. It all seemed to happen so suddenly, and of course it brings up all the age old questions of life, the quality of life, what to do in the face of such a diagnosis, how has one spent one's life, what is this thing we call life, family, friendships, love ........ A year ends, a year begins, endings, renewal, the eternal cycle.

Outrage

There was an accident last night at the 2,900 acre Chevron Refinery in Richmond, California. I work in this area, and have worked there since 1992. Before I began working with the babies I worked with home-bound adults. It is not by coincidence that there are very high incidences of COPD (Chronic Obstructive Pulmonary Disease), Asthma, and cancer in this area. The refinery spews out its smoke 24/7. The area closest to it is North Richmond, a very low-income area, then within spitting distance are Richmond, San Pablo, Rodeo, Pinole, Hercules, El Cerrito, and Albany (where I live.) Last night, when the fire began, the warning siren did not go off immediately, but residents could see and smell the toxic cloud of smoke. Last night alone 680 people went to the emergency room for respiratory related problems. I myself awoke feeling light headed (no comments please). The babies I was supposed to see today had left the area, their parents called me to inform me. Rightly they were concerned about their childrens' already compromised health, and they are lucky to have family further away. What outrages me is that of course the fire has been downplayed, even though it is still going on as I write.The public is NOT correctly informed as to the amount of toxins and the dangers. Even the Contra Costa Times only had a small article on the fire. The people who live in this area are not dispensable; they are human beings and my outrage is that they are not treated with the respect they deserve.

Strange Flights

I am sitting in a quiet cabin here in Mendocino, surrounded by shades of green. Juncos, chickadees, towhees, allen hummingbirds, stellar jays, and sparrows flit back and forth to the feeder outside the window. Yesterday evening a skunk brazenly burrowed its snout into the fertile earth. It is so remarkably quiet here, that it seems to me quite unreal that in a very short while I will be on a flight to Israel. My nephew is getting married and it is an exciting occasion. The only problem is I have to get there! The technological wonders which virtually bridge distances can not, of course, shorten the physical distance. The flight from California to Tel Aviv is 20 hours. However, it is not the length of the flight that makes it so difficult for me, it is what happens on the flights themselves. From California to Newark the flight is uneventful, crowded, but quiet. I am not people friendly while flying, preferring to read rather than converse. The Israel experience begins when we transfer at Newark airport. Flights to Israel are situated at the far end of the concourse, in a separate area. This is for safety reasons and here we go through stricter than normal security. All this is par for the course. What makes this experience different are my fellow passengers. Hordes of men in black suits and felt hats, all bearded with curled payot (forelocks) swinging to and fro. The fringes of their prayer shawls peek out under their jackets. Women in sheitels (wigs) and long skirts, many of whom flash diamond jewelry, and all of whom are pregnant, push strollers with babies. A string of boisterous little ones follow each couple. The airline attendants announce that families of six or more children should board first. Onward they go, carrying hat containers, strollers, large wheeled bags, and stuffed handbags, way more than they should be taking on board. They push and shove ignoring seat numbers which have been called. It seems, as I stand alone, in comfortable sweats, that my fellow passengers from California have either dispersed, or metamorphosed in the restrooms, donning hats, beards, and sheitels, sort of like superman in reverse. On the plane is complete chaos as the men shove their belongings overhead and walk up and down the crowded aisles greeting each other, shaking hands, looking around. Some stand in their seats, prayer books in hand. All ignore the pilot's repeated requests for everyone to be seated. Eventually in a cajoling tone peppered with threats the pilot begs for everyone to be seated. Already he has tried to insist they hand their baggage to the attendants to be put in the hold. No one heeds him. It is utter pandemonium. The harried attendants eventually get the men, women, and many many many children to sit and buckle their seat belts. The second the plane ascends and the seatbelt light is turned off, there is a mad dash for the toilets. I wonder whether there is perhaps a commandment that instructs all these people to spend most of the flight in the restrooms. When they are not using the restrooms they chat and move around even though this is a night flight and some of us have already flown a long way and would like to sleep. When I do nod off it is to be awakened by a rustling sound. I awake to the grey light of dawn filtering in and see the men all stand up, they congregate on one area of the plane facing east. They don their prayer shawls and wind the teffilin around their wrists and arms. I fear that, like a boat, the plane may overturn. The men daven, swaying back and forth, and sideways. The women stand in their seats, prayer books in hand. Once I was on such a flight, just before succot. Two women sat next to me undeterred by my open book and and unsmiling face. It turned out they were prayer warriors from North Carolina. A group of them were going to the holy land for the Feast of Tabernacles. One of the men carried a large curling ram's horn. They all wore thick gold chains with bejeweled star of david pendants. I was surrounded by a sea of insanity. Everyone had bibles and prayer books open, in Hebrew and English. I was the only one trying to read a novel, set in Los Angeles. At various intervals all got up to pray, the Hasidim on one side of the plane, and the prayer warriors, a concept I didn't get, not to be outdone, made a circle in the middle. As the flight began to descend into Ben Gurion airport an excited air of expectancy took over. The blazing heat and light of the sun filled the cabin and my two neighbors grabbed my arm, insisting that as a daughter of Israel it is my duty to return forever to the Holy Land. They gestured heavenward as the cabin filled with golden light that meant yet another heat seared day in Israel. "Even the Lord cannot contain his glory." She cried. For me, these flights have been fascinating anthropological experiences, which I no longer care to repeat. I have insisted that I leave on a Friday, when religious Jews do not travel. Evangelical Christians will hopefully, not be going at this time of the year, so I hope it will be a flight as quiet as it is here in the cabin in Mendocino.

Follow up

This is a follow up to my blogs on the weird brother and sister. "The Strange Two" as I dubbed them. The mother never did come to see the school, but she insisted she would like him to attend and stated that she didn't mind not seeing the program. The Regional Center Case Manager, myself, and the parents went to Cameron School for an IFSP (Individual Family Service Plan) and a transition meeting. At three years of age, which he will be in October, he will be part of the school system. All this was explained to the parents. We sat in a small, hot and stuffy office. Of course the weird two fidgeted and squirmed and fought, but in this case their behavior was understandable, as it was difficult to sit there quietly. At this meeting I noticed mother is pregnant. I have my own thoughts about this and they are not very charitable. I managed to keep my opinions to myself. After the meeting with the school district the Case Manager again told them about the program and again mother said she is fine with him coming there. We gave her the necessary paperwork to complete and I again explained that once he began at the program I wouldn't be coming to their home anymore. Per her request we agreed that I would go once more, on the following Friday. Twice she repeated Friday. I usually go on a Thursday but she had other appointments. I told her I would be there Friday at 11.30 and would take the paperwork back from her. It was arranged that he would begin in the program the following Monday. Transport was arranged and the Spanish speaking bus driver called the mother to arrange the pickup time. She left messages for her, but mother did not return her call. I had the name of the bus driver and took it with me. When I arrived at the apartment, after having climbed the steps in the burning sun, lugging the books he appeared to enjoy, and paper and a tin of crayons, and stacking blocks and a ball, no one was there. I called the mother who said 'we will be there in half an hour." I went to the 99c store and bought gifts for The Strange Two. After half an hour I returned, lugging everything with me. Still no one at home. I called mom, and she said "another half an hour." I told her I couldn't wait any longer. I gave her the bus driver's number which I also left in a written note on their door. The bus driver went there Monday morning - no one was in the apartment. It is now Wednesday and we have not heard from mother. It is no longer up to me, but I cannot help wondering what on earth happened. However, there is some balance in the universe. I have noticed that usually when I am at my wit's end, and about to quit, forever, never to return, I get referrals of a different nature. I now have two new referrals, one to a an infant boy who had a stroke in utero - this happens more often than anyone realises. He is a delight and his parents are very involved and interested in helping him. Mom actually does the things I tell her and within a couple of weeks he is making very good progress. The other referral is a 16 month old girl who was born extremely prematurely. This is also an involved family and she is coming along nicely. So, I am still here and still working!

Hormonal?

I wonder whether there is something in the water or the air, of this particular area of Richmond. There are two homes that make me wonder. The one I worked in 12 years ago!!! I have devoted an entire chapter to this estrogen-ful family in the book I am forever writing, about the children I work with. That first family is african american. All women, from the vibrant matriarch to the tiniest little premature girl I worked with. There must have been men, but the grandfather,  one of the progenitors, is in prison for life. The father of the girl I worked with was also incarcerated for a long period of time, in fact, he is still in prison. I saw another man, occasionally, apparently he is the father of one of the little cousins, and now has fathered her sister, a girl of course. I only saw him once, early in the morning, he was leaving as I arrived. That is it for the men. The women, on the other hand, are vital, bright, attractive, loud, full of the joy of life. They are active in their church and all of them work.  The sisters and the cousins and the aunts constantly came by, in various stages of pregnancy. They brought along their adorable little girls, their hair in braids and colorful barrettes.  It seemed entirely natural they would bear girls. Only once did one of the cousins have a boy, and he was, tragically, very damaged in childbirth, and died.

The family I presently work with are Latino. It is situated very close to the other family, and again, it is full of females and female energy. Again, I have only seen one man, the grandfather. From the grandmother onward it is just girls. The mother of the girl I work with has 2 daughters, her sister-in-law has, as far as I can tell, at least 4 girls. All the girls are very pretty with long thick dark brown hair and equally long dark lashes. The flit around the house which is full of flowers - artificial, but who cares. There are pots of artificial palms and ferns and vases of artificial lilies and roses. The bright faces of all the girls appear round corners, or over the tops of the plants, all curious at what I am doing on the floor with their little cousin. They smile and giggle and when they think she needs help they will guide her hands or point to something.

If I were of childbearing age I would have walked out of both these homes pregnant - with girls! As it is, I am filled with wonder  by the time I leave, an enigmatic smile on my face.

Crazy

Today is the second time in as many weeks that I have sat sequestered in my office for a couple of hours. The reason for this is that the truly insane mother of a little girl with whom I worked, and who now attends one of our programs, comes for her parent education sessions.

She meets with a parent educator in the office immediately next to mine. Last week when she came in she announced that she hates me!  I guess she should. While I was working with her daughter  I had to report her to child protective services. Sadly, I have to say, nothing came of my report. This is usually the case. As health workers in the home we are mandated reporters. These reports are not made lightly. They are followed up, usually much later after the fact, because, as with everyone else, child protective services are overworked and do not have enough workers. Almost always when they do visit, the parent is on their very best behavior and they close the case. In this particular case the positive outcome is that the little girl is attending one of our programs. Her mother drops her off and picks her up, and it has not escaped the attention of the teachers that this woman is really not okay. At least the little girl is out of the home for 4 1/2 hours each day. I feel somewhat vindicated in that every involved understands the mom is not okay. However, I have to deal with the fallout, and because she is really not a balanced being, we all feel it is better for me to remain sequestered while she is on the premises.

So I remain quietly inside, doing research, filing paperwork, and reflecting upon the insanity of this situation.

In the meantime, nothing has been resolved with the weird two I previously blogged about. The case manager has not arranged for a meeting. I told the mother about our program and gave her all the details as well as the name of the person she should contact, and she has not done this. Last week she informed me she would be going this Wednesday (today). When I inquired whether she had made an appointment, she said yes. However, none in the program had heard a word. I thought maybe she hadn't understood me, and got a Spanish speaker to speak to her. She had understood me, but just decided to come with the kids without telling anyone. We told her again she needs to make an appointment. She promised to call on Monday, but didn't. Tomorrow I go there and will check why she has not followed up. She did ask the Spanish speaker whether she would have to pay anything, and we told her she wouldn't, so that fear has been allayed.

When we were with the County we had a medical social worker, but have had no one for 8 years.

Oh well, it is hard, what can I say.

So Strange

That is a very un PC title, but I can only think of that and far worse as a name for a family I work with. Of course I  was not referred to the entire family. The Regional Center Case Manager told me she has a little boy who needs speech therapy - she knows I am not a speech therapist. According to her she either can't find one, or hasn't tried. She needs a speech therapist who speaks Spanish, and who will agree to go to the home, so, as usual, she asked me to go. I agreed because referrals are very low, and any kind of intervention is helpful.

I knocked on the door of the Section 8 housing apartment and a short, dark-skinned black haired woman came to the door. She gestured to me to come in, and as my eyes became accustomed to the relative darkness I looked for a place to sit down. I found a chair next to a formica table laden with bottles of chile, an open box of oreos, salt, pepper, a few slices of bread, and boxes of fruit juice- the kind for children with the straw attached. A queen sized mattress was on the floor in the corner of the carpeted room, across from an old-fashioned, and old, TV which stood on a chest of drawers. Most of the drawers were open and socks and clothing spilled out. A sofa was next to the wall and it was covered with toys, stuffed animals, balls, ring stacks, a broken leapfrog computer, blocks, jigsaw puzzles. I was surprised by the toys which were of a suitable developmental level for the two young girls standing staring at a me with enormous brown eyes. A man sat on a chair and I presumed he must be dad.

I introduced myself.  The parents didn't introduce themselves. Instead the woman gestured to the slightly shorter girl with long dead straight black hair. I had thought the referral was to a boy, but I was obviously wrong. Right next to her stood a slightly taller, plump girl with long curly black hair tied into braids. I stared back and then the mother who obviously saw my confusion, said, 'it  is a boy, but he looks like a girl. The two, brother and sister, stood in front of the TV, transfixed by me, apparently, because they seemed frozen in place. I told the mother we needed to fill in paperwork. She and I pulled the chairs closer to the table, the surface of which, I soon found out, was very sticky. I gave mom my pen and she began filling in the paperwork. The girl approached me and placed herself directly in front of me, staring. She had slightly dysmorphic features, and although she is over three years old, she can't speak, at all. The parents and I spoke spanish, they don't know any english, but the mother informed me that the son has one word, and that is 'shoes' (in english.) He is two and a half and the girl is about 10 months older.

I explained to the parents that I would come once a week to work with the boy.  It is a one-roomed apartment. Mom and the children are cooped up inside. Dad works in Antioch as a waiter and only returns home once a week. The only outing they ever have is to Childrens Hospital once a week, as the little girl gets transfusions. Mom and the kids take the bus and Bart. All the toys, mom told me, are gifts from the nurses. Otherwise they would not have any toys at all.

My arrival with my bag of toys is an occasion for unrivaled glee. The girl is convinced I am there to play with her and when I come in she hugs my legs and won't let her brother get near. I explain that we need to sit and I have toys for both of them. In response to my reasonable remarks she begins to cry. When she cries and lies on the floor drumming her heels her brother approaches. He keeps still for maybe a split second then he runs around in circles. The girl stops crying and comes back. When she returns he also comes back then she pulls his hair, hard. I tell her to stop, and offer her a toy, but she looks at me and pulls his head harder. He cries, she pulls and I tell her to stop, then she cries. Once she stops crying again she then pulls my hair and kicks me. The boy hides behind a sofa and mom, on my most recent visit, remained in the kitchen cooking chilies, and I coughed and my eyes watered. It is like a circus. Sometimes when the girl stops crying she comes up to me, folds her arms across her chest and babbles in gibberish. No matter what I bring, the boy takes one look then goes to kick his large ball, hard, in my direction.

I have never seen dad again. Last week a man was there, I was not introduced, and after observing this insane performance for a few minutes he left to sit outside. From something mom said I understood he is her brother.

The kids consume enormous amounts of sugar. The boy climbs on the table and eats jam straight from the jar. The suck popsicles and drink soda. I am sure this does not help their excitable states, but I am not sure exactly what to do. I did say to mom that it would be good for him to drink water, as she said he likes it. She cut his hair before my last visit and now he looks like a little boy - a strange little enormous-eyed imp. Now the girl doesn't have that much to pull, but she manages to pull clumps nevertheless.

What I am doing there I do not know. I do not believe I am in anyway contributing and have told this to the case manager.

FRUSTRATING