Seen online today: a job posting for a Head Lice Removal Technician.
Really?
There is such a thing as that? Who knew?
(Also, yuck.)
Not one to pass by such an intriguing heading, I had to click on it, just to see for myself. The ad tells me I would be “proud” to work for and represent this company.
(Not my first choice of adjectives, I must say. Though I applaud those who do. Truly.)
Apparently they are looking to expand their “staff of head lice professionals”, and they offer “extensive training in treatment protocol”.
(I should certainly hope so.)
One must be able to pass a criminal background check, be able to use a GPS accurately for those on-call hours at clients’ homes, and buy one’s own “good lamp and magnifier”, as well as professional grade lice combs which will then be re-sold “at a profit” to clients.
(They will obviously be ready to buy due to the heebie-jeebie factor alone.)
Oh, and of course one must have “seen and dealt with lice before even if informal, such as with your children”.
(Darn. That knocks me right out of the running, because I am a whiz with a GPS. Curses on my kids and their never-liced scalps.)
Did I mention? The job pays $30 per hour.
(I’m not sure that’s enough.)
My daughter’s stay in the psych ward (her first stay, at least) was five days. Yet it seemed interminable and exhausting to me. I can only imagine how it must have felt to her.
While my daughter was hospitalized, I worked. I worked to find the new therapist she needed. I worked to prepare my younger daughter for her sister’s return. I worked to prepare myself for her return as well. I worked at calming my nerves in anticipation of the unknown that lay ahead for us.
I worked at contacting personnel in my daughter’s high school to let them know why she’d missed school and was failing her core classes. I worked to advocate to her teachers on her behalf as depression, anxiety, and panic had interrupted class tests, make-up tests, and all manner of school work and homework in the preceding weeks.
I worked to make it clear to her teachers that I was not trying to excuse any behavior; I simply wanted my daughter to know she could walk into a classroom, take a test, and not let anxiety continue to drag her into a dark abyss leading to self harm and despair.
I worked to prepare the way to help my daughter find even a tiny but necessary victory.
I worked to release the frustration of not hearing back from several of her teachers. I worked to let go of the fear that they would judge me as “that mom”, the one who let her kid get away with anything, then made excuses.
I worked to remember that my goal was not to get my adolescent daughter to pass English, sing in choir, or even pass her freshman year. I worked to stay focused on helping her reach a place of mental wellness, health, and personal safety.
I worked, literally, to keep my daughter alive, to help her want to stay alive.
I worked to respond to the teachers who had kindly and compassionately replied after I contacted them to inform them of my daughter’s deep struggles. I worked to contain my tears, to thank these good people for seeing the inherent value in my 15-year-old, even though she could not see it in herself.
I worked to remind myself that they were bearing witness to the good in my daughter, and helping me hold onto hope, whether they realized it or not.
I worked at letting go of the frustration that I was the one having to do everything, with no help from my children’s father. I worked to not allow wasteful bitterness about that overtake me.
I worked to arrange my schedule so I could be where I had to be when I had to be there, whether taking my youngest to cheer practice, or visiting my older daughter in the psych ward.
I worked at pushing aside the grief I felt as a widow, the utter sorrow I felt at not having my husband to talk with at the end of an exhausting day. I worked at trying to think of the encouraging words I knew he would say to me.
I worked to recall the feel of his arms around me, the safest place I’d ever known. I worked to remember that, no matter how distant it now seemed, I hadn’t imagined him in the first place.
I worked at staying awake and focused despite little sleep. I worked at the dailies of life: carpool, laundry, dishes. And, of course, I worked at work.
I was tired.
(One of my favorite bands/songs/videos. Best when played at a loud volume.)
Saturday finally arrived. Though two days earlier my daughter had angrily demanded I pick her up “Saturday morning at 6!” I kept my word and arrived around 9:30 a.m. The requisite paperwork took a little while. And there were new friends she’d made to whom she wanted to say goodbye.
We left with a prescription and a plan, and I was hopeful they would work at the same time I was terrified they would fail.
One of the perks of a psych ward stay (who knew there was such a thing?) was that my daughter was able to continue as the patient of the psychiatrist who saw her during her days there.
While that may not seem like such a big deal, the truth is that finding a qualified psychiatrist can take more time than one might imagine. And after finally tracking someone down, it’s not unusual to have to wait up to two months (yes, TWO MONTHS – or more) for an available appointment.
This one not-so-small detail had now been taken care of. It’s not like the appointments would be close to home, but just to HAVE appointments for someone who could manage medication was a major hurdle crossed. I was very grateful.
(Source: Google Images)
My daughter and I stepped out into a bright, sunny February morning in Colorado. She hadn’t had the freedom to be outside for several days. She seemed small and fragile, a combination of embarrassment, nervousness, and relief. I felt much the same as she.
I didn’t know the rules for what a parent is supposed to do when they pick their kid up from the psych ward. So we went to Jamba Juice. It seemed like a good idea. And it was.
I will be late to my own funeral. It’s not like if we make a bet on that right now we could settle up at the time (cuz it’ll be my funeral and all), so you’ll just have to take my word for it. Late is how I roll for the most part.
And so … I am a little late to the party in registering and fund raising for the American Foundation for Suicide Prevention’s WalkOut of the Darkness Community Walk. My city’s walk is this Saturday. I just registered. Whatever.
Don’t judge me ~ support me! Visit my donor page to make a tax deductible donation. Help AFSP to fight stigma and prevent suicide. (You can donate for a few months still, but if you’d make your contribution now, that would be great.)
(Source: AFSP.org)
(I am supposed to meet my friend Saturday morning at 9:00. If I shoot for 8:45, I should be there by 9:15. I’m a realist.)
* * * * *
September is National Suicide Prevention Month in the U.S.
Did you know: 90% of people who die by suicide have a diagnosable and TREATABLE disorder at the time of their death.
While many of us fear that talking to someone about suicidal thoughts can actually create those thoughts, the truth is that discussing them is a first step to safety.
Feelings of suicide cannot be ignored or shamed away. The good news is that help is available.
Visit AFSP if you are feeling suicidal or are worried about someone who is.
You can also find support there if you are grieving the loss of a loved one to suicide.
The point is this: You are valued {even if you don’t feel like it}. You cannot be replaced {even if you’re sure you can be}. The world would not be better off without you {even if you are sure it would be}.
Let someone else hold your hope for you until you can hold it for yourself.
Help To Hope 