Lundyn Bridges (3 page)

“So you met Francine?” Debbie smiled from behind the nurses' station and handed me a can of iced tea.

I tried to smile.

“If she didn't throw anything or cuss you out, that's progress. I'm one of the only nurses who'll deal with Fran. She can be mean.” Debbie paused. “But so can I.”

“Does she talk to you?” I asked, wondering about any level of communication.

“When we both feel like it. I would never allow her to think I'm going to respond only when she feels like talking to me. Sometimes I intentionally ignore her. She's not the only one who can play head games.”

“I don't think she likes me,” I admitted between sips without looking up.

“She doesn't like herself.” Debbie almost smirked. “There's no therapy for what ails her.”

Waiting for the elevator, my first response was to resign. Perhaps this wasn't the right job for me. Although I really wanted to help women with drug and alcohol issues, I surmised the task might overwhelm me. It was something I always said I would do, but my first meeting with Francine indicated she didn't want my help. I was unprepared for the rejection and had not learned it wasn't personal.

On Friday afternoon, I attended my first group session. I was assigned to Jamel Adams, the Clinical Supervisor of the Adolescent Obesity Program. Jamel welcomed me as his assistant, however, it was clear
from my observation he didn't need assistance. His six foot two inch frame towered over the children. The bass in his voice commanded respect but was beset by the depth of his smile. He was firm but consistent, and his young clients seemed to like him. I welcomed the opportunity to work under his tutelage.

At the conclusion of the group, I accompanied Jamel to his office for a review of each child's file. The group, which began with eighteen, now had eleven members.

"These are the ones who will make it," Jamel said smiling. "They are committed to their weight loss, and their families are supportive."

Jamel explained the fundamentals of successful weight loss for children which involved a lifestyle change for the family. "It's not just what they are eating; it's also what they are not doing. Their lives were very sedentary." Jamel passed me another file. "Look at Jessica," he said motioning for me to open the file. "Her parents drove her to the school bus because it stopped three blocks away. They had her doctor excuse her from gym, and her favorite activity was watching movies while snacking on ice cream and cookies." He shook his head. "Life-long health is proactive. Many people don't think about their health until there is an unwelcomed weight gain or preventable illness."

Two hours later, I thanked Jamel for the insights and headed home. Although it was typically a ten minute drive, I seemed to catch every red light on Ellsworth Avenue. The week had been challenging and I was looking forward to curling up on my couch in front of the television. It was almost paradoxical – teaching children to stay active while I cherished the moments in my living room with a good book or movie.

My apartment was my haven where I spent hours sipping raspberry tea while looking out my third floor window. My kitchen window looked out over Ellsworth Avenue and the corner convenience store that kept a steady stream of traffic. The telephone pole to the right of the door became the resting place for every dog whose owner ran into the store to make a purchase.

My bedroom window captured the bustle of Negley Avenue, especially on Friday and Saturday nights when the restaurants were open late and offered Salsa dancing and jazz. The constant stream of headlights flashed through my blinds as people jockeyed for parking spaces to avoid having to feed the meters on Walnut Street.

As I settled on the couch with my remote, I put my head back and reflected on my first week – it was intensive, exhausting and extremely demanding. With the exception of my experience with the adolescent obesity group, it left me feeling inept. My time had been spent being tortured by Francine's arrogant refusal to be compliant, and nothing therapeutic transpired. The experience left me flustered and without a sense of control. I was the therapist. I was supposed to be in control of our sessions.

On Saturday morning I seriously contemplated a career change. In spite of the hours I spent on the Internet researching addiction and depression, shadowing psychologists, and reading the medical histories of at least one hundred patients, there was nothing in all that information to help me with Francine. This feeling of no control frightened me. Emotionally, I was an eight year old not knowing who, where, why or what.

Later that evening, I went home to have dinner with the Woodard's. They had been my source of encouragement for fourteen years, and I always found solace at home. After my pity party, the rest of the evening was spent viewing pictures from Naples, Florida, where the Woodard's were planning to retire. They had been spending at least a week of their vacation in Naples for almost five years and finally admitted to themselves it would be a great place to live. They had prepared me for a future, and their daughter, Kristen, was happily married and living in Greece with her husband. The Woodard's were free to move on to their next chapter. Although I knew I would miss them, I was happy for them and wanted them to enjoy the rest of their lives.

Sunday morning was the start of a new week. I tried not to focus on Francine, even though she was being discharged at the end of the week, and I had yet to connect with her. It crossed my mind, several times, to ask Dr. Solis to reassign me, but I knew my request would be met with questions. A bigger part of me didn't want to give up, so I prayed.

“Lord, am I in over my head?” I asked out loud from under my comforter.

The ringing phone interrupted my prayer. “Hey, girl,” Kiarra was, as usual, effervescent and too chipper for seven-thirty on a Sunday morning.

“Hey, where are you?” I asked, still lying in bed.

“At home. I just got in.”

“I thought you were coming back last night?”

“We went to my cousin's house after my aunt's birthday party. It got late, so I left this morning.”

“Well, aren't you just the road runner!”

“Yeah, and this road runner is hungry. Get up so we can go to Eat-N-Park before church. I'll be over to get you in an hour.”

I hung up the phone and laughed to myself. Kiarra was a true friend. I thought she would have been angry I didn't go to Cleveland with her, but she just shrugged it off and told me we'd catch up when she got back. Still, I was sure I had some type of lecture coming over breakfast.

Kiarra united with The House of Praise under their College Watchcare Ministry when she transferred to Chatham. She invited me to their outreach events and I began attending Sunday services with her. Six months later I transferred my membership. Kiarra and I participated in the Young Adult Bible Study and we became prayer partners. My foster parents, the Woodard's, were initially disappointed when I left their church, but they were happy I had made a serious commitment about my Christian walk. Although the Christian Tabernacle of Allison Park had been instrumental in my Christian development, it was the Woodard's church. The House of Praise was where my spirit felt at home. God also began challenging me in many areas of my life, and I was getting to the point of acknowledging His leading. Kiarra convinced me to keep a prayer journal, and she continuously encouraged me to allow God to completely heal all the hurts in my life. As much as I wanted Him to, I was afraid to release those feelings from the place where I kept them buried.
“Thy faith has made thee whole.”
That scripture resonated in my head since the day I read it. I only had a little faith, so I didn't expect to be whole.

The horn tooted twice – I knew it was Kiarra in the convenience store parking lot. She was early, and I was glad I was ready.

“You would have had a nice time at the party,” she said as I got in the car. “But I knew you wanted to sit at home and sulk over Sam.”

“I did not,” I stated, interrupting her.

“You did so. I know you too well. You sulked and waited for Sam to call, and you knew he wouldn't. You didn't call Michael because you know he's liked you since our sophomore year and all that we're just friends blab is garbage. Then you stressed about Francine, who probably had a good weekend being her miserable self.”

“Sam was my first love, and I have to help Francine,” I pleaded in my own defense.

“Sam is a loser and Francine is your client, and you better learn to detach from both of them.”

I sat silently, refusing to continue the conversation or admit she was right. As close as we were, there were still some things Kiarra would never understand about me. It was difficult to admit Sam walked away from me – I needed the people I cared about to stay connected. Kiarra should have understood how much I loved Sam Washington – especially since he was my first real boyfriend. Dating was an arena I had avoided, but Sam was persistent after we met at a church sponsored bowling party when I was in grad school. He made a wonderful first impression, and although Valentine's Day came two weeks after we met, he took me out to dinner and bought me a sweater.

Sam inspired a new sense of self in me. Having always dreamed of being someone's girlfriend, but never thinking anyone would ever like me, I was enamored by
Sam's attention. I was still trying to figure out reasons to like myself and couldn't imagine how anyone would be attracted to me. Sam was different. He liked my quietness. I liked the feeling of being liked and quickly fell in love with him. As I began sharing about myself, he comforted those empty places inside me. Cliché Eyes was the first poem I wrote for him in my journal.

Cliché Eyes

Y
our eyes are much brighter than
any star I've ever seen
from my bedroom window
where I used to dream about all the things
I'd be when I grew up.

B
righter than any star
I've ever wished upon
on a lonely night
when dreams were for sleepers only
and I was too awake.

S
o bright, they pierce my soul
allowing you to see the me
I had hidden away for so long.
Then you smiled – such an aura of joy –
so I smiled, too
I think its love
or is it just your eyes?

We pulled into Edgewood Towne Center, and I realized I had drifted into an intense flash back. Kiarra didn't notice because she was consumed with the unexpected traffic and the crowd at Eat-N-Park. After
being seated, we only had time to get to the buffet once before we had to leave to be on time for church.

Praise and worship had begun and, as we searched for seats, we sang along with the Worship Team. Although I liked Rev. Morgan, I often felt like he was speaking to me in his sermons. I never told anyone, not even Kiarra, because I didn't want to appear paranoid. This particular Sunday was one of those sermons.

Rev. Morgan preached on the internal pain that results from the bondage of guilt. He read Matthew 27: 3–5:

When Judas, who had betrayed him, saw that Jesus was condemned, he was seized with remorse and returned the thirty silver coins to the chief priests and the elders. “I have sinned,” he said, “for I betrayed innocent blood.” “What is that to us?” They replied. “That's your responsibility.” So Judas threw the money into the temple and left. Then he went away and hanged himself.

Rev. Morgan talked about the outcomes when we choose to do wrong, how it distorts our thinking, makes us conniving, and throws us into the never ending lie after lie, deceit after deceit spiral. Like in the Bible, when David conspired to have Uriah killed to cover up his sin with Bathsheba; Cain's anguish after murdering Abel; Joseph's brothers continually lying to their father after they sold him. Barbara leaving her children.

I was not the perpetrator. I was the victim. The pain should not be mine. I stuffed those feelings back
into storage and reminded myself that Rev. Morgan's message wasn't specifically targeting me. I left church thinking about being free from pain and trying to imagine what that would feel like. I thought of Francine and wondered if Rev. Morgan's message would help me reach her. On the day I met Francine, Dr. Solis admitted no one had been able to penetrate her wrath. Could guilt be the brick wall that was keeping everyone out? What was it that wrenched this woman's heart? Where was her family? Why didn't her children visit? I had so many questions and no answers.

Later that evening, I read all the scriptures I could find on pain and guilt. Then I debated with myself if I should share the sermon with Francine. Talking about God was an unpardonable sin in therapeutic circles, but Francine was being discharged at the end of the week and I needed something to initiate our dialogue. I decided to tell her about the sermon. I would share the good news that God is the only one who forgives sin, who can cleanse, who removes guilty stains and takes away life's pain. I assumed Francine had multiple issues of pain and guilt around not raising her children, and this could be the door I had been praying for. Although God was not welcomed in therapy, it was a risk I was willing to take.

Monday morning of week two my phone rang while I was making coffee, it was six-thirty.

“Hey, Baby.” Sam was hesitant, undoubtedly unsure of my response. “Lundyn, it's me, Sam.”

“I know who you are.” I intentionally maintained a flat tone. “You're the one who hasn't called. You're the one who likes to play games.”

“Lundyn, I know you're angry, but let me explain.” Sam was speaking very quickly.

“Sam, at this point, there's nothing you can say.” I hung up the phone.

That was the end of a chapter and a life lesson. I was so eager for love I let my guard down and was deceived by Sam's pretense of goodness. He was completing his internship for his Master's in Teaching during the seven months we dated. Sam professed to have a heart for helping African-American children rediscover science and requested to be placed in an academically challenged school. He said the right things, but it became apparent he believed his 'good works' were enough, and he had no desire to grow spiritually. His attendance at church was second to ESPN or a Steelers game, and he considered going to church once per week as his reasonable service. It was out of the question for him to attend church service on Sunday and Bible Study on Wednesday.