It starts with an overbooked schedule at the group home where I care for Deanna, Patsy, and Laura. three mentally challenged ladies. I clock in, open the Staff Communication Book and begin to read.
“Deanna has an appointment at 4:30 this afternoon.”
“Pastor Roy will be visiting the Ladies at 5:30.”
“Kayla, the volunteer will be coming this evening from 6-8pm to do an activity with Deanna”.
“Laura’s sister, Beth and her husband Larry will be coming at 7 pm and bringing a treat for everyone.”
And I am supposed to fit dinner in when?
Such is what happens when multiple staff schedule events on the same day and don’t have to be there to make sure it all happens.
Pastor Roy gets moved to next Tuesday.
4:30 rolls around and I bundle Deanna and Patsy into the company van for Deanna’s appointment. Laura stays home alone.
Something else is also rolling around–a thunderstorm. By the time the thirty-minute appointment is done, it is dark enough to send hens to their nests for the night. The sky is spitting rain and spears of lightning. The wind is plucking leaves from the trees. “Toto, I don’t think we’re in Kansas anymore.”
I pull the van as close as possible to the front doors of the building and open the sliding door on the near side. The plan is for Deanna to go first. She’ll dash across the sidewalk and jump into the protection of the van. When she is inside, Patsy will follow her at a fast shuffle.
Of course, I fail to explain the details of my brilliant plan. Deanna ignores the open door and runs out into the storm to her customary point of entry on the opposite side of the vehicle. Ah well.
The drive home is like being in a car wash. The storm hurls wind and rain at us from all directions. Jagged lightning stabs the atmosphere and thunder crashes like bass drums in a cacophonous symphony. We pass a motorist who has pulled over and turned on his hazard lights.
I keep going. After all, I drove home in the dark in that blizzard we had this past winter with its snow and high winds. I’d encountered brief periods of zero visibility in that storm. I can do this. I’m not young and foolish–I’m just old and foolish.
As we turn onto our street a terrific blast of ground to cloud lightning explodes nearby accompanied by a simultaneous KABOOM!! of thunder. I cringe at the blast. All is quiet in the van. No, “Hey, Cheryl, I’m scared.”
Instead from behind me comes an annoyed, “Sheesh!” Patsy, the master of dry humor, has spoken.
Moments later we pull into the drive and I press the garage door opener. No response. I contact staff members Anna and Jason who live in the group home’s daylight basement apartment and confirm that there is indeed a power outage. We’re not just stuck with the simpler problem of a dead garage door opener.
Jason has already checked on Laura. I inform the ladies of the situation and we wait in the safety of the van until the worst of the storm has passed.
“Is my night light going to work?” Patsy wonders.
“No, Patsy,” I answer. “Anything that runs by electricity is not going to work.”
A minute after we get inside the house, Patsy asks, “Why doesn’t somebody turn a light on?” She obviously doesn’t grasp the concept of what it means for “the power to be off.”
I don’t panic. After all, no one is bleeding or having a violent psychotic break. But I don’t know what to do first. Contact our emergency on-call staff to report the outage as protocol requires or all the power company? Phone the volunteer and tell her not to come?
Where are the flashlights? I know two are stored under the kitchen sink among the cleaning supplies. Great place for flashlights. It helps to root blindly among the bleach spray, the dishwasher detergent, and the Lysol to find them. I gather three flashlights and discover two of them are running on anemic batteries. There’s got to be a regulation somewhere requiring periodic battery checkups in gizmos like these.
Sweet Jason offers his assistance in communicating with on-call, our supervisor and the power company. He offers to buy ice for the fridge if the power outage continues too long. Is there someone somewhere just like him only twenty-five years older and single?
“Do you want some of my crackers?” I hear Deanna offer Patsy in the living room.
“Yeah,” Patsy answers.
Apparently, Deanna equates a power outage with famine and is generously sharing what little she has—a sort of five loaves and two fishes concept. I come out to the living room a few minutes later. A trail of crumbs leads from Patsy’s recliner to Deanna’s rocker.
Dinner is sub sandwiches at a local sandwich shop. We then go to Wal Mart to buy fresh batteries for the flashlights. I am in contact with the home’s supervisor. If the power does not come back on by bedtime, someone will have to stay the night. Might as well be me, I figure. Let’s finish out this little adventure.
I picture giving the ladies their meds by flashlight glow. Maybe I can pretend I’m a medical missionary administering aide at midnight to naked natives in a mud hut. A cheesy idea, but it might help.
I can’t get ahold of Laura’s sister even though I try her phone twice. We drive home. Still no response from the garage door. It is ten minutes after seven. Laura’s family was scheduled to arrive at seven. Assuming they got my message and aren’t coming I turn the van around and take the ladies to Dairy Queen. It didn’t occur to me they might just be running late and couldn’t contact us because our phones run on electricity.
Twenty minutes later the ladies are happily spooning Blizzards into their mouths in the parking lot of DQ when my cell phone rings. It’s Ann, Jason’s wife. Laura’s family is in the driveway and they’ve brought food. They’re wondering where we are.
If I’d been eating a Blizzard I would have choked. A little shame demon appears on my shoulder. “Why did you assume they weren’t coming just because they weren’t at the house at 7:10?” it snarls at me. “How could you not think they just might be delayed? Miss You-Know-Who has dietary restrictions. She’s already had ice cream and now she’s going home to another treat. Do you want to slam your head against the steering wheel now or later?”
I drive home to find Beth and Larry waiting outside. I apologize and everyone seems congenial. Less than ten minutes later as I am retrieving the house cell phone that we keep in the van, I hear a noise from across the fields that sound like blasts of static from a gigantic microphone. The power is back on! The rejoicing in the house is surpassed only by what must take place in heaven when a sinner repents.
A bit later I go back out to the van for something else. A young family bearing food is coming down the sidewalk, several boys in tow. Ahhh, I think. Here are neighbors who’ve also dealt with the power outage by going out for dinner and they’re bringing it home to eat.
Thinking they’ll be happy to hear the news, I smile at them and say, “The power’s back on.” They nod and smile in return and head straight for the front door of the group home where they are greeted joyfully by Laura.
Wait a sec. Nobody told me this was going to be a party. Sister and bro-in-law have been joined by Laura’s nephew, his wife, and their four young sons. Just who else is going to walk through this door tonight?
There are cheese and crackers and Italian Ice. Deanna and Patsy are imbibing with everyone else and socializing. I’m asked if I want to eat but my appetite has fled. The shame demon has returned and wants to speak with me in the office.
I ignore him. I have to balance the ladies’ cash bags. There’s still meds to mete out, case notes to write. Deanna has to take her shower which can turn into a drawn-out affair. Nothing has been done from the evening chores list; I was too busy scrambling about in semi-darkness wondering who to call first.
I hear spoons clanking. Sister Beth has apparently taken over the kitchen. The shame demon won’t shut up. “You are so thoughtless and scatterbrained. And besides that you’re are an irresponsible jerk! Get out there and be a good hostess. Beth shouldn’t have to root through the kitchen drawers looking for supplies.”
A little after 8:30, the party breaks up and everyone leaves. Deanna gets her shower, everyone gets their meds and I finish case notes in time. I’m there twenty minutes extra, however, finishing up some paperwork.
No naked natives were involved.
Maybe I was practicing subconscious shame resilience or perhaps I was still feeling too discombobulated by the evening’s chaotic events to let the shame stick. Laura’s family seemed to have had a grand time and didn’t appear displeased with me for my comedy of errors or for disappearing into the office to play “catch up.” My little demons had flown to parts unknown.
I think I dealt with my first real crisis at the group home rather well. It’s a slow process to learn new habits–to focus more on what I do right than what I do wrong. As long as I’m breathing and in my right mind, I intend to learn and grow and change. That, after all, is a part of this privilege called life.
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