Chapter 8
Life isn’t fair
I enjoyed a lovely trip back to home base in Marin County. It was late February and the wild flowers were rampant along the coast, reflecting the sunlight across the bays. The surf was up and the sound of breaking waves was always a thrill. The baby lambs and calves bleating in the cool coastal air -- it was spring and though I was troubled by the history I had just heard from Nutmeg’s last foster parents, my heart was happy in the springtime. I looked forward to sharing what I had learned at the late afternoon staff meeting as I was driving back to the office. Little did I know what awaited.
As I parked my little red Toyota Celica in the parking lot, I noticed that all staff cars were there. That was pretty unusual and I wondered what had brought everyone together today. I took the elevator up to the fourth floor where our offices were and as I entered noticed the dead silence – most unusual for Children’s Garden where bustling about, kidding and business were always evident. As I entered the large conference room where staff meetings were held, everyone was there, some with tears running down their cheeks, others looking stunned and in shock. Debra, our director, came to me and said quietly: “We have some really bad news, Helen. You’d better sit down.”
“What’s happened?” I asked.
“Oh Helen, Paul has been killed.”
“What? How? .Where?” I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. Paul had been with us for two years, a sweet kid with night terrors who had seemed well when returned to his parents about six months ago. He had been placed voluntarily by his parents who couldn’t cope with his constant night terrors. Every night for more than two years, Paul had dreamed, - or as he put it, “had a vision”- that he had died. Many was the night when he was in our Evaluation Program and later in the Treatment Program that he had been found in the middle of the night on the back patio, banging his head on the concrete and sobbing: “I don’t want to die! I don’t want to die!” And now, he was dead.
Debra replied solemnly: “It seems he was in the back of his Dad’s pick-up truck with their Great Dane dog, and the father had to stop quickly. Paul was pitched head first onto the road. He was dead upon contact according to the Police report.”
“No, it cannot be” I muttered. Paul’s “night terrors,” his visions when we had him with us, had been exactly that. He “dreamed” constantly that he was thrown from a truck and died. And now those dreams or visions were somehow real. Our psychiatrist had felt he was delusional, and we had all worked very hard to help this boy learn to trust that he was all right, that he was imagining things. There are times one wonders, despite our science, clinical skills and good intentions, whether we truly understand those seemingly extra sensitive children in our midst. There was no rational explanation for these events.
We were all devastated by the sad and tragic news. But there was little any of us could do but plan to attend the funeral and try to provide support and caring for Paul’s parents. Though they were Paul’s biological parents, they had joined one of our foster parent training groups in Sonoma County where they had made many supportive friends among the parents. We made arrangements for that group of parents to also attend and to provide ongoing support for the family. It was all we could do. Life goes on, but it surely isn’t fair.
I left the Staff meeting and went to the Evaluation Home to share the tragic news with the house parents who had spent much loving and therapeutic time with Paul when he had been with us. They were a young couple in their early thirties, and I knew the news would be heartbreaking for them as it was for us all.
The Journeys of Bumbly Bear Page 8
