Feelings should be nurtured, shared spontaneously, controlled when necessary, expressed when too long repressed, and explored with trusted others. The Troubled and Troubling Child, Dr. Nicholas Hobbs, 1982.
He has trusted support staff who work with him each day. They have spent an enormous amount of time trying to figure out how to help him have good days to replace all of the bad days he has experienced in his short life. They know that he likes for his head to be scratched, that when he leans in on you, he wants a hug; that he likes peanut butter, riding bikes, and being tickled. His staff also know that once he hits himself in the nose, you better stand back.
I watched him one afternoon, from my office window. He was upset; resisting any guidance or help from staff, hurling handfuls of gravel at them or anyone else who happened by. Please don't do it, I said out loud, as if he could hear me through the window glass. I stood in front of that window praying that he would deescalate without hurting himself. His anger raged on and on; then came the steady drip, drip of blood. He ran into my building; staff trailing him. His shirt was wet and dirty and red. He reached out to grab the hot pot of coffee sitting on the warmer. Staff placed him in a physical restraint.
They were in the back, narrow hallway. It wasn't an ideal place to manage someone who is wildly kicking and trying to hurl hot coffee pots. But, the three robust staff members made their best of the space. With their legs bent and feet pressed against the bathroom door, they held him while he growled and gnashed his teeth and spit and blew blood from his nostrils onto their faces and shirts.
I grabbed a paper stack of staff schedules off the wall pockets and held them close to their faces. He blew blood on them too. I looked at the staff's faces. Sweat was dripping from their brow and into their eyes. They were tired and breathing heavily. I wiped their sweat away with my forearm but realized they needed fresh, cool air. I had been bent over them for some time, holding the makeshift shields. I stood upright suddenly and put my hand on the door knob. I noticed the splatter of blood droplets on my wrists and hands. The cold air hitting my face, the heat, the blood, the spit, all that breathing in that cramped space was too much for me. I turned back into my building, stepped over them and walked swiftly and weakly toward my office.
I sat in a chair. My face and hands were clammy. I pushed my sleeves up my arms as high as they could go. I even raised my shirt up to my bra to eliminate the overwhelming sense of heat and nausea. I fell onto my office floor like a wet noodle. Some staff began to gather in my doorway, questioning my well-being and modesty. I couldn't speak. Someone offered to get me ice. I heard another person say, "There's no ice in here. Just a Lean Cuisine". I thought, "bring me that cold brick of fettuccini alfredo so I can lay it on the back of my neck!" But someone chipped away in the freezer until a small bag of ice could be excavated. I held it on my stomach, the back of my neck, even my cheeks in an effort to cool down and feel normal again. The onlookers had gathered in numbers. Then I could hear a low voice behind the crowd saying "What's wrong with her? It's my fault." The crowd was trying to keep him at bay; assuring him I was ok and it wasn't his fault. I sat back up in my chair, lowered my shirt and pushed my hair behind my ears; still patting the dripping ice bag to my face. My co-worker peeked in and told me the boy wanted to come see me. Everyone else was trying to keep the situation calm and the boy as far away from me as possible; "nothing to see here folks" mentality. But my co-worker knew that the boy needed and was ready to connect with me at that very moment. "Of course", I replied. The boy shuffled in, paused for a moment, then asked if I was ok. He kept his head lowered and would not look at me. Then he asked if he made me get sick. My heart sank. I assured him that he didn't. I told him that sometimes I just get sick. I told him I was ok. I think the boy just wanted to see for himself that I was ok. I reached my hand out to hold his. The blood on both of our hands was a reminder of the incident, but I squeezed hard and told him he was such a good, good boy for checking on me and caring about me.
I went home later than usual that evening. I had forgotten that the contractors were going to be at my house to discuss roofing colors. I walked in and apologized for being late. One of them asked if I had a nosebleed when he saw the blood on my shirt. I told him that an angry kid had just snotted and spit on me. He responded "Wow! I would hate to have your job!"
Yes, Mr. Contractor, sir. Because it is easy to fix a roof. It's much harder to repair a broken foundation.
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