It only took a couple of months after we brought Eli home from the hospital for us to realize that taking care of him was going to be HUGE. It took hours to give him a bed bath, get him dressed and in his chair, and monitor the feeding tube he had at the time. He had to be weight-shifted every 30 minutes, the laundry was epic, nurse and therapist visits seemed constant, the guilt was never-ending that we weren’t doing enough, and it didn’t take long for us to reach the breaking point.
One day the Visiting Nurse found me standing on the ledge waiting for a strong wind and asked how we were doing. I told her. Graphically. Emotionally. With gestures, tears and my Loud Voice.
And she very sweetly said, “Honey, you all need some help. You need a social worker.” I mentally recoiled at the idea of a SOCIAL WORKER (DUN da dunnnn) and envisioned every melodramatic movie-of-the-week where a wicked social worker pried a crying child out of a distraught mother’s arms (although I was briefly tempted by the idea that they might remove some of mine…it would definitely cut the work load), but I let her make the call.
God bless that nurse and the social worker she sent. He happened to be a guy and I vividly remember sitting in my basement when he said, “There are all kinds of programs to help you. Would you like to have an aide come in during the day for a few hours?”
WOULD I?
Would I like to sleep more than 3 hours a night again?
Would I like to only have to do 14 loads of laundry a day?
Would I like to interact with the other three children I have?
YES, I WOULD.
So the Social Worker/FairyGodfather twinkled his magic wand and an agency began to send an aide in 7 days a week. There have been ups and down…we’ve had aides young and old, bossy and meek, one who dressed as if she just came from her exotic dancer job, some that became part of the family, and some that prompted even Eli (who has a brain injury, mind you) to make the universal finger-twirling sign at the head symbol for “she’s a little loopy,” but overall we've been ridonculously blessed by these unselfish people who do a job most people would find difficult.
And then came Mykishia. Mykishia worked for us briefly and we loved her, but she eventually had to quit, as we were one of her many jobs and she needed to cut back. Several months and another turnover went by, and the agency asked if we’d like to have Mykishia back. YES PLEASE.
Mykishia does my dishes, even though I tell her not to.
Mykishia brings Eli breakfast from McDonald’s.
Mykishia does my laundry and folds my underwear into perfect little packets (which I, personally, have never managed to do.)
Mykishia reminds me when Eli is out of shampoo and body wash and deodorant, and then she reminds me again because I constantly forget. (I’m researching my theory that brain injuries are contagious.) I'm sure she thinks "it's hard to get good help" about me.
Mykishia sweeps my floors and takes Eli to Steak n Shake and sneaks him Diet Coke and gum when Mom has cut him off.
Because Mykishia comes, I was able to go to school, write papers and sleep late in the morning after studying all night.
Because Mykishia comes, there are five hours in the day where I don’t have to think about changing diapers, finding the remote, playing UNO, feeding the cat (which he worries about 59 times a day) charging his chair or what’s for breakfast.
And while it’s awesome to wake up and find my dirty dishes washed, or have my underwear unfold in a cute little accordion when I pull them out of the drawer, here’s the best thing about Mykishia:
She loves Eli. She really does.
She nagged us to make a therapy table for him, so we did. She told us he needs to be doing more for himself, so she makes him brush his teeth and clean up his sink. She spends hours making him pull himself up on his chin-up bar, do bed exercises and encouraging him to try harder.
She began pulling him out of his wheelchair to a standing position and transferring him to a kitchen chair so he could practice sitting at the table. Initially, he could support his weight while standing (with Mykishia holding him steady) for 10 seconds. Then it was 20, weeks later 30, and one day when I timed them he held himself up for one whole minute. I know it doesn’t seem like much, but in brain-injury time (rather like dog-years) it’s BIG.
Or it was big, until Pete and Mykishia called me upstairs the other day to see this:
And it’s all because Mykishia comes.
