Lack of Candy-Coating

I was driving across town to pick up my new glasses (trees sure do have a lot of big, noticeable leaves now) when a thought came to me.  It came to me just as I was passing by the exit that would take me to my old office off the highway. 

“Thank God I don’t have to put drunk, drug-addicted felons in my car anymore.”

A specific memory came to mind.

There was a particular client that was put on my caseload toward the end of my case management career, when I was getting pretty sick of the bullshit burned out.  I’m pretty sure my supervisor did it because I wasn’t one to handle a person with kid gloves.  My people got told how it is and all about themselves every time we met.  I think sugar-coating is entirely overrated, unless we’re talking about how my butt looks in my new white capris. 

This particular client was a drunk.  She also happened to have other wonderful qualities, such as being addicted to benzos, having HepC and HIV, being a prostitute, and having the beginning stages of some sort of movement disorder.  Lovely.  This is not an exaggeration, although I would be the first person to tell you that I do exaggerate from time to time. 

Due to past (likely true) allegations of misconduct on the part of an attendant care worker and an open Adult Protective Services (APS) investigation, we were told not to transport this inmate anywhere if it even seemed like she had possibly been drinking or using.  Since this happened so infrequently, my policy was that I never took her anywhere.  In fact, sometimes she would only communicate with me by standing on her balcony and yelling down obscenities.  We really liked each other.  I’d call the police/ambulance on her, she’d call my boss and tell her I never came and saw her, was really mean, didn’t care about disabled/mentally ill people, and so on. 

One day, I appeared and this client was not drunk.  She was not intoxicated, did not smell of alcohol or have any signs that she had been drinking, and was really the most coherent/put-together/logical I had ever seen her.  I do believe it was 4 hours after she had been discharged from detox.

What did I do, you might ask?

I put her in my car.

Go ahead and slap me now.  Error, edit, undo. 

Things were going fine for a little while.  We went to a local pantry, got her some free bread, free hand lotion and soap.  We went to the pharmacy and picked up her medication.  And then we went to SRS to see her caseworker.

While we were at SRS, she spent about 15 minutes in the bathroom, apparently, while I was yakking away to her worker.  Fabulous.  This is the lady that was kicked out of the day program for drinking the hand sanitizer from the wall pump in the bathroom.

I’ll admit, I was distracted by my conversation with the SRS worker and, likely, with thoughts of how many checks I had in my car much money was in my bank account and what I should binge on buy for dinner later.

As we walked out of SRS, I noticed that the client was a bit unsteady on her feet.  Ok, fine.  She is in the beginning stages of a movement disorder. 

As I’m getting in my side, I glance over and see the client disappear from view.  I’m confused because she makes no noise and doesn’t respond to my voice.  As I make my way back around my car, she wobbles to her feet and slurs “I’m FIIIIINE.  Nothing wrong here!  Let’s go to Dollar General!”

I can’t help but notice that she reeks of alcohol now, that her eyes are filled with drugs, and she has a huge bump and gash on her forehead.  Bleeding.  All over the place.  Hello HIV/AIDS/HepC and God knows what else.

Did I grab my first aid kit and reach for my gloves?  Did I ask her if she was all right?  What, pray tell, did I do?

I told her she fucked with the wrong person (in slightly softer language), told her to sit her ass on the curb, and wait for a cab.

Then I drove off, went to McD’s, and bought a vanilla cone.

Believe it or not, I didn’t get in trouble for that.  Did people shake their heads and fingers at me?  Did people whisper about me behind my back?  Did other people in my hallway start reporting me to risk management everytime I gave someone a (rather loud) lecture?

Um, yeah.

And that’s why I work at a prison now.

Because now, if someone gets stupid, I can send them to their cell and see them again when I feel like it.  And when I leave for the day, they’re in prison.  And I’m not.  And when they leave the prison, they’re not my responsibility anymore. 

I had a notoriously crazy/violent inmate leave last week.  Before I left work today the SAC officer (the officer at the secure gate) asked me, “Hey, how’s Ms. CrazyPants?”

Without thinking, I responded:

“Don’t know.  Don’t care.”

I surprised myself a little bit.

And then I started humming:

Can’t love it enough.  This is totally my prison theme song.