The Story of Jimmy

On Memorial Day we took the kids to the local parade where we joined some friends and their kids. While waiting for the parade to start, the kids were poking each other with sticks and running around - at least until they discovered the gypsy moth caterpillars. Nina adopted one and named it Jimmy. For her, it was better than the candy being tossed out at the parade.

On the walk home, Nina kept up a running commentary, "Look, Jimmy, there's the library. Hey, Jimmy, we're on the bridge." She was smitten. When we got home, I made Jimmy a house out of a plastic takeout container with some holes cut in the top. We lined it with a nice, fresh maple leaf.

Nina spent the afternoon helping me in the garden and of course, Jimmy was right there with us. Every so often she would take him out and pet his soft little body and coo at him. At one point, she dropped him in the grass and when she couldn't find him right away, she started to cry, "Mama, you must help me find Jimmy! Where is Jimmy!" Finally I did find him and she was so grateful.

Our neighbors were outside in their garden when we almost lost Jimmy and Nina had already gone over to show him off to them. They have a son who is ten or eleven so they understand the whole obsession with crawly things. The next thing I knew, they had presented Nina with an actual bug house for Jimmy. I really have the best neighbors.

For the next several days, Nina carried Jimmy around, showing him things, talking to him and narrating his activities, "Mama, Jimmy is eating. Shhhh, Mama, don't be so loud, Jimmy is taking a nap." She even brought him to day care for show and tell at circle time. Throughout the week, I kept explaining to her that her pet would not be able to become a moth unless he was able to go into a tree and build a cocoon. She understood this but the idea of his leaving was too painful for her to contemplate.

Finally, on Thursday night, on our way home from dinner - Jimmy came with us in the car, of course - Nina decided it was time to set him free. When we got home, it was starting to get dark and it was cold and rainy. I put on my serious face and went with Nina to the maple tree in our front yard. She slipped Jimmy out of his carrier and put him on the tree. She petted him and kissed him and told him goodbye. Just as we were giving him one last look, she decided she couldn't do it. She looked at me and said, "I'm not ready for him to go yet, Mama." Then she put him, and his chewed up maple leaves, back into the bug house and we went in to get ready for bed.

She proceeded to have a complete melt down that night. She had somehow decided that if we didn't let Jimmy go right away, he was going to die during the night. She insisted that we go back out into the dark, rainy night and set him free. But at the same time, she didn't really want to let him go. This was truly an ordeal for her. She was sobbing and saying that she didn't want him to die and we had to set him free. Being the mean mom that I am, I did not let her go back outside in her PJs to set the caterpillar free. We did all manage to calm down and get some sleep.

At about 6:30 the next morning, Nina was wide awake and ready to go set Jimmy free. She had made her mind up during the night that it was okay to let him go. After we all had breakfast and got dressed, the entire family gathered around the maple tree in our front yard to say goodbye to Jimmy. Once again, Nina stroked him and kissed him goodbye, but this time she was able to let him begin the long crawl up the tree trunk. We all waved and Paul very seriously documented the whole thing on his iPhone. And, while Nina was happy with her decision, she still mourns Jimmy a little bit every day. She even started to cry out of the blue over the weekend and when I asked her what was wrong, she told me, "Mama, I miss Jimmy!"

What is unique?

This is still a work in progress:

Earlier this week I was asked to answer the question, "What is unique about you?" This was the third in a series of questions that I was asked to answer before attending an orientation session for the doctoral program I will start in the fall.

My first thought was, "I'm a forty year old, middle-class white woman with two kids - there's nothing unique about me," and I still stand by this initial gut response but in the end, I talked about a previous job I had and how it affected me - and still does to this day.

In my early twenties, I thought that I wanted to become a family therapist. In order to test this out, I took a job as direct care staff at a local mental health agency. I had two different positions. Part of the time, I worked one-on-one with teens and young adults who had mental health issues but were able to function in the world. I spent time helping them to have "normal" lives...

At the same time, I also worked at a respite facility. I joke that it's the place you go when you aren't crazy enough to be hospitalized or where you go when you are ready to leave the hospital but not quite ready to go home. I met a lot of different people through this work. It was often difficult to tell who was a client and who was an employee. The work brings interesting people to it - all of them trying to figure out who they are. Some succeeded better than others.

There are many memorable moments from those years, but there is one that sticks out in my mind as an example of the kind of pain people experience and also as an example of just how messed up this job was.

Lorraine came to the respite site one day. She was about my age, mid-twenties, a slender, blonde, lovely girl with an Irish accent. It was hard to figure out what was going on with her but it was evident that she was truly sad - the kind of deep sadness that transcends one's whole being. The only time we saw even a glimmer of light in her eyes was when she spoke about her brother.

Lorraine had attempted to kill herself before she came to us but she was judged to be relatively safe when she was admitted. No one would have guessed that she would take off out the door of the house just as soon as she had the chance, but that's what she did. The next thing I knew, my supervisor dumped a handful of change into my hand and said, "Follow her. And, call us when you can." So, without questioning this charge, that's what I did.

I quickly caught up to Lorraine as she headed down the street. I tried to talk to her but she refused. She quickly crossed the main thoroughfare and I followed (this was pretty scary). She wandered into downtown and I followed. The whole time I kept talking to her. Asking her anything that came into my mind - I don't even remember now what I was saying, I just kept up a steady stream of conversation. At one point, we stopped by this little park and I was sure she was going to talk to me but I think she was just getting tired and confused. Finally, we started heading back to where the respite house was and we found ourselves in front of a convenience store. Lorraine had finally realized that I wasn't leaving her side and she seemed to be ready to come back with me. I stopped at the pay phone to call in and was talking to the shift supervisor when I glanced over at Lorraine and saw that she was trying to cut her wrists with some broken glass she had found on the ground. I don't even have words to describe my dread at that sight.

We ended up in an ambulance, heading to the hospital. The rest of the day is a bit murky but I will never forget how awful it felt to see her cutting herself. Eventually, Lorraine seemed to stabilize, maybe with our help, but who really knows. She left the respite and we thought she went home to be well and live a long life. It came as a shock to me when, about a year later, I saw her obituary in the paper. We can never really know what is going on in someone else's head and how much pain they are in. I won't ever forget that sad young woman and I'll always wonder what else I could have done - although I know that there probably was nothing I could do.