A Furloughed Day

Today was a furloughed day for me. Actually it was yesterday that was furloughed, but because I work only 30 hours a week I had to take off today. Dear dear, what a hardship! I had a few errands to do in San Francisco, which I entered into my new errands app I had recently downloaded. An exquisite fall day was a perfect opportunity to BART into the city by the bay. As always, when times are tough, (work wise) and down to the gritty side of life, I like to visit places of luxury. One of these, for me, is Pashma, a luxury cashmere and silk store. Just the feel of this luxury fabric calms me down! My errands list included a trip to Uniqlo - a Japanese owned store which opened on Friday. I was absolutely unprepared for the long line which snaked between iron bars as a few people were let in at a time. However, I decided to brave it The woman in front of me was of Asian heritage, and we spoke about the shock of standing in line, which we both did, patiently. Eventually a burly doorman gestured to me and in I went - to utter consumer insanity! I must say, the frenzied customers certainly behaved better than they did in the New York store of the same name. No-one pushed anyone (that I could see) and people asked each other their opinion as they tried on garments without the benefit of a mirror. (People stood about 3 feet deep in front of the mirrors.) I found a coat I had come for, and thought paying and leaving should be a breeze. No, it wasn't. Another line of people, stood in a another long snake line waited to pay, stuffed Uniqlo baskets in hand. I took my place. A Uniqlo worker stood there holding a large sign, "End of Line." She smiled continuously and informed those around her that this wasn't actually her job, but the store had been so unbelievably busy that this is what she had to do. She continued happily smiling all the while. The lady standing behind me suddenly leaned forward and whispered in my ear that she was having a "power surge" - was she sweating, she wanted to know. I informed her she looked fine. She went on to tell me she is from Colorado and she and her sister were on their way to Fisherman's Wharf but they got waylaid. She had a stuffed basket and told me she had bought Xmas gifts for her daughter. I smiled, and remained silent. Undaunted she continued, informing me of something about her ex-husband, which I didn't quite catch. Thank goodness, besides her power surge she didn't seem to have any health problems that she felt I should know about. Shopping here is far better than it is in Denver. She had also been to Tiffany's. Macy's was just amazing. Suddenly I heard a voice shouting "next customer, debit or credit" and I saw a young woman pointing to me from behind a cash register. I bade her farewell and went to the young smiling woman who said "thanks for waiting" as if there was a choice. When I returned home and unloaded my spoils I realized there were a few things I had forgotten to do, because although I diligently entered my errands into my app - I neglected to look at it! Damn, I am not ready to return!

Work

Work, a strange header. I do believe work is something I have not mentioned in a while, even though I began this blog ostensibly to write about my work. The fact is that because of the constant cuts and changes, it is becoming increasingly difficult for kids to be found eligible for services. Up to two years ago I had many referrals and new ones kept coming in. There were occasions that I was unable to take on a new referral. What has happened more recently is that referrals have really decreased, and the nature of referrals has changed. For instance, last week I received a referral to a little girl who is to be turning three on November 5th. That means I will see her for all of three visits! This is a little girl who at almost three has no words, and appears severely delayed in her social and self help skills. I spoke to mom over the phone to arrange a visit. Mom works every day and so cannot be present. She said she will tell the girl's babysitter that I will be there on Wednesday at 2.00. Needless to say, when I got to the house, no-one answered my knocking. Suddenly a man drove up in a car, looked at me, and asked what I want (in spanish.) I told him the number of the house and who I was looking for. "Mi nieta" - "my granddaughter" he said and gestured to me to follow him to another door. He went in and then came out and said to me that she is being showered and told me to go inside. In a bedroom I saw a young woman toweling off a little girl. I sat in the living room and pretty soon the young girl came in, hopping on her tiptoes. She hopped around in circles. Neither of these things are a good sign. The young woman told me the mother had not told her I would be there. The grandfather, who appeared young enough to be the father, said to me "she doesn't speak, you must help!" The following morning I went to another new referral. This one to a baby boy of 5 months. On my way to the apartments I passed the 98cent store on San Pablo and Rumrill. About three police cars with flashing lights stood in the parking lot. Two blocks later I arrived at the building, which I remembered from when I had worked in home health. I had seen a man with a dreadful degenerative disease who lived in this low-income housing building. He died. I had to call mom as there was no board with names or a keypad. Her sister came downstairs and I followed her into the building which looks like a jail. Iron bars, and badly lit concrete steps and passageways. Three women live in a crowded one-room apartment. The little boy was sleeping so mom and I filled in forms. There is no dad, whatever he was in her life, he is no longer present. He is on a marine base in San Diego. The boy was born with his cord around his neck. He presented blue and floppy and was in hospital for a week. Mom returns to work next week - she works at a gas station in San Francisco, but we have found a day for me to come, when she is not working. At least he has come to services at a very young age, so hopefully he will benefit from intervention. I have more than just three weeks! When I left an ambulance blocked the one street I was going to exit on - someone on a stretcher was being loaded in. I turned down another street and on the pavement was a body - either dead or passed out, I have no idea. A man with a shopping cart stood next to it. I was not sure what to do, but just then someone came out of a house with a phone in her hand. She was calling an ambulance. Goodness, all in the space of an hour! This is why I have not written much about work - it is rather depressing. Also, I am working on what I hope will be a book, so much of my spare time is spent writing.

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.