Hard lessons...

There are two truths in social work. One is that you can, over the years, become incredibly attached to the disabled people you work for. And the other is, they die.

Yesterday, two of my case managers happily left the office to do a home visit to one of the more severely disalbed individuals we serve. He was a young man in his 40's who had the functional ability of a 3 year old. He lived with his mother who devoted her life to taking care of him though when he was born the experts told her she would do better to place him in an institution. He was happy, living at home, playing with his toys and having the unconditional love of his mother.

When my workers got to his home he was being wheeled out on a gurnee, covered with a sheet. He had died that morning. He had the flu for about a week and, already weak and susecptible, he was unable to fight it. Of course, it was a sad sight and my workers were devestated.

I think that's something people don't realize when they think of what social workers and case managers do. We get a rep for being the ones who take people from their homes against their will but the truth is - we do all we can to keep them in those homes with people who know and love them. And when this happens, we grieve. We aren't family or even close friends. But we care, and hope, and want to see them succeed and when they are gone, it hurts.

I knew a man named Larry once. He lived in a group home I worked at. He was so smart. He had been a college professor, owned his own home, drove a car, dated...just like everyone else. But he had cerebral palsy and little by little over the years he lost all of his physical functioning. His speech became slurred and difficult to understand. He couldn't toilet himself, or bathe himself, or feed himself, or even roll over in bed by himself. Yet, he was one of the brightest and funniest people I've ever known. I remember one of the things he could not do for himself (and I'm sure most men will relate to this one!) is adjust his balls! He would slide forward and then back in his wheelchair which often led to him ending up sitting on them in a very uncomfortable way! As a caregiver, I became very used to doing things for people that most people would shudder to even think about! This was no different. Once when this happened and he needed my assistance, I put on a glove, reached in his shorts and...well...adjusted! While I was doing this, Larry looked up and asked, "What IS it you tell your family you do for a living?" Haha! That was Larry! Someone who for all intensive purposes could have lost all of his personal dignity but he kept it by making jokes in uncomfortable situations and maintaining the very core of who he was.

Larry also passed away quietly in his sleep one night. And I grieved.

A couple of weeks after his funeral I recieved a package in the mail. It was from Larry's mother. In it was a lovely vase and several pictures of Larry in various stages in his life. I saw him as a younger man, fully able, leading a group of univeristy students in a lecture. I saw him at the wheel of a convertible. I saw him using his first walker. Then his first wheelchair. And the infernal scooter that he longed to ride even up to his death. His mother included a little note that said, "Out of all the people Larry had to rely on to get by in life, he loved you best. He always told me that you made him feel like he wasn't disabled at all."

That's why we grieve.

There's perception of social workers as do-gooders. Or people who think they know best. That's not true at all. What we are are people who know that underneath the shell of the disability is a person who has the same hopes, desires and dreams as anyone else. People who want to achieve what they can and who want to be seen for who they really are. Sometimes, we create our own frustrations, our own stress...out of the desire to do more to help people be.

That's why we grieve.