6. Andy Arrives

Anger...and a Community of Love

I opened our front door to find two mesmerizing eyes the color of the ocean, thickly lined with black lashes, staring up at me. Andy Jr. clutched his dad’s hand. Behind the pair loitered Jennifer and the onboarding seasoned case worker, Margie. The day after our granddaughter’s birth, addicted to heroin, they were coming to drop off her older brother, Andy Jr. Our grandson’s hair had been cut for the first time ever and he wasn’t sporting the “man bun” I secretly detested to keep the long tresses out of his eyes. He clutched a gray blanket with elephants on it, and not able to talk yet beyond ma-ma and da-da, he pointed and grunted to communicate. Andy arrived his first day with two diaper bags of clothes reeking of cigarette smoke that were three sizes too small for him, and an ear infection. I noticed right away that he was tugging at his one ear.

I pointed it out to the new ongoing case worker, Angel, the next day, who said we’d be getting a voucher for medical treatment for the kids. She commanded that we needed to take him to the parent’s choice of doctors, with Jennifer. In the days that followed we learned he was now able to totally dress himself including buttons, at the age of two and a half, when most kids learn buttons around the age of four, but he remained quietly nonverbal. CPS wasn’t quick with the voucher either. Angel told us just to have Jen go with us and she could use her Medicaid card for him, but Jen wasn’t coming around to visit. Angel didn’t listen to our explanations that we had no control over Andy’s mom. Jen did call one of us finally though I no longer remember who. What I do recall was what she asked, “If you split the WIC items with me, I’ll show you how to shop.” I was furious even though I didn’t know why. Ned attempted to pin her down for a doctor’s appointment. He made numerous texts after and left voicemails to Andrew and Jennifer. Finally we decided to take Andy to an urgent care, even if we had to pay out of pocket and risk CPS’s disapproval that mom hadn’t come along. It had been two weeks. We gave up trying to play by the rules.

At the urgent care, to our relief, they had a record of Andy Jr. He had been taken once to a pediatrician within the system. (Later, we would realize that he hadn’t received a single immunization or been seen at any doctor regularly.) He was diagnosed with an acute ear infection and antibiotics were ordered. Jennifer, to her credit, cooperated with a call to us that the antibiotics were ready for pickup.

I called Woman’s, Infant’s and Children’s (WIC) next and easily had Andy’s card switched to us after explaining our situation, and telling the woman who took care of it what Jen had said. “The food is not for the family. It’s for the children”, and she added, “Bring in your contract from CPS when you all come for the appointment. Don’t worry. You can do this. We help a lot of grandparents. It’ll get better.” I wasn’t at all sure what WIC was exactly, but found information googling.

Takeaway: Women, Infants and Children is a federal program that teaches nutrition and provides specific food like low fat milk, baby formula, peanut butter, beans, etc. to low income households. Children are provided health checks at quarterly appointments and their growth is tracked. In our situation, our income wasn’t relevant. WIC used the children's nonexistent income to qualify us because the parents didn’t live with us. The program follows children until the age of five. I got to know the WIC women over the years. They were genuinely interested in our wellbeing, and were always helpful providing information, and several needed items (like bicycle helmets or hand sanitizer during Covid) as they were donated. There is a learning curve to using WIC to shop groceries. After a couple years for me, WIC came out with an app to scan grocery items to determine if they qualify, and getting the right food items was much easier. The WIC ladies were the first to offer generous encouragement to us at every step of the way, and I’m eternally grateful to them for telling us, “you can do this,” when I was doubting myself. Google will supply you with the closest office to you in the United States.

When Jen finally appeared (after several no shows), I plunked down a Healthcare Power of Attorney form I had downloaded and printed off the internet (I used RocketLawyer’s free trial)(Of course I cancelled before the trial’s end!). She didn’t put up any resistance to my surprise. Although I constantly worked to remain calm and tranquil, I wasn’t going to let the children suffer again. I was very relieved she signed it, but we never had to use it. Ned and I took Andy to her choice of pediatrician in that same system, not the least bit convenient for us in location, so he could begin to start vaccinations. Weeks after that, Angel finally gave us a piece of paper to show doctors instead of a medical insurance card for Medicaid for the kids. She informed us that Andy needed a physical at a huge downtown hospital far away from where we lived for CPS’s intake, beyond the one over an hour away from where we visited when Addie was born. In the future, if we didn’t want to use the inconvenient doctor Jen chose outside our county, we could go to the even more inconvenient medical center farther away. I started to investigate the local pediatricians near us that were in the same hospital system and accepted Medicaid. Screw CPS. Ned was right there with me in attitude.

I had no idea of any social programs for the poor. (I always had been lucky in work choices and considered ourselves middle class.) I needed to learn fast. Everything seemed tailored to the parents’ convenience, and we were left struggling with the major life transition, unsupported in any way. With the exception of WIC which we stumbled into, (but certainly was never suggested to us) we received no advice even. The Kinship Care Program (that’s caretakers of family and friends’ children recognized by CPS) recognizes the importance in maintaining the family. I assert that if parents aren’t ready to rehabilitate from hardcore drugs, that philosophy needs to be trashed to support the caregivers now shouldering the responsibility-there was an ongoing dialogue between Angel and Jennifer with phone calls and texts. CPS was not upfront to either the parents, who were led to believe Addie was going home to them when they were not progressing in sobriety, or us, who were never told enough. CPS brought up HIPPA often and erroneously. As a nurse, I’m extremely familiar with the Health Information and Privacy Protection Act. Basically, anyone directly involved in a “patient’s” care has a right to health information about the individual (in order to provide needed treatment). Not involved in their care equals no rights to info. We were not told anything, and we were caring for a family directly. Visitation was an open invitation with our motto, “Call and come.” Angel would later tell us that it didn’t matter if the parents were straight when visiting. How many people open their doors to addicts? We did, when they showed up…but we worried too. Andy acted up terribly after their few visits. Ned was grieving on top of everything. He had been so happy to be reunited with his daughter and son. Now?

Ned agreed to stay home with Andy, and try and work his business around my work schedule that provided health benefits to us. We were definitely taking a financial hit, and generally stressed out a bit. A meeting with Jen and CPS, the last she would attend though I didn’t know it at the time, left us feeling slightly worse as we realized she had not gone to treatment yet. A carseat, first offered to us by CPS, would only be something given if we lived in that county, (where the parents resided) which we did not. One CPS worker did talk frankly to Jen, but she seemed to be the only one at any time who held the mother accountable for her responsibilities. I recall her suggesting that Jen call us and arrange an outing, and perhaps buy us McDonald’s, bring a package of diapers…The woman wasn’t mean, just honestly telling Jennifer to wake up and smell the coffee. Children who experience trauma often have issues with toileting, and Andy Jr wasn’t potty trained. It seemed cruel to spring too much on him at once, so we bought lots of diapers.

Andy had a rough time sleeping in his bed. He got up eight or more times a night to check on us. We’d find him sprawled asleep across the top of the stairs, or alongside our bed on the floor, so we’d almost step on him getting out of our sleep haven. Often we’d find him with his grey elephant blanket stretched across the hallway.

My mom called excitedly, “Tonight there’s a show on channel eight about other people like you and Ned,” a “Sixty Minute Special: Grandparents Raising Grandchildren” . We still believed our situation would be temporary, but we had doubts because there was no encouraging news for us on any front. The television special was full of interviews with dumbfounded couples whose grandchildren had been awarded into their care. The children had horrible stories, told as if they were ordinary, which I suppose is to be expected if that’s all one knows. Two of the kids told of sleeping where parents would have to step over them to leave to find drugs. They felt responsible for keeping their adults where they could keep track of them. I suddenly felt a sickening feeling about Andy’s nighttime checks on us.

Andy would bring us our cell phones if we left them unattended, and pick up coffee cups and bring them unasked. He was taking care of us. Angel, our caseworker, thought nothing of it. It wasn’t a big deal to her. We moved the snack cupboard and ratcheted the others because he would sneak food whenever we went to the bathroom or weren’t looking, and hide it in multiple places in case we found one spot. He did not understand the concept of waiting for breakfast, lunch and dinner or even seem to know what mealtimes were. We were firm and he was rebeling against rules never experienced before. Ned and I were starting to realize our parenting styles were very different from each other’s too, and we were at odds over how to best handle the new challenges (and sleep deprived a little).

Andy was also Houdini, the escape artist. No “child protective” devices were effective in keeping him contained. He’d climb out of playpens, look at us, and laugh. He had amazing upper body strength. He could stack anything, climb and conquer any baby gate (or simply break it down). He could open door knobs with protective covers, open cupboards with ratchet devices we struggled to use (Damn, we needed a new snack cupboard deterrent, and finally settled on a high cupboard I couldn’t even reach without pulling over a chair.) He was interested in electrical outlets as demonstrated by popping off the baby covers. He required constant attention but thrived on it like a desert traveler finding water. One day I put him to bed and tip toed downstairs when I thought he was asleep. When I checked on him later, I was horrified looking at the walls. He had found a pen in our bedroom, and marked every wall in the entire upstairs, gouging into the plasterboard. EVERY wall. (How could he have been so quiet?) I cried, a lot, that night. Ned tried to cheer me up, but he was glum as he looked around. The house had been a symbol for me of peace and refuge. I felt neither in that moment. We hid all the pens after that. Andy was very angry. I pointed out to the case worker that he seemed to show no remorse when caught doing things he knew were wrong, and he didn’t seem to show affection in any way. Again, Angel wasn’t concerned.

I told the story of my newly decorated upstairs walls to the girls at work in the locker room where all good news is shared while dressing into and out of scrubs. The very next day, in front of my locker was a package decorated with wrapping paper sporting Teddy bears marching with toy drums. There was no sender marked on the card that was addressed simply to me. Nestled inside the gift box was…. the baby monitor of my dreams-complete with video screen! All that day I tried to figure out who was so generous. Finally, at the day’s end, quiet grandmotherly Jean, a week from retiring, asked me while we were changing, “Do you like the monitor? I just really wanted to do something to help.” I hadn’t suspected sweet plump Jean who rarely talked to me, or anyone really. These womanly saints I worked with donated gently worn clothes and toys the next few days. It was like a child shower of items we needed, given with love and stories about my friends’ little ones, now all grown. We were a center of older workers-many over sixty years old. This was my first healthcare job with “work/life balance”. (I’d worked thirty-one years as a nurse by that point.) I was so lucky. We were lucky. I no longer took call, or worked weekends or nights. It was going to be okay…those WIC ladies were on to something.