Through the years I've been working at the group home, we have received several "tweeners," that is, kids who don't exactly fit the typical "emotionally disturbed" model, but who also have some other problem such as physical defects, brain injury or organic "developmental delays." This leaves us with a kid who is not only an emotional wreck but also usually mildly retarded. There are facilities that deal with delayed kids, of course, but the ones who wind up with us are just not delayed enough to have a placement like that.
One such example is Michael, who you may recall spotted Blue Boy in the wall next to the TV. Michael is developmentally delayed enough to not be able to take care of his own hygiene thoroughly, but emotionally twisted enough to blame Staff for problems of his own creation. Michael is another kid who would try to get Staff fired just as quickly as he would eat your famous Tuna Helper Casserole and tell you he loves you.
For instance, he didn't tell us about an ingrown toenail infection for a month. When we discovered the infection, the nail had grown deep into his big toe and the skin around it was blue and black and oozing pus.
An appointment was made to get him to the doctor. This particular doctor is very sensitive to our kids' sob stories and is easily manipulated, usually taking the kid at his word.
He asked Michael to remove his shoes and what emerged were two obviously unwashed and brown stained socks with holes all over them, as if eaten by moths. The stench was instant and overwhelming.
The doctor was horrified, and I was embarrassed that I had overlooked this predictable situation. Michael has a habit of putting on the clothes that are closest to him, regardless of whether they happen to be in the dirty clothes hamper, or ripped up and tied around his action figures' necks after his last tantrum. [Or sometimes he'll forget what he is doing and just sit on his bed daydreaming (or hallucinating, hard to tell) with his finger jammed into his eye. He does this to keep his eye from rolling around uncontrollably.]
Doctor: Oh my God, Michael, what's going on here?
Michael: Staff never lets me wear clean socks like I want to.
The doctor turns to me in all seriousness and says, "Why won't you let him wear clean clothes? Is this some sort of punishment? This is bordering on abuse and I'm going to report you."
Michael began to heave and cough. The doctor asked if he was okay and Micheal just stared, his eyes getting misty.
I said, "Michael, if you want people to think I'm mistreating you, you've got to do a better job at fake-crying. You've got to drive the point home. Now try it again, but this time put more feeling into it."
Michael just laughed and the doctor didn't say another word to me.
Someone should start counting the dirty socks in his laundry and asking what he did with the however-many other pairs he's supposed to have worn.
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