Lundyn Bridges

by Patrice Johnson

  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?

  “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 welcom
ed 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

  Your 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.

  Brighter than any star

  I’ve ever wished upon

  on a lonely night

  when dreams were for sleepers only

  and I was too awake.

  So 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.