The Life and Times of CE

We took Lana out for the weekend Friday night. It was the first time she had been away overnight for nearly a year. We didn't take her because she "earned it" or had "progressed behaviorally" as she never has for more than a day or two ever. And there are no immediate expectations that she will anytime soon, Lana is Lana, she does what she does, she doesnt learn, or get better, so take her or leave her, it's who she is.

I stood waiting for her in the facility common area, the front reception room. The room with the big metal door to the right of the sign in desk. The door with a worn metal handle  mounted on a big block of wood and rows of locks beside it.  The door with the small window, where patients vagrantly walk on the other side, and peak out and smile, or wave a fingery scratchy little wave on the wired glass. I signed several documents for her  medications, and instructions lists on how, when, what time, how many, what doses for what. And at the bottom of pages to be signed was a typed single paragragh contract that stated that I understood she had been physically agressive and assaultive with staff only one day before, and that normally overnight passses would not be approved. So I signed that page too.

 She came into the front waiting room of the care facility with bags enough for 2 weeks rather than 2 days. Clothes, shoes, purses, sheets, bed clothes, radio's, cd's, as if she were moving away not going to a hotel for the weekend.  Circling around her, behind her, hovering within inches of her were her facility guardians. Staff members, behavioral managers, program managers, bag carriers. All assigned to the chubby little potentate with the quirky smile, and the mismatched outfits, who always seems to be running the show as if they were the patients and she were the boss.  Each one always anxiously smiling, with a look of veiled perplexity and faint fear about her.

Lana's a lot like a wild little animal, she looks so cute and cuddly, so approachable, so huggable, but she's unpredictable. Make the wrong move, say the wrong thing, blink the wrong way, and she might go off like a caged cat and everyone around her goes flying to the wall or to the ground with her. She'll bite, she'll scratch, she'll  fling her arms  and flail her body, and take 3 men down to the floor with her, everyone in a ball of mangling muscles,  sweat, bruises, gashes and abrasions.

With full knowledge and an odd mixture of nauseous anxiety and protective love, I signed all the waivers, and agreed to all the terms from the keepers, and took my curly little fireball out the front door into the sunshine.  And the first thing she does is run straight for the street curb.

Lana, Stop! Lana, come take my hand! Lana lets go to the car, come on sweetie.

" I just want to say goodbye to all of my friends Mommy" as she runs up to the van with the side opening door, pouring out fellow inmates coming back from a morning outing.

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