Caregiving Stories Continued

Wounded Sacred Dementia My last foster care-provider and -receiver story is also a sad story of my last special needs adoption of bipolar born, and oppositionally reared, alcoholism. My BiPolar Wounded Child turned an auspicious five on the day I first saw her, and promptly rejected her, not in dipolar person, but in a picture of Little Brown Girl with Fetal Alcohol Syndrome surrounded by huge multicolored balloons like a bubble bath gone delightfully wrong for a demented princess, And so has life proved to be living in her often queenly raging perpetual-childhood Reign, not so wonderfully benign, now mid-adolescent, at least hormonally. Dementia, like Fetal Alcohol, was on my list of "Will not consider even meeting, much less living and dying with." The local Department of Children and Families folks knew I had a too-empty bedroom and restorative therapeutic experience and special needs caregiving training they had provided, patience I had practiced retained restrained rewoven cooperatively. I was certified for FirstAid, but not Last, and administering medications and receiving ecotherapies and what to do when a child is choking and not yet choking and mouth-to-mouth heart palpitation, and avoiding ear-to-ear mind pulpitization. Although, truthfully, I believe my Permaculture Design certification was more helpful for restorative WinWin therapy consultations with wounded kids, and their not-well-trained adults. SocialWorker specialists invited me to consider four kids waiting for a less toxic residence. One was Dementia. Another older girl, also AfricanAmerican, wanted to wait for a home without any male presence in a threatening house, due to past unthinkably unfortunate events, furthering her internal climate of ZeroSoul Zone pathologies. A one year old white boy would never walk. I couldn't see how I sprint through a successful WinWin family outing with two wheelchairs to push around. It was already discouraging enough with one to often choose exploring voices outside, now rather staying more too sedately home muted, ZeroZone diluted, inside. The fourth was an older hispanic boy who looked WinWin perfect but then was suddenly hospitalized, for reasons never ominously or even reassuringly explained, and it looked likely he might never leave alive; LoseLose. This was one of those moments to pause and wonder about therapeutic timing and nutritious choices creating WinWin nurturing branches or not, more WinLose, in others' BusinessAsUsual lives, not just my own ZeroZen SoulZone. Dementia's Social Worker was WinLose pre-disposed and concomitantly desperate to close her unfortunately least marketable case. At five, this BiPolar Dementia already had two priors. Prior attempts at WinWin adoption that ended LoseLose, at best, a toxic six weeks later. She had bounced from one unsuccessful They Lose and I Lose foster home to the next and no one of them trained for WinWin special needs alcoholic placements, should there actually be such a training thing, because they didn't want such needs demanding in their already too complicated indoor lose some-lose Sum ZeroSoul too dissonant lives. I agreed to meet Dementia because her SocialWorker had persuaded herself, whether through ignorance or incompetence I still know not, although I've heard no WinWin rule that one is less ignorantly likely to incompetently appear without the other, She was persuaded Dementia was not alcohol baptized BiPolar Competitive more than DiPolar CoOperative, Marked for a lifetime of Trumpian Wounded Child struggle with bipolar cognitive-affective dissonance, dismay, despair, dissonant eruptions, in addition to her cerebral palsy lifetime of stinky and wet incontinence. I met Dementia in her most successful (least tragic) foster home. Mom was surrounded by so many kids she did not know what to do. But remained wise enough to promise strong toilet-training skills if only so someone else would finally change Dementia's messy climate diapers. I brought a Dorah doll for her recently past fifth birthday and asked her if she spoke Spanish. I have no idea what she said in response, probably not Spanish, but she delighted in tearing the packaging into confetti with a suspiciously satisfied smile. Dorah would live on for a few months, gradually losing body parts. An arm here, a leg there. She went bald, unexpectedly one scissored night. Then her capacity to speak and sing evaporated, a mixed blessing in my opinion not that it was often asked for, or ever heeded, or even appreciated when received. Finally Dorah's merciful beheading led to a tearful cremation. I had a lot of questions for FosterMom because I could not understand a word Dementia mumbled. I wasn't even sure of distinguishing between Yes and No other than the too obvious non-verbal communication that filled in for NegativEnergy dissonant messaging systems. So I asked why she seemed to have no resonant consonants and could she hear clearly? resiliently? creolizingly? Is that a lazy left-brained eye? Hard to tell because she needs both Left and Right eye surgery for lids she cannot bicamerally lift enough to see the warm brown gleam of her smiling therapeutic eyes. What are those bald patches in her hair? How is she coming along, or merely commingling, with incontinence? Why is she a choking risk? Why does she gulp and swallow her food whole? Why is she throwing her food and other nutritional nurturing elements, toys, soap, colored markers? Who is she talking to now, because I can't see anybody in front of her eyes and ears can you? Lots of questions. Not many informed responses. So I told Dementia's SocialWorker I would take her as a pending pre-adoption placement but only if she promises to leave her with me long enough so we can get her medical attention needed for better long-term health-wealth results.