Rickey Wright, Music Critic – Dead in Seattle at age 45

Today’s post is different from my usual posts.

I’m sad, and I want to pay tribute to a genius who has gone from my life–my nephew, Rickey Wright. Rickey was consumed with music and the written word from an early age, rocking to the Beatles before he could walk and reading books by the time he was two–he taught himself to read! He was one of those rare individuals who was fortunate to be able to have a vocation and avocation that were the same: music.

He began his career as a music critic/reporter at the Virginian-Pilot in Norfolk, Virginia, along with freelancing at other papers. When he was offerred a position at Amazon.com as a music reviewer, he jumped at it and moved lock, stock, and barrel to Seattle. We–his family–were back east, and we missed him. But he was pursuing what he loved. Music was his life. There is a link to his blog All the Magic! to the right of this post, and there are dozens, if not hundreds, of tributes to RIckey on the Net.

His funeral was last Thursday in Norfolk, and well over a hundred people showed up. His friends in Seattle are holding a celebration of his life, as well.  Everyone has their own memories of Rickey, and what follows is one of my favorites.

The first time I saw Rickey, he was just a couple of hours old. He was tiny and pink and had the years spread out before him, years during which he would go many places and learn many things and make many friends. His great love, however, has always been music. He has loved music almost since the beginning.

Forty-five years ago—1964—I was a fourteen-year-old girl and the Beatles had just arrived in America. I was in love with John, Paul, George, and Ringo—all of them! Every morning before school, I would get up and the first thing I would do would be start my Beatles records playing—and they would continue playing over and over again until I was ready to walk out the door to the school bus.

Sometimes, Rickey’s parents–my sister and brother-in-law– would allow me to babysit, which was something I loved to do. Rickey was such a sweet baby.

Whenever I visited their apartment, I always took my Beatles records along. Of course! During the summer of 1964—just like I did every morning before school—I played the same records—the same songs—over and over again.

No one except a thirteen-year-old girl could possibly stand the sheer repetition—the same songs over and over again.

No one, that is, except Rickey.

In 1964, Rickey was barely a year old. I would hold him in my arms and we would dance all over the living room. Then I would start the records again and we would begin dancing again. One of my favorite songs at that time was the Beatles’ She Loves You …

We would sing along with the record: She loves you … yeah, yeah, yeah.

Well, eventually, even a teenage girl gets tired and I would stop dancing and give Rickey a cue that maybe it was time for us to do something else.

Rickey wasn’t always ready to stop dancing. He wasn’t always ready to stop the music.

Rickey was very verbal, even when he was very young, and he immediately let me know what he wanted—even at such a young age, using monosyllables and stringing them together.

He would point frantically toward the record player, crying out yeah yeah on!  yeah yeah on! He wanted the music to play on and on and on … and never stop.  

Rickey, we weren’t ready to stop dancing. We weren’t ready to stop the music. We weren’t ready to lose you.

But you had to go.

Rest in peace, Rickey. We love you.

And rock on, Rickey. Rock on.

 

 

Christmas Gifts

My thoughts this evening are on the many children in psychiatric facilities across America and all the Christmas eves and Christmas days that I have worked on such units. Typically, the number of patients on the hospital unit goes down … way down … at Christmas, or just before, as if all the problems the kids have the rest of the year have just suddenly and miraculously disappeared.

On a children’s unit, the days leading up to the holidays are filled with anticipation. They are, after all, kids. Typically, much of their time is spent wondering whether or not they’ll be disczarged before Christmas, and if they won’t be, their disappointment may be expressed with screaming and lots of cursing—often aimed at the nursing staff. As if we really had anything to do with it.

 

The hospital staff tries to make the unit as festive as possible: a child-decorated tree and homemade garlands, pictures of Santa and snowmen, and stacks of empty gift boxes, gaily-wrapped to reflect the season’s mood. Nurses and mental health techs use their free time along with money from the hospital administration to shop for gifts for the children, many of whom would otherwise receive little or nothing on Christmas. Later, these same employees come to work early and stay late to wrap and label gifts for each child, with a few surprises at the ready for a late or emergency admission.

 

Younger children in the hospital spend a lot of time looking at magazines and print advertisements from places like Toys R Us or Target. You know what I’m talking about here—bright, full-color, glossy print advertisements with more toys than you can imagine outside the old Sears catalogues or at FAO Schwarz.

 

There was a special child I worked with in Connecticut a number of years ago that I remember well. He was about eight years old and his name was … well, let’s just call him Frederico. He was a beautiful boy, with olive skin and long, extravagant eyelashes, and his parents were from someplace south of the border. He spoke with a heavy accent. Neither parent was available to care for him—Dad was in prison and Mom was in her umpteenth rehab—and Frederico was with us. All the staff quickly fell in love with Frederico, for reasons you would understand if you had ever met him.

 

Anyway, one Sunday morning in the weeks before Christmas, The Hartford Courant carried one of those big, thick, glossy advertising inserts with oh-so-many toys. I pulled it out of the newspaper and slipped it into my bag for work, thinking to myself how much Frederico would enjoy it. I wasn’t disappointed. He took it and immediately ran to his room—which was a private room for behavior reasons—and jumped onto his bed and started pointing at what he wanted, what he was sure Santa would bring him. A big, red fire truck with a siren, if I remember correctly.

 

He kept that crumpled, very-wrinkled advertisement for weeks, obsessing over what he saw that he wanted and what he saw as un-obtainable by normal channels, but that he was sure Santa could bring him. When I say he obsessed, I really mean obsessed. Every other word that came out of Frederico’s mouth was fire truck. (Yeah, I know that’s two words, but give me a break here. It’s Christmas.) Daily, the advertisement was shuttled not-so-gently from Frederico’s hands to the floor beside his bed and then back to the top of his bed for viewing.

 

That Christmas eve, as I was tucking Frederico into bed, he reached forward to lightly touch my face. He pulled me toward him to whisper into my ear. “D’ya know what I really want for Christmas?” he asked. “I want to go home and live with you, Debbi. Can I please? Can I be your little boy.”

 

I must tell you that in the few seconds it took me to answer, I honestly thought about it. I would have loved to have Frederico as my child, in my family, to give him a fresh start, and I tried to think of ways I might be able to pull that off. In the months he had been with us, I had truly grown to love him. But we were in different roles and the hospital and the profession itself dictates boundaries, so, I hugged him and softly explained—to myself as much as to Frederico—that I couldn’t do that because I already had two sons of my own. That I would see him every day at the hospital.

 

He, of course, protested that he was sure that I still had room for one more boy, a small boy–please, Debbi, please–but I finished tucking him in and gently kissed his forehead and returned to the nurses’ office, where I shed not a few tears over what I really wanted to do. The night shift would later place the wrapped gifts under the tree, and I would hear the next day about what Santa had brought.

 

Frederico didn’t receive his fire truck that year, and he didn’t get a new family either, at least not with me. That saddened me. I continued to see Frederico every day after that for months, but things were never quite the same. He had opened up and told me what he wanted and I couldn’t give it to him. He didn’t want to risk doing that again, at least not at that time, in that place, with me. In late spring, Frederico was discharged to one more of several foster homes, and I never saw him again.

 

As I think of Frederico today, I hope he finally has a real family and that he will have a good Christmas this year. Maybe, he’ll come to understand how very much the staff at that hospital cared for him and wanted the best for him that Christmas and for all the Christmases to come. Moreover, I hope the public can someday acknowledge the emptiness that fills so many children’s lives and hearts and work toward helping fractured families so that, someday, children won’t be separated from the people who matter most and have to celebrate the wonderfully-important days with caregivers.  

 

In the meantime, tonight, I wish for all the children and all who work with them, much joy and many blessings.

 

Merry Christmas, Frederico.

 

Merry Christmas to you all.

 

I hope we can all remember to celebrate the gifts we receive that truly matter.

Ten–year-old boy was more than the school could handle, so they took him to jail.

I’m fairly certain that when ten-year-old Vinni Barros woke up Friday morning, he didn’t expect to spend the weekend in juvenile detention. But he did. It seems that he became upset over something or other and starting running around, screaming, and knocking things off desks. His teacher reports that he also picked up a metal baseball bat, put it over his shoulder, and smiled at her, which she took as an overt threat. I would, too.  

 

I must mention here that Vinni was in a special needs class which tells me that the school already knew he had some problems, some of which are probably behavioral. In any event, the school officials felt the situation was more than they could handle and called the police and emergency medical technicians.

 

Eventually, Vinni was able to calm himself. But, once the two police officers and three campus security guards arrived, Vinni became upset again and reportedly kicked and spat at an officer. He was then arrested on a charge of felony assault of a police officer and taken, handcuffed, to juvenile detention for a three-day stay.

 

Vinni’s mother, Shantelle Fry, says she had previously met with the school nurse and principal and filled out the proper paperwork. She also says that the school had “emergency” medicine to help Vinni calm down, and she doesn’t understand why it was not given. Neither do I.

 

If Vinni has, indeed, been diagnosed with bipolar disorder and his mother had properly authorized the school staff to administer medication whenever he needs it, not doing so was a bad call.

 

Now, I don’t know the medication Ms. Fry referred to, but it was apparently something that Vinni has used successfully in the past. The CBS4denver web site includes a statement that “bipolar disorder is complicated …”

 

Yes, it is.

 

But then the sentence goes on to say, “ … school nurses typically don’t have the expertise to give out strong behavior changing medication in the context of an emergency”.

 

What? What did that say? “ … school nurses typically don’t have the expertise to give out strong behavior changing medication in the context of an emergency”?

 

The kid was in trouble. He was out of control. He needed help, and the school nurse was supposed to be there to help him with medication, if warranted, at just such a time.

 

Having worked in pediatrics, in schools, and in child and adolescent psych, I know how tough working with some kids can be. How challenging and sometimes even threatening. I have been kicked, slammed, shoved, punched, spat upon, and head-butted. But, having also gone to nursing school and knowing that the school nurse sat for the same licensing exam I did, I know that she had the expertise and was legally capable of properly doing a quick exam and administering medication and absolutely should have administered his med if there was a valid order.

 

Otherwise, she should have called the EMTs and insisted—insisted—he be taken to the local emergency room for evaluation . He should not have gone to the slammer.

 

Denver Public Schools … get your act together!

 

Denver Police … get some proper training!

 

Danieal Kelly Should Not Have Died This Way

If you’re squeamish, don’t read this post. It’s about maggots and feces and a hot, airless room where a young girl of 14, weighing only 42 pounds and begging for water, died.

Danieal Kelly was under the care and protection of the Philadelphia Department of Human Services. The department’s social workers, along with Danieal’s mother, and family friends, watched this young girl, who suffered from cerebral palsy and had maggot-infested bed sores, die on a putrid mattress in her mother’s home. The floor was covered with feces.  

So, are you grossed out, yet?

Are you enraged, yet?

I am. I am just so pissed off that I just about can’t speak!

This young girl’s story is one that everyone who cares about kids should know about. I should have learned about it. You should have been told about it.  Certainly people in Philadelphia should know about what goes on right under their noses. Danieal died two years ago, in 2006.

I came across this horrendous tale two days ago, in an Associated Press story that was buried on page 5 of The Virginian-Pilot. A 258-page grand jury report that was released last week charges nine people–Danieal’s parents, four social workers, and three family friends–in her death.

Reportedly, Danieal’s mother, Andrea Kelly, was embarrassed by her disabled daughter and didn’t want to touch her, change her diapers, take her out in public, or even provide her fluids. Andrea Kelly has been charged with murder.

These are troubled times, and, as always, there are not enough child welfare people to take care of those who need their help. But this story, Danieal’s story, is beyond troublesome. It is a barbaric way in which a child was put to death.

This kind of stuff has to stop.

 

Dying for Attention: A psychiatric patient dies in hospital emergency room

The behavior of the staff of Brooklyn’s KIngs County Hospital didn’t surprise me. Oh,  like most, I immediately had many visceral reactions–most strongly among them disgust, frustration, shock–after watching the video that shows an unidentified woman falling out of a chair to the floor, struggling weakly, but being unable to get up, and finally dying, dying, while hospital staff–security guards, aides, nurses, and a doctor–ignored the woman’s distress for more than an hour.  

But I know that many–okay, I’ll say most–of the staff employed in psychiatric facilities routinely attribute all behavior to psychiatric/psychological reasons. In other words, doctors, nurses, mental health techs, et al, believe that anything a psych patient does is done solely to manipulate or to gain undeserved attention. Complaints offered up by patients are seen as attempts to gain some sort of unfair or undeserved privilege or sympathy or perk or even just the thrill of knowing that the patient has “put one over” on the staff.

And staff don’t like to think that they have been “had”, so they rationalize that the patient is faking any sort of distress. Readers who know the story of eleven-year-old Andrew McClain, a former patient of mine who died in a Connecticut while being restrained, already know how that kind of thinking turns out.

In a weak defense of mental health care staff, I will say that some psychiatric patients will pass gas, urinate, vomit, defecate, and do any other nasty thing they can think of to show their disrespect toward staff, and because staff know this, they often ignore the behavior. But anyone working in the medical field knows, or should know, that these bodily responses are signs of distress, of the sphincter muscles relaxing. Of death.

Unfortunately, for our still-unidentified Kings County Hospital patient–and her parents, uncles, aunts, grandparents, children, grandchildren, friends, acquaintances, and neighbors–Kings County Hospital staff never got close enough to the patient to determine whether or not her distress was real. And, so she died. Face down, alone, on the cold hard tile floor of an inhospitable, uncaring, unprofessional institution that she–or someone who cared about her–trusted.   

These Kings County Hospital employees should be held accountable for not properly caring for this woman. their patient. For those who hold licenses, such as the doctor and the nurses, consideration should be given to whether or not they should keep those licenses. 

And the rest of us–you included–should think about how we would tend to a woman who is lying, dying in front of us. Would you overly-pathologize her behavior because she is a known psychiatric patient or would you treat her as you would want a member of your family to be treated? As a valuable human who is now lost to us. Think about it.

 

A Bit of History Found: Nursing Pins at Ruby Lane

Because I spend so much time at my computer writing and doing research, sometimes I like to spin off in another direction toward other interests or whatever catches my eye on the Internet. (Isn’t that the beauty of the Internet, that whatever one thinks about can be mined to the depths? And, where is the Internet, anyway?) Well, I’ve always had an interest in history and relics of times gone by, particularly when there is a connection (however loose) to me or my family or experiences or places I’ve been or things I’ve done. Anyway, as I was exploring the ’net a couple of weeks ago, I came across a site that specializes in nursing pins and other nursing memorabilia. Now, since I’m a nurse and also because I have an interest in American history and such things, I was immediately drawn to Nursing Pins at Ruby Lane, an online “shop” specializing in vintage nursing school pins. But, wait! There’s more … The first thing I found that was to my liking was a photo, circa 1920s, of the nursing school graduating class from Hartford Hospital. Hartford Hospital School of Nursing in Connecticut is no longer in existence, but I did go to nursing school in Hartford, so the antique photo was close enough for me. I ordered the photo and then another item, a 1939 school of nursing “announcement” (we would call it a school catalog today) from Norfolk General Hospital in Virginia. I was born at Norfolk General and was delighted to find the announcement from an earlier time. Interestingly, the announcement quotes the entire cost of a three-year nursing education at less then $200. My discovery of Nursing Pins at Ruby Lane was a delight and one that pointed me to a web site that I’ll return to again. Now back to reviewing the galleys for The Forgotten Future. 

Cornell University Responds to America’s Mental Health Crisis

The Wall Street Journal recently carried a story by Elizabeth Bernstein regarding Cornell University’s responsible response to the mental health crisis plaguing so many of our college-age students. Cornell has determined that there really is a need among their student population to have the university act in loco parentis in the case of students’ mental health status. Despite the fact that it has been decided that young people become adults at age 18, it is also a fact that the stressors faced by young people today can be so overwhelming that their ability to function can be seriously impaired. Cornell University is to be commended for taking such a stand, and other colleges and university should be encouraged to follow suit.  

Hello world!

Hello world! That’s the way WordPress suggested I begin my blogging career, and if it’s good enough for them, then it’s good enough for me. Especially since I do want to reach out to the world.

You may wonder where the name Forgotten Future came from. Actually, I tried out several blog names, and they were already taken. So, I’ve used the title of my new book, shortened. The title of the book is The Forgotten Future: Adolescents in Crisis, and it’s about a group of adolescents with emotional and behavioral problems. I’ve worked most of my life with child and adolescent behavior problems, so there is almost no type of problem behavior that I have not come across. But more about that in a later post.

I’m hoping to strike up a conversation with others who are interested in or concerned about child and adolescent mental health, and encourage you to post a comment, a thought, a question, a worry, a concern … about this issue. Especially after The Forgotten Future is published, which looks to be in early February, 2008.

Let me hear from you. Later …