Caregiving Stories Continued
Wounded Sacred Dementia
My last foster care-provider
and -receiver story
is also a sad story
of my last special needs adoption
of bipolar born,
and oppositionally reared,
alcoholism.
My BiPolar Wounded Child
turned an auspicious five
on the day I first saw her,
and promptly rejected her,
not in dipolar person,
but in a picture of Little Brown Girl
with Fetal Alcohol Syndrome
surrounded by huge multicolored balloons
like a bubble bath
gone delightfully wrong
for a demented princess,
And so has life proved to be
living in her often queenly raging
perpetual-childhood Reign,
not so wonderfully benign,
now mid-adolescent,
at least hormonally.
Dementia,
like Fetal Alcohol,
was on my list of
"Will not consider even meeting,
much less living and dying with."
The local Department of Children and Families folks
knew I had a too-empty bedroom
and restorative therapeutic experience
and special needs caregiving training
they had provided,
patience I had practiced
retained
restrained
rewoven cooperatively.
I was certified for FirstAid, but not Last,
and administering medications
and receiving ecotherapies
and what to do when a child is choking
and not yet choking
and mouth-to-mouth heart palpitation,
and avoiding ear-to-ear mind pulpitization.
Although, truthfully, I believe my Permaculture Design certification
was more helpful
for restorative WinWin therapy consultations
with wounded kids,
and their not-well-trained adults.
SocialWorker specialists
invited me to consider four kids
waiting for a less toxic residence.
One was Dementia.
Another older girl,
also AfricanAmerican,
wanted to wait for a home
without any male presence
in a threatening house,
due to past unthinkably unfortunate events,
furthering her internal climate
of ZeroSoul Zone pathologies.
A one year old white boy
would never walk.
I couldn't see how I sprint
through a successful WinWin family outing
with two wheelchairs to push around.
It was already discouraging enough
with one
to often choose exploring voices outside,
now rather staying more too sedately home muted,
ZeroZone diluted,
inside.
The fourth was an older hispanic boy
who looked WinWin perfect
but then was suddenly hospitalized,
for reasons never ominously or even reassuringly explained,
and it looked likely he might never leave alive;
LoseLose.
This was one of those moments
to pause
and wonder about therapeutic timing
and nutritious choices
creating WinWin nurturing branches
or not, more WinLose,
in others' BusinessAsUsual lives,
not just my own ZeroZen SoulZone.
Dementia's Social Worker
was WinLose pre-disposed and concomitantly desperate
to close her unfortunately least marketable case.
At five,
this BiPolar Dementia already had two priors.
Prior attempts at WinWin adoption
that ended LoseLose,
at best,
a toxic six weeks later.
She had bounced
from one unsuccessful
They Lose and I Lose foster home
to the next
and no one of them
trained for WinWin special needs alcoholic placements,
should there actually be such a training thing,
because they didn't want such needs
demanding in their already too complicated
indoor lose some-lose Sum
ZeroSoul too dissonant lives.
I agreed to meet Dementia
because her SocialWorker had persuaded herself,
whether through ignorance
or incompetence
I still know not,
although I've heard no WinWin rule
that one is less ignorantly likely
to incompetently appear
without the other,
She was persuaded
Dementia was not alcohol baptized
BiPolar Competitive more than DiPolar CoOperative,
Marked for a lifetime of Trumpian Wounded Child struggle
with bipolar cognitive-affective dissonance,
dismay, despair,
dissonant eruptions,
in addition to her cerebral palsy lifetime
of stinky and wet incontinence.
I met Dementia
in her most successful
(least tragic) foster home.
Mom was surrounded by so many kids
she did not know what to do.
But remained wise enough
to promise strong toilet-training skills
if only so someone else
would finally change Dementia's messy climate diapers.
I brought a Dorah doll
for her recently past fifth birthday
and asked her if she spoke Spanish.
I have no idea what she said in response,
probably not Spanish,
but she delighted in tearing the packaging
into confetti
with a suspiciously satisfied smile.
Dorah would live on for a few months,
gradually losing body parts.
An arm here,
a leg there.
She went bald,
unexpectedly one scissored night.
Then her capacity to speak
and sing evaporated,
a mixed blessing
in my opinion
not that it was often asked for,
or ever heeded,
or even appreciated when received.
Finally
Dorah's merciful beheading
led to a tearful cremation.
I had a lot of questions
for FosterMom
because I could not understand a word
Dementia mumbled.
I wasn't even sure
of distinguishing between Yes and No
other than the too obvious non-verbal communication
that filled in for NegativEnergy
dissonant messaging systems.
So I asked why she seemed to have no resonant consonants
and could she hear clearly?
resiliently?
creolizingly?
Is that a lazy left-brained eye?
Hard to tell because she needs both Left
and Right eye surgery
for lids she cannot bicamerally lift
enough to see the warm brown gleam
of her smiling therapeutic eyes.
What are those bald patches
in her hair?
How is she coming along,
or merely commingling,
with incontinence?
Why is she a choking risk?
Why does she gulp and swallow her food whole?
Why is she throwing her food
and other nutritional
nurturing elements,
toys,
soap,
colored markers?
Who is she talking to now,
because I can't see anybody
in front of her eyes and ears
can you?
Lots of questions.
Not many informed responses.
So I told Dementia's SocialWorker
I would take her as a pending pre-adoption placement
but only if she promises to leave her with me
long enough
so we can get her medical attention
needed for better long-term health-wealth results.
|