The Chronicles of Riddance

In her fourteen years, Gwen has never been confused with an apostle. In actuality, she has never been confused with anyone other than herself at 5'8" 225 pounds with autism, psychotic features, and aggression. She tussles in unpredictable fashion over trivial matters like the bus is late, I don't like peanut butter any more, or why did it snow. Gwen is a triple threat of mixed martial arts using her fists, feet, and iron jaws. The world is her punching bag and I am her social worker. Pock-marked with impressions of her fist, her bedroom walls are autographs of anger. Bedroom walls are defenseless targets when you run out of live sparring partners.

The father is the sole caregiver because the doting mother made the honest mistake of dying first. Things have gone downhill ever since. The father is ill-equipped to care for even a goldfish on a continuum. Gwen has been to the local crisis unit a number of times. Adult Protective Services has an inch thick file on the home, a must read for anyone interested in a social work degree. Home health aides and behavior interventionists have come and gone through a drafty turnstile. I got her under the care of one of the best psychiatrist in the field of developmental disabilities in America but medicine can only do so much. A pound of pixie dust and an exorcism couldn't correct the underlying problem - one old man cannot tame a cyclone. For me, convincing the father to let go has always been the real battle in counseling gone awry.

The father makes an unannounced visit to my office. Chronicling my social work memoirs begets surprises and this is a visit I will never forget. On the phone at the time, I motion for him to sit down. Instead, he whispers that he will meet me outside. He always preferred a lit cigarette when braving serious conversation. I always prefer fresh air when talking about anything. When I find him sitting at a picnic table, his wrinkled face looks as though he had been crying. A wrinkled handheld tissue confirms the emotion.

I ask, "What is the matter?"

The father replies, "I have been thinking about your offer to put my daughter in an institution."

"You mean the offer you declined?"

"Yeah, that offer."

"That's a done deal. It is deadpan. I followed it up with a certified letter asking you to reconsider but you still refused?"

"Yeah, well, I got to thinking, ...uhm...you can take her now."

"What do you mean I can take your daughter now?" I said flabbergasted.

"Please, I am begging you. Take her right now."

"Like this minute?"

"Right now, Joe. I'm done. I'm spent." The tissue arrives on the scene and he begins to whimper. I sit down beside him and pat his back. He only cries harder. I get up.

I explain, "I don't have a paddy wagon out back that I can go round her up. It's not like that. It doesn't work that way. I have to check to see if my agency's placement offer is still tender. I can't speak for the funding or if the bed is still available. Why don't you tell me what has changed your mind?"

"She has been giving me hell. Maybe it is a sign from the Lord above."

I wanted to keep the separation of church and State. "Where is Gwen now?"

The father apprises, "I kept her home from school."

"Why?"

"Showing her colors, misbehaving."

"What is Gwen doing now, right this minute?"

"I can't be certain but she's probably tearing up the joint. She donkey kicked the aquarium glass. I got shards of glass, bleeding fish, and water all over the parlor. She was throwing knick-knacks against the dining room wall when I left. I had to get out of there, man."

"Back up. You two live alone." I rationalize. "Who is watching her, quelling the disturbance?"

"Nobody....she is home by her lonesome."

"Oh my God. Jesus, that's not good." I moan in the return of church and State. "You got to get home. If she is out of control, call the police."

"It's okay. Her psychiatrist told me so. He said whenever Gwen acts out, take a walk."

"This isn't taking a walk. This is deserting a handicapped child. You gave me permission to sit in on the psychiatric sessions with your daughter. The psychiatrist recommended a cooling off period. The doc never approved walking to the car, taking off, and driving ten miles to see the social worker."

"Don't worry, I locked the front door."