May 28, 2006

  •        


     


                     "I'm going to die In the electric chair," she said.


    I'd met her mother in the park a block away by the lake were we dutifully walked our dogs.  She told me about Rose's adoption, that there was a natural child, a boy, born two years later.  Then she talked for hours about how horrible Rose was, that she was clearly from inferior genetic stock (this from a pHd in psychology, but not from one of the top schools, thank heaven), that she was psychotic, and that she hoped fervently that she would do something just bad enough that the juvinile justice system would acquire her, leaving her beleagered brother, mother and father at last in peace. 


    Rose came to visit for five days.  I saw her in front of her mom's apartment playing with the family dog and offered to take her to a neighboring coffee shop for hot chocolate. On the way through the park she was disturblingly nervous at the least little thing, inquired constantly about whether or not we were threatened by gangs (we were not) and finally collapsed in a small heap on the ground, crying "I'm going to die in the electric chair," over and over again.  I took a look at this little thirteen year old girl and vowed on the spot to do everything I could to help her.  Bending down to her, I promised her that I would see that no such thing would happen, that I would do my best to be her friend forever. 


    She was famous for throwing gigantic temper tantrums.  Over the following visits covering 5 years, I watched the younger brother invade her space, hit her, take away her telephone or radio or cd player, try to snatch whatever she had in her hands, and so on, an assult approximately very 10  minutes most of the time, up to 15 minutes apart if he was seriously occupied watching wrestling.  Never once was he called to order and once, when I simply couldn't stand it and said something, I was chided in no uncertain terms. 


    It didn't take long to see that her temper tantrums were her defense against her brother's intrusions and her way of punishing her parents for not defending her from her brother. Not wanting to see their own role, the parents had Rose tranqued out on heavy antipsychotics, from when she was 5 years old.   As near as we can tell from discovery in a never-litigated court case, despite many hospitalizations for being unruly and despite all the antipsychotics, no one had ever done a family work up, de regueur for treating children, even adolescents.  By the time she was 15, they had her on seraquel, sooo inappropriate for a teenager as to border on malpractice. 


    One day when she was 15, over at my place, she perched on my lap and turned her face to me, "Tell me, why, if someone was going to adopt me, adopt means you especially love the child you adopt, why did people who abuse me bring me home?"   I had no answer.  I did promise to be with her as best I could the rest of  my life. 


    She had been out of touch for the past year or so.  Last night, "Hello?  It's Rose and I'm OK and safe."


    Sweeter words?  seldom have I heard sweeter words. 


     


    pearlbamboo


    copyright  e.p.hodges


     


     

Comments (3)

Comments are closed.

Post a Comment