DDD #1

DDD (Dispatches from the Developmentally Disabled)

so, to put myself through college I worked in a group home for the Developmentally Disabled. I worked in a group home that was supposed to provide “intermediate care” meaning my dudes were at some point supposed to be able to live on their own, which was highly unlikely, as you will see from these posts. The name of the place was something akin to “Pathways” as if any of our dudes would ever find a pathway out of the group home setting. I remember very clearly watching the commercial for Special Olympics when I worked there, with all of the beautiful and friendly looking DD folks, like those with Downs Syndrome, and laughing my full head off because the DD folks I worked with were not nearly as cute and certainly couldn’t run in a straight line, if even forward, like the folks on the commercials did. I was telling a friend about my adventures the other night and she thought I should write them down, so I am, because they are funny and true, but most of all, because they represent time spent with some very excellent people with huge differences from the rest of us.

Story !: “Charles*”

Charles had half a face. Literally. Whatever malfiecance happened in the womb caused him to have skin grown over his left eye, half of his left nostril and half of the left side of his mouth. It would have been lovely if someone would have told me in advance, however, on my first day at Pathways, I was simply told I had to wake up Charles and Brian, his roommate. I went in on day one and pulled the sheets back on Charles’ bed only to be confronted with his left side (which would be the side where there was no face). I was eighteen and very clearly remember pulling back the sheets and freaking out. I spent my first day of work sitting cross-legged on the floor of Charles and Brian’s room crying and wondering if I could get my old job at Pizza Pipeline back. Charles would go on to be one of my favorite clients, despite the fact that I had to clean shit out of his teeth with a hangover one day when he decided his own pooh was a delicacy (that story will come in subsequent posts). Years later, I would also rescue a fresh faced 18 year-old from Charles’ recalcitrance when he sat down in the middle of the busiest street in Moscow, Idaho. (Again, another post).

This is dispatch 1.

*Of course all names are changed for confidentiality reasons.