Saturday, May 23, 2009

This week

I wrote this at work, on paper. I was at the front desk and bored and needed to do something other than read and write “Discharge is not recommended as resident benefits from a structured environment.” Has not been the best week, maybe it’s because it was too hot… I don’t know.

Wednesday, REBO (new guy) ran out. Unlike the woman in the long fur coat and loafers, this was not amusing. This guy has no idea what’s going on… I think he’s so doped up on meds, all he can think about is going outside. We brought him back in after catching up with him across the parking lot and got him to lay in bed. He kept getting up though, kept saying he wanted to go outside, he wanted to go for a walk. We tried to explain that he couldn’t (not for the first 30 days after admittance, facility policy – discuss stupidity of rule and benefits of fresh air and sun), but he doesn’t understand. So he would lay down in bed, and get up two minutes later. We would talk and cajole him back, and there’d he be, up again soon after. Again. And again. He kept getting more and more frustrated (of course – I would), until he tried to push me away. He hit Bonny (5’2” asian, remember?) and punched me… no worries, he’s a little thing, not to mention so out of it the only reason that I didn’t catch that one (like the others) is because I wasn’t looking. But I felt horrible. I was a jailer.

So no, not all fun and games. On Thursday, JORO had a manic episode. Had it bad. I had heard about these incidents, but I’ve never seen it first hand. He calls it a seizure, which it technically isn’t, but for god’s sake, it sure looks like one. Stiff, yet shaking, and yelling in Spanish. Yelling so fast I couldn’t understand even if it was in English. Biting, ripping his pillow, clapping his hands so hard I know it must’ve hurt. And through all this, staring at me with those humungous eyes. Yesterday I talked with another counselor, and we agreed – JORO is pleading with his eyes. With no other faculties available to him, he’s asking what’s going on, he’s asking for help. And I can’t do one fucking little thing.

He eventually calmed down, but when I say calmed down I mean he went from manic to hypomanic. He jumped and punched the ceiling, he took a couple of swings at random people, he jumped over the counter into the medicine cabinet. Finally, he came off the high. The next day I was talking to him, and he was normal… well, normal as I’ve seen him.

Here’s a light one, to end if off with. DAMC keeps swearing he has the mumps (or measles, depends on the day). He was at kindergarten today (what 50 yr old man doesn’t go to kindergarten?) and learned what 2+3 was. Friday I watched him play basketball with some ganstas – by himself, without a ball. He’s a sweetie, and always has a ready hand to shake.

I’ll tell you about the new addition to my caseload at some later point in time… that’ll take a bit of energy to let ya’ll have the full dose.

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