Lundyn Bridges (2 page)

Our conversation turned to social issues and the plight of women on drugs. Dr. Solis and Dr. Cohen were surprised by the depth of my insight about children of addiction. When the other members of the research team began arriving I took a deep breath and reminded myself to stay off my soap box.

Natalie Harrington entered the room as if she were the diva we were waiting for. She was impeccably dressed in a navy blue suit with shoes and purse that matched exactly. Her hair was pulled back into a French roll and the bronze streaks in her hair accentuated her chocolate brown complexion. Natalie looked right through me and then addressed Dr. Solis and Dr. Cohen.

“Dr. Solis,” she smiled extending her hand, “it's so nice to see you again. And you must be Dr. Cohen.” Natalie turned slightly to the right to face him.

I walked away to get coffee.

Jelisa Paige and Tonya Graham were the next to join us. They lowered their voices when they realized we were in the room. After a general hello to everyone, Jelisa scanned the room while Tonya retrieved their nametags from the table. They both wore gold Alpha Kappa Alpha Sorority pins on the lapel of their black suits. I recognized them from campus; we had taken a few classes together.

“Hey, how are you?” Tonya smiled, waving to me.

Before I could respond they were greeted by Dr. Solis, who left Natalie talking to Dr. Cohen.

Savannah Robinson and Kiarra Dillingham were the last to enter the room. Savannah seemed flustered, and she sighed out loud after looking at her watch. She forced a smile when she saw Dr. Solis and walked over to her. Kiarra was naturally beautiful. She was the only one in the room, beside Dr. Solis, who only wore eye shadow and lip gloss, and she was the one who could have easily posed for the cover of a magazine.

“Hey KiKi.” I handed my best friend a nametag. “What took you so long?”

“Did you get here before they did?” She asked sarcastically. “Girl, I'm ten minutes early. Plenty of time to introduce myself to the boss, write my name on this tag, get some coffee and have a seat.”

Kiarra smiled and winked before going over to speak to Dr. Solis. Kiarra constantly chided me about being too serious, and she graciously accepted the challenge to help me have fun and enjoy life.

Jelisa, Tonya and Kiarra were also Clinical Social Work Interns. Natalie and Savannah were doctoral students who would be working with Dr. Cohen analyzing client data.

Dr. Solis invited the group to enjoy the pastries and coffee before taking a seat around the conference table. She asked us to share something about ourselves, and she scanned each face as the introductions continued around the table. I listened intently, feeling intimidated by this group that seemed so polished and refined. Although I concluded no volunteer experience or paid internship could equal my reality, each of them, including Kiarra, had had unique experiences either with women in recovery or in the field of addiction. I felt unqualified and doubted my ability to help anyone, but I had also begun to realize I was my worst critic.

Dr. Solis proceeded to explain our roles in detail. In addition to the research study, we were also being assigned to co-facilitate one of the existing outpatient therapy groups. However, she reiterated we were primarily responsible for the intensive case management of our assigned client. No one moved or said a word.

The silence in the room was broken when Veronica Kennedy entered. Dr. Solis introduced her as the lead statistician for the grant. Veronica's monotone voice resulted in an extremely boring presentation. She
was barely visible over the podium and was dressed in complete contrast to Dr. Solis. Her wool-blend A-line plaid skirt and white cotton shirt made it evident she spent too much time with a computer and had never bothered to take notice of current fashion trends. She was the recipient of several awards for her statistical prowess, and I should have been impressed by her ability to rattle off numbers, but the numbers were insignificant to me. I scanned the room, again, making mental notes of everyone's name and then forced myself to take notes on what I assumed were the most important stats. I also drank three cups of coffee during the forty minutes she spoke.

After the orientation, Natalie and Savannah left with Dr. Cohen, and Dr. Solis took the interns on a tour of the tenth floor. “These are the clients we will be serving,” she stated as the elevator door opened. “We refer to them as clients, not patients, because we want them to be equally vested in their treatment goals.” Dr. Solis paused at the nurses' station. “This is my mental health team,” she said to Debbie, the head nurse, who smiled at us. Debbie was the nurse on the elevator who said good luck and told me where to find the conference room.

As Dr. Solis relayed our assignments to Debbie, she pointed to identify us by name. We extended our hands, and Debbie, with a nod and a smile, proceeded to give us the protocol for the floor.

“Thank you.” Dr. Solis smiled and gave a slight nod to Debbie before leading us to the small conference room at the end of the hall. She took a seat in the only office chair, and we sat in the metal chairs around the table. “Ladies, we will meet in this conference room at two o'clock and all day tomorrow to review the grant
objectives and develop outlines for treatment plans. Beginning Wednesday, we will brief each morning at eight; you will meet with your client from nine to ten, and then you will join the therapeutic staff morning meeting at eleven-thirty. In two weeks, these ladies will be discharged to the newly renovated bridge housing unit on Morewood Avenue - My Sister's Keeper. We will then brief on Monday mornings from eight to nine, and you will be responsible for meeting with your client twice per week for the next twelve months. You will make sure your client attends the adult education classes and registers for one of the county employment training centers. You will be responsible for incorporating independent living and social skills into your sessions. Each of these women must develop a budget, open a checking and savings account, and you must monitor their monthly expenses. Each of these women must reach some level of self-sufficiency and sustainability within the next twelve months. They can only stay in My Sister's Keeper for eighteen months, and they must be adequately prepared to live on their own.” Dr. Solis paused while scanning our faces again. “Any questions?”

No one moved or answered. Dr. Solis stood and walked around the table as she continued. “Some of you are probably thinking – why would we teach social skills to adults? And since no one asked, I'll tell you. These women have spent years functioning irrationally, and for most of them their normal is abnormal. Your job is to help them live right, be rational, change their thinking. They won't be successful if they continue to function irrationally.” Her eyebrows were raised, and her words were distinctive. “Over the next two weeks, your job is to develop a relationship with your client.
You have to earn the right to be heard, and that's not something learned from a textbook. So ladies, this may seem like a piece a cake, but you'll see what you're up against. The success of this research project depends on your ability to establish a good rapport.” Dr. Solis collected her notes and placed them inside the leather portfolio.

We retreated to the conference room on the seventh floor where we met the medical and psychiatric staff who gratefully enjoyed the donuts and bagels. After introductions, we were assigned a group to co-facilitate. We were then given picture identification cards and office keys. I put my briefcase in my office before heading to lunch with Kiarra. Everything in me wanted to be excited about the opportunity to make a difference in someone's life. Helping my client was essential to my personal success.

Kiarra, who was typically effervescent, seemed a little subdued during lunch. Although she attempted to hide it, I was all too familiar with pain and could see right through her. There were no seats in the Originals, so we stood by the window while eating our hotdogs and onion rings.

“Why the gloom?” I asked between bites.

“Oh, it's nothing.”

“Nothing like Xavier?”

“Sometimes, I think about ending our relationship.” Kiarra swallowed her food and her feelings. She spoke without looking at me. “Sometimes, I'm not sure he loves me as much as I love him.”

Kiarra knew I had reservations I couldn't define about Xavier, but she also knew I respected her relationship with him.

“Did something happen?”

“No,” she said shaking her head. “It's not any one thing in particular; it's just things that he does and says.”

I allowed her to finish talking while I helped myself to her onion rings. My boyfriend track record was pathetic, which was evidenced by my falling in love with Sam. I made feeble attempts to encourage her to talk it over with Xavier. Then, I reminded her of the advice she had given me – sometimes we realize it's over before our heart can admit it.

When we returned from lunch we were given the files for our clients. My client's file was almost four inches thick and was held together by two rubber bands. Kiarra had a scheduled meeting with her client's psychologist, and I headed for the empty conference room. After intentionally spinning in the chair at the far end of the granite table, I opened the mega file and began an earnest attempt to decipher the tenuously coded notes of Francine's mental health history. Although her son called once or twice per month from Atlanta, he never asked to speak with her. Her history indicated two other children, parents, an older sister, an ex-husband and a boyfriend. There was no mention of any prior therapist or doctor ever meeting any of them, and it was repeatedly noted that Francine rarely, if ever, spoke of them. The clinical summary of her admission indicated Francine was non-communicative with an inconclusive diagnosis to rule out depression and
suicidal ideation which were compounded by her addiction.

As I reviewed the file, the striking resemblance between my mother and Francine frightened me. Both women had fallen in love with drugs, abandoned their children and attempted suicide. Comparing my mother and Francine was against everything I learned in the School of Social Work. My fear of helping Francine was paralleled by my desire, but my confidence in restoring hope to Francine was far from intact. If I had any chance of helping her, I knew my feelings of transference would have to be buried – that, at least, was a skill I had mastered.

Following our briefing on Wednesday, Dr. Solis and I met at the tenth floor nurses station.

“Are you ready?” She asked, half smiling like a child who was having difficulty keeping a secret.

“Yes.” I exhaled my anxiety, too nervous to inquire about what I was obviously missing.

“Francine is a tough one,” Dr. Solis continued. “She will tell you that she only signed up for the program to get priority status for Bridge Housing. I'm not sure where else she has to go. No one has come to visit her in the three months she's been here.”

I followed as Dr. Solis proceeded down the hall, listening intently. “Francine can be mean and nasty. She cusses very well and is adept at using foul language to keep people away from her. Prior therapeutic efforts have been futile because she can be extremely difficult to engage. She's hiding from some very intense feelings.” Dr. Solis stopped outside room 1016 and
faced me. “Your job is to help her.” Dr. Solis walked away, leaving me nervous about knocking on the door.

I knocked twice and no one answered, so I entered the room. Francine was sitting at the top of her bed in the corner. The blinds were closed, and the curtains were drawn. The only light was the ray of the sun sneaking through the perimeter of the curtains. In the dim light, Francine looked more like a three-dimensional shadow as she sat motionless. She was a petite woman with short curly hair, and her stature was in contrast to the tall tales I had heard about her demeanor. Her face was expressionless. She stared at the wall, never acknowledging my entrance.

“Hello.” I forced a smile. “I'm Lundyn Bridges.” I extended my right hand, clutching my notebook and the thick file with my left arm.

Francine did not respond.

I took a step closer. “We'll be meeting every morning for about an hour to…”

Before I completed my second step, Francine turned to face me. “I ain't got nothin' to talk about.” Francine's tone was belligerent. “When I got out of jail they sent me here. I talked to the shrink, he gave me some pills, I take my pills every day, and I don't bother nobody. Now you know all about me, and there's nothin' more to talk about.” Francine resumed her blank stare at the wall.

I was momentarily dumbfounded, and my mind raced to find a therapeutic response. “There's a lot more we need to discuss,” I said quickly, “but we can do that tomorrow. I'll see you at the morning meeting.” I walked out of the room without looking back and without saying good-bye.

This first meeting was catastrophic, and I suddenly felt nauseated. My hands were clammy, and I could feel sweat dripping down my back. What would I say to Dr. Solis when the group met at four o'clock?