Jerome, Part I

It's about 9 years past when I met Jerome. Jerome was more of a nickname. It's not his first or last name. I won't put down his full name due to confidentiality reasons because...he was once one of my foster kids when I worked for the Department of Social Services.

I remember every one of my kids. Every last one. It's been nine years, and some of their faces in particular still haunt me. Some I remember and I smile because I know they will be all right, despite the atrocities they have faced in their young lives. Those kids have Iron Will, something I always respect in any person at any time. Some of these children I suspect will never make it. The damage is so severe, and they have no motivation to try and make a new life. I never stopped encouraging them to move on, but I can't GIVE a child the will to live. I can only help to provide him or her with reasons to try.

However, out of my case load, there is one child who haunts me every single day of my life. I mean it truly: it's a rare day I don't think of Jerome. I think if you asked Jerome, he'd say he forgot me, but then you'd look in his haunted eyes and realize he's not forgotten me...nor half the other people who have loved him and left in his life.

Jerome was created by a woman who was too frail to ever make it in this world. If you met his mother, you would think that she had good intentions, but that she couldn't possibly direct her own fate. She accepted the smacks and verbal abuse and derision as what she deserved, as something she couldn't turn down or push away. It's almost like when you talked to her, you thought she wasn't totally there. I don't mean that mentally she was loopy, although sometimes she was; I mean that it felt as if her body was faded half out of this world and half into the next. Jerome's mom was one of those women who had a natural aversion to a man who would treat her well. If you put her in a room of a thousand men, all of whom were amazing, good people except one, she would pick out the bad one and happily take him home.

Jerome's father knocked her up and left. We have no idea what happened to him. Jerome and I liked to call him Sperm Donor.

Jerome's mom then had a few boyfriends, all of whom decided to physically abuse Jerome and his siblings in addition to his mom. They all were verbally abusive, too. When he was ten, his mom developed a hernia that had to be operated upon. He was left at home with the latest abusive boyfriend and beaten while his mom was in the hospital. Then, this woman's luck went even worse: while in the recovery room, a man stole into the place and raped her while she was not conscious yet. The man was apparently caught and put in jail eventually. That's the good news. The bad news is that his rape of a woman who had just came out of an operation and was a bit out of it made her stitches rip and caused her some severe bodily harm. She was rushed back into the operating room and stitched back up.

This trauma proved to be too much. She came home, curled up on the sofa...and didn't move for six months, catatonic.

So, let's review: Jerome's older siblings had a way of escaping the house or already had escaped; his mom was useless on the sofa; and his mom's boyfriend was beating on him regularly. Jerome decided it would be more fun to run crazy outside, and so he came into DSS care at 10 years of age because he was caught trying to hotwire a car. After investigation proved his mom to be psychologically unwell at that time, and her mom's boyfriend as abusive, he was put into foster care.

Jerome was ornery for many years after that. When I got him, he was 16. He had been a runaway for a while, and then when he was caught and brought back, he had to go to DJJ (juvenile detention/prison) because he was caught selling crack. His case file was something ridiculous like 8 two inch three ring binders full of paperwork. I was handed all 8 of them and told, just babysit him. He can't be saved.

Well, I have this stubborn streak that always makes me go, "OH YEAH???" when somebody tells me how I need to do something. How can I chalk off a 16 year old boy just because YOU told me he was worthless? I read all the case files...ALL of them. It read like a horror novel. I couldn't believe what this boy had been through in his life. He switched placements weekly and ran away regularly. His foster parents always seemed to fear for their life or just plain give up on him. All the old timers told me: spend your energy on the others. They might be saved. They told me too: you can't touch him. He's been so physically abused all his life that he goes NUTS if you so much as lay a hand on him. Oh, I was given a long list of orders...don't touch him, don't waste energy on him, just fill out the paperwork, don't tell him what is going on because he'll just make trouble, blah blah blah. I swear this kid was painted out as satan.

And make no mistake, I've met kids who COULD INDEED be described at 16 as a lost cause. I'm not so optimistic and cheerful that I don't recognize that society occasionally produces sociopaths. Jerome, however, was not satan. He was not a sociopath. He was salvagable, but everybody failed him...everybody.

His old social worker introduced me to Jerome on Jerome's birthday. We were allowed to bring him food when we came to visit, and we had the luxury of not being searched since we worked for DSS. The other worker, a 25 year veteran, told me we should bring him a birthday meal. I thought this was a fantastic idea, and I insisted on a birthday cupcake too. We were allowed to sit at picnic tables, and he sat as far away from us as possible. He seemed surprised when I moved closer to him. I sat down next to him and handed him his cupcake as if it were a million dollars, more excited about it than he was. He looked at me as if to say, "See, now this is why I think white chicks are all crazy," but he didn't ask me to move nor move away. He revealed nothing. He said nothing more than a grunt of yes or no to questions. I took mental notes. He DID say thank you for the food as the place didn't seem to feed a growing boy very well and he said he was constantly starving there. So noted: food is the way in. Got it.

He was moved to a new facility. The new facility was privately run, an experiment by the state. They didn't know what the hell they were doing. I brought him a two cheeseburgers meal from McDonald's and some candy bars and m&ms. The candy was stuffed in my purse. When they took him out of a class and put him in a room with me, he was surprised I bought food. "I remembered you said you were always starving," I told him, and he seemed even more surprised that I had listened. As he ate, I talked to him about his upcoming court case and how I thought we should handle it, and then asked for his input. "Nobody ever asks me, nobody tells me, I just get suddenly dragged off and have no idea what's going on," he tells me, stunned. I nodded. "Well, that changes with me. You're 16. In two years you have to manage your own life. So you need to know what the hell is going on." Then he grinned at me as if to either say, yay my dss worker says hell, or yay she's telling me what's going on in my life. Maybe a little from column A, a little from column B...

I handed him the candy bars before I left. "I can't take them, they'll take them away from me. I have to eat them here and I'm full," he told me sadly. I shrugged. "Your pants are baggy. Stick one in each sock and then one in each pocket until you get to your locker. Hide them inside your spare set of shoes. They won't think to look there." He laughed, disbelieving that his worker just told him that. "I follow the rules. Most of 'em," I told him, "but I don't follow stupid ones that make growing boys hungry. Seeya next month," I told him.

The third visit was the turning point. You see, as his DSS worker, I'm his legal guardian. I am supposed to be informed of ANYTHING medical that happens to him, and usually I have to sign off on it too. Unfortunately, the DJJ facility decided Jerome needed to have his wisdom teeth pulled and did NOT bother to tell me. It was luck...fate (WYRD!)...or the divine that I arrived on JUST that day. Take your pick.

First of all, I walk in and they have problems finding him. Not good. I stand there holding my McDonald's offering, frowning, waiting for them to figure out where he was. He was in the lunchroom still since the other guys went outside for PE and he couldn't go. He looked miserable. Jerome's cheeks were swollen the size of grapefruits. He had a tray of SOLID food in front of him, uneaten. I stared, openmouthed. He was barely able to talk, but what I got out was the following: two hours ago, he had his wisdom teeth removed. The dentist told him to eat liquid foods now, but the facility would not accomodate, and he was in too much pain to eat the solid food (nor should he unless he wanted dry socket...that's my orthodontist's daughter knowledge coming in to play). He was told to use icepacks to reduce swelling, but they wouldn't give them to him because he might use them as "weapons." He was also told to get pain medication every four hours, but he had yet to get a dose because the nurse was "busy" and would not be seeing him until bedtime. This boy, who had been trained to never show emotions, looked like he was in a lot of pain. Not good.

I'm trying not to get too mad as I type this. There is ONE thing that will set me off and make me Mean Evil Bitch Woman (even when not pregnant...haha!): cruelty to kids. This counted.

I think, at first, Jerome was amused. I'm tiny...5'2". This was pre-kids, so I probably weighed all of 105 lbs, 110 lbs at most. I moved with a speed that belied my little legs, and demanded icepacks from the kitchen workers. It went like this:

Worker: I can't give that to you. He might use them as weapons.
Me: He won't. His face hurts. He will use it to make himself feel better.
W: but he might...
Me: give me the damned icepacks.
W: (smugly) We don't have icepacks here anyway! Just ice. You'll need to go to the nurse.
Me: damnit, he's in pain. I'm not going to hunt up the nurse. Give me ice.
W: What, like a cup? He can't use that!
Me: (exasperated) Right, he can't. But you can take a spare set of those latex disposable kitchen gloves you are all required to use, fill them up with ice, and tie them off. Viola, icepacks.
W: (stunned) Oh! Yeah, I guess I could!

Ok, icepacks secured, Jerome looked at me in the most goofy-happy manner. I guess he wasn't used to seeing somebody stick up for him. Either that or the anesthesia from the wisdom teeth being pulled hadn't worn off yet! haha!

I snapped at Jerome to come follow me. I started barking out commands to this guard or that worker, and he started to chuckle behind me. Jerome towered over me. He was over 6' and gangly--like a growing boy would look, especially if he never got enough food. I had them yank his DJJ social worker out of a meeting. She was surprised by how 'in your face' I had become. We had talked before and, previously, I had always been so sweet! Oh well.

I told her how he had to have liquid foods. NOW. She protested; I set her straight.

I told her how he had to have food that was not too hot or the blood clots would melt. He was not to use a straw either or the blood clots would wriggle free from the suction. He was not to have solid food for a few days or else the food pieces could lodge in his open wounds and get dry socket. And I made her put in his record: Contact DSS worker FIRST before ANY medical proceedures are done. I would have come down that day to be with him anyway, probably even at the dentist's office if they let me. I was pissed.

Jerome continued to chuckle.

"And he gets taken to the nurse NOW for painkillers!"

The social worker protested that she had no ability to do that as the nurse's station wasn't open. I started fussing about how the hell they didn't have a nurse available 24/7 because this facility had tons of boys in it, boys who would need medical attention. "If he sliced open his thigh right now outside, you couldn't call the nurse? You'd have to let him bleed? Call the damn nurse!"

More protests. She wouldn't come 'just' to give him painkillers. That's not a high enough priority.

I don't scream, exactly. I just say it...painfully loud without losing control of my voice ever. And then there's the river of lava that pours from my eyes. And the growl at the back of my throat.

Jerome, still holding both icepacks to his cheeks, started to outright laugh and then stopped himself.

The social worker admitted defeat and had Jerome escorted by the guards then to go to the nurses' station to get the medicine. We had another chat about how I'd be checking up on Jerome all this week. Every day. And she was to tell Jerome when I did, so that when I next came, he'd be able to tell me that he knew I checked up...every day...and that all his needs were taken care of. Jerome grinned at me and waved. Without thinking, I patted his arm before he went. He didn't flinch. He just continued to grin as he walked off.

The social worker stared, open mouthed. "He won't tolerate ANYBODY touching him. ANYBODY...for any reason...he got put in solitary last month because a guard put a hand on him and he slugged him!"

That was how things changed between Jerome and I...yet I still couldn't save him. Salvagable, but yet nobody managed to do it...I know where he is now, and he's not going anywhere....

Sigh. I'll continue this tale later.