Starting in the Middle (a good a place as any)

Starting in the Middle
(A Good a Place as Any)

Preface:
Wow. Thirty people have looked at my first blog post. That’s exciting. That’s scary. I’ve never had the courage to put myself out there before, but then again it’s never been so easy to. Well, this is me, my last at bat, and I better swing has hard as I can. I intend to post at least once per week, hopefully more often than that. Thank you for giving me a chance.

We have had to fight to convince DHS that Nicole is not a danger to Megan or Corah. She has never hurt either one of them; she has only ever done what she was told. When she was alone with Corah as a baby, they were living in a special shelter in Norwalk for mothers and babies. Every few weeks she would drive up with the baby to visit me. The last time she did, in February when Corah was almost twelve months old, I felt that something was off, but she didn’t open up to me. She was giving the baby banana-flavored cereal puffs, which she loved, so I said, “Why don’t you just give her a banana?”

Nicole looked at me, head tilted, “She can have a banana?” In that instant I knew that she would not be able to keep up with the baby’s development. It would change too quickly, and just when Niki got good at one stage, the baby would be on to the next. I didn’t say anything to her about my misgivings; we just gave Corah pieces of banana. When they left, I told Niki to ask the baby doctor’s staff to help her with what she could eat or not eat, she didn’t have to wait for her appointment.

When she got back to Norwalk Nicole asked for help from the Department of Children and Families (DCF) because she didn’t feel safe enough to care for Corah. It was exactly what she had been told to do. Any time she had a mental health issue, they told her, “If you ever don’t feel like you can’t take care of Corah, just call us and we will help you.” So she called them and they came and took her baby away from her.

She called me sobbing, grief-stricken. It wasn’t what she expected to happen. It was the first time that the Department’s friendly, earnest we’re-here-to-help-you façade came down. It is something we see a lot. Information is given in a gentle, reassuring manner that makes you feel save trusting them. But trusting is a mistake, you will never get information you don’t specifically ask for. In other words, they only tell you the whole truth if you already know it.

I assured Nicole that I would take Corah and we would stay a family. But it was too late-if she had simply left the baby with me because she wasn’t well it would have been fine-the state had her and we would have to jump through hoops on their command. Of course, that is what we would do. Staff at the Residence where Nicole lived told her that I wouldn’t be allowed to adopt Corah, that I wouldn’t be approved. It didn’t take me long to realize that I was being judged sight unseen based on Nicole. She had a traumatic brain injury for Pete’s sake! That made me angry (something it is not easy to do) and that was their mistake.

Years later when Maine DHS was building a case against Nicole, they put a huge amount of weight on the fact that Corah went into state custody and Nicole gave up her parental rights. It was one of their strongest arguments. I told them over and over that it was voluntary, that Niki was competent and responsible enough to ask for help and that in order for me to adopt Corah, she had to give up her rights. It was another thing she was told she had to do if she wanted things to work out, and she did what she was told. The truth did her no good though. All the Connecticut records said was that DCF took custody and Nicole’s parental rights were terminated. And Maine was successful in using it against her.

Rose Colored Contact Lenses

   
     I woke up at three o'clock this morning thinking about my garden. If you know my family, between my green-fingered mother and Grandma and Grandpa Gregory, gardening is in my blood. I have a bed of Creeping Phlox at the end of the driveway in honor of my mother, who called them May Pinks. I awoke with grief filling my chest, realizing I will not see them bloom again. I love to garden and I worked hard on my garden here even knowing that it wasn't my house and I would leave it some day. It didn't stop me though, I can't resist flowers and I have grown them everywhere I have lived except for King Street because the soil was dead and nothing would grow.
     I am an overly optimistic, glass-half-full, hopeful far beyond reason type of person. "Rose colored contact lenses," my ex-husband Michael used to say. He would tease me about having my head in the sand. I can't help it, it's the way God made me. That and the inability to say no to anyone in need of help is the legacy my parents left me.
     My sister Kathy's birthday is in July so she got to have her birthday parties at the beach or someplace else fun. One year I convinced my mom that I should have a picnic at Beardsley Park for my birthday party. The day of my picnic was pouring rain, like so many days in April, and she tried to get me to change my mind but I could not imagine that the rain would not stop. Such was my hope for a birthday picnic. My beautiful, extraordinary mother loaded us all in the station wagon at the appointed time and I still have the crystal-clear memory of our drive along the narrow roads, up and down the rolling hills of the park, our picnic in the back. My face was pressed against the window with the rain streaming down the outside, my tears streaming down the inside.
     The hutch on my sun porch, where I keep my gardening gloves and stuff, has one shelf full of empty jars of every size and shape, plastic and glass. They are perfect for fire flies and caterpillars and grasshoppers and whatever else my little girls find on their adventures. And I know that it's stupid, but I will wrap them up in paper and move them along with everything else I own. We are going to need them for bugs.

Falling From The Middle Class

I read an article recently about the shrinking middle class and it angers me to be part of that demographic.

It’s amazing how far I’ve fallen in three years. I have no assets save the contents of my home-which is not mine-and my car. The car is relatively new, 2013, and paid for, thank goodness. That is really all I’ve got going for me.

No job. No profession anymore. My fall from grace occurred at the beginning of the change-over from ICD-9 to ICD 10 (medical coding), and I was left behind. It would be easy (however expensive) to catch up but I feel scorned and abandoned by my industry colleagues. I don’t want to be part of that club again. Not that it matters because none would have me.

If not age discrimination, I was subject to wage discrimination. I had made too much money and employers could find a younger and less experienced person much cheaper. I would have taken the lower salary if I had been given the opportunity to say so.

In 18 days I will have nowhere to live with my two little girls, my dog and parakeet. I am completely lost, drowning in my tears, which are the only thing I never run out of. All of the agencies and programs out there don’t amount to a hill of beans because it’s against the rules to give anything away. Sorry, I will be ranting in a minute if I don’t stop myself now.

There is a story to be told and I will tell it. Please be patient while I get accustomed to this do-it-yourself medium.