I had a stern talk with Charlie after that, and I’ve had to do so on other occasions as well, since his actions often necessitate a cease-and-desist warning. If I let him, Charlie would take over the group. I’ve come to realize that he sees himself as my assistant, a coleader or facilitator of sorts, a perception I try hard to extinguish every week. I should probably ban him from the group, but he has a reputation around the hospital of being something of a tattletale. Whenever someone does something he doesn’t like, he’s quick to run to the human resources department and file a complaint. He knows how to play the system and isn’t afraid to do so.
Since I can’t steer clear of Charlie, I do my best to control him instead. I don’t want to be on Charlie’s bad side, so I struggle to balance my occasional desire to kill or maim him with my best professional façade. I don’t have the luxury of picking and choosing my clients or patients in this hospital setting, and it’s a simple fact of my professional life that I won’t like some of them, and some of them won’t like me.
Betty, my other long-term attendee, is a widow in her fifties, a stern, hard woman with a sharp-edged face, a tall, lean body, and a no-nonsense attitude. She wears her hair in a tight bun and dresses in drab, sack-like dresses, holey cardigans, heavy stockings, and utilitarian shoes. Betty’s husband, Ned, was a quintessential Caspar Milquetoast kind of guy who not only let his wife lead him around by the nose, but seemed to like it. Theirs was a match made in heaven, but when heaven came calling for Ned, Betty found she didn’t know what to do with her bossy personality. She and Ned never had any children. Just as well, I think, as I imagine little Bettys running around like creepy Addams Family Wednesdays—and not surprisingly, Betty doesn’t have many friends. She came to the grief group because she felt befuddled and confused, a rudderless ship adrift on a foreign sea. And she found the perfect home for her acerbic style.
Unfortunately for me, her style is often at odds with what my group is about, and like Charlie, she can be a disruptive influence. The two of them keep me on my toes, I’ll give them that. Tonight, with a newcomer in the mix, I know I will need to be extra vigilant and stay on top of them both lest things get out of control. They’re like sharks smelling fresh blood in the water.
Charlie and Betty don’t like each other, and they often seat themselves on either side of me—a subtle way, I suspect, of declaring their perceived leadership status. This works in my favor, however, because it’s much easier to shut them up if they are within a hand’s reach.
Charlie swears I once pinched him hard enough to leave a bruise on his thigh, a mark he offered to show me after everyone else had left for the night.
“Charlie, that would be completely inappropriate!” I chastised as he started to undo his pants.
He paused in undoing his belt and blinked at me several times. Then he smiled and refastened the belt. “Yes, I suppose it would be,” he said with a shrug and a smile.
After that incident, I kept expecting a call from human resources, but it never came. Charlie was on his best behavior for a few weeks, though Betty stepped in to make sure my duties as group leader remained challenging. While she tends to ignore the women in the group, she has this seemingly uncontrollable need to harangue the men who come, muttering comments like “Man up, you big sissy” or “Warning, man cry ahead.”
Betty would have made a great drill sergeant.
I steer Sharon to a chair and then settle in beside her, earning myself angry stares from both Betty and Charlie, who are seated in their usual places. I tend to sit in the same seat each week, and clearly neither of them anticipated me doing anything different tonight, since they are situated on either side of that chair. I resist the urge to smile, because I have to admit, I enjoy rattling them a bit. It’s good not to let them get too complacent.
“Welcome to this week’s meeting of our bereavement support group,” I begin. “I want to start by reviewing the ground rules first, both as a refresher for those of you who have been here before and to inform our new visitor.”
Predictably, most of those who have been coming for a while roll their eyes or shift impatiently in their seats. But reciting the ground rules is a must.
“First and foremost, remember that anything said in this room is confidential and is not to be discussed or relayed to anyone outside of the group. Remember that we are here to share experiences, not advice. Be respectful and sensitive to one another by silencing your cell phones, avoiding side conversations, and listening to others without passing judgment. And finally, try to refrain from using offensive language.”
I pause and scan the faces in the group. “Any questions about the rules?”
I’m answered with a sea of shaking heads and murmured declinations.
“Okay then. Since we have someone new here tonight, let’s start by going around the group and stating your name and who it is you’ve lost.” I turn and smile at Sharon Cochran. “Sharon, would you like to start?”
I’m pleased when she nods, even though it’s an almost spastic motion. My pleasure then dissipates as she completely derails the evening’s agenda.
“My name is Sharon Cochran, and I’m here because the cops think my son took his own life two weeks ago. But I know he was murdered and I’m hoping you can help me find his killer.”
Night Shift Page 28