They say in every career in health care you experience one major event. Something so messed up that it stretches way out of the norm. Of course, I like to throw off statistics. I have had a couple of them already. Each one, while Hell at the time, taught me so much. There is indeed a lesson in everything in life. The most recent of these taught me a couple of things. It cemented my belief that treating your staff with respect and nurturing a true team environment will allow you to accomplish anything. It reminded me that even when people make incredibly poor decisions (and are too dimwitted to hide the evidence of it), they can still rise above it and turn themselves around. It proved to me that there are people in this world that really do care about others more than they care about a paycheck. It showed me that the Milwaukee Police Department (specifically District 7) seriously leaves A LOT to be desired. And finally, you have not truly lived until you’ve had a one-legged schizophrenic over your shoulder at 3:30 in the morning.

I was running a 42 bed assisted living facility for those with chronic mental illness. Illness to the point where no one else would take them. When I first started I had a social worker I’d known for years be like “this place will take anyone.” At first I was offended. But, then I decided, damn right we will. EVERYONE deserves a home. We had 36 residents that made up quite the motley crew. But it worked. Damn well at that. The building was an old ass nursing home in a neighborhood most call a “ghetto.” The staff were just as diverse in personalities as the residents. When I began there, those that survived the lunatic bitch that ran the place before were emotionally beat. She was beyond hard on them and you could tell. Morale sucked, but they toughed it out because they loved the Hell outtta those residents. The owners hated the building, the residents and everything to do with it. We were the bastard stepchild. Like flaming red hair, missing digits, cross-eyed, had Tourrettes with a lisp kind of stepchild in their eyes. Not only were we the complete underdogs, but combine the owners’ refusal to put any kind of money in the place, the aforementioned crazy boss and yeah social workers, doctors and even State pretty much hated us when I got there. But, WE worked our asses to change all of that.

And one night we proved every naysayer wrong. There’s not much I love to do more than prove people like that wrong.

It was roughly 3:00am on February 12, 2007 when my work cell rang. Calls at that time of night weren’t all that rare, but this one was way different.

Third shifter: “Umm..I think we’ve got a pipe burst up in the smoke room.”
Me: ”You think?!?”
Them: ”Yeah, there’s some water leaking down into the 1st floor living room.”
Me: ”Hmm….some??”
Them: ”Yeah, that’s what I said. Some.”
Me: “Like how much some?”
Them: “Like dripping some.”
Me: “Ok. Well, keep the residents out of the smoke room and I’ll get a plumber out there right away.”
Them: “Ok”

So, I call around until I find a plumber that can go out in the middle of the night and send them on their merry way over there. I call the staff back to let them know help is on the way. “Cool. Thanks.”

Roughly two minutes later (3:12am) my phone rings again.

“Hi, this is JT from the Milwaukee Fire Department. We’re going to need to shut the power off and you’re going to need to start getting these people out of here miss.”
Me: “WHAAAAAAAA?????”
“Miss, this building is flooding.”
(insert stream of cussing that would rival the dad in The Christmas Story)

It took me approximately 14 minutes to get dressed and haul the 12.9 miles to get to the building.

On my way, I called my boss in Chicago who told me she would “rally” the other buildings’ Administrators and have them grab their facilities’ vans (my facility wasn’t good enough for one) to come help. I then spent the rest of the ride on the phone with my building talking them through what to do. It was all of 12 degrees out that night, snow everywhere, ice lurking. When I pulled up to my building, my heart swelled sooo much with pride. EVERY staff person I had showed up. Most in their pajamas.

I will never forget walking into that building, a place we all called our second home. Water was halfway to my knees and raining down from the ceiling. The only light came from flashing emergency lights. One of my staff described it later as what she pictured the stairwells of the twin towers to be like that fateful day. I’m not sure that I would describe it as such, but the images will never leave me.

We immediately divided the residents up by medical needs. The ones with the most would go to our facility that had a nurse on staff. All charts, medications, treatments and cigarettes (trust me, they lived for smoke time) were grabbed, bagged by resident and ready to go. We assigned residents to each staff per vehicles (who could get in a car vs. needed a van) and started loading.

All of this was done before a single Administrator from another facility showed up.

Through every step of this, all of the residents (you know the ones “too crazy” to “belong” anywhere else) remained perfectly calm. Well, except for Mr. M. when he started some drama over not riding with me. But, he was a bit of comic relief “ If I can’t ride with baby girl, y’all can just leave my ass here to die!” So, I loaded him in his assigned car and gave him a smooch on the cheek. Rumor has it he cussed the whole way to his evacuation spot when he figured out it wasn’t my car.

As I sat worked on loading residents and walkers and wheelchairs and charts (oh my!) I kept noticing police car after police car just drive right on by. The officers would look, but just keep going. I admit after I got my one legged friend in my van and saw the sixth squad car roll by, I was pissed. They ended up stopped at the light right by our facility. Yeah, I admit it was unprofessional, but I couldn’t help it. I yelled “What do you think we’re going on a fucking field trip?” No response from him.

By the time the sun started rising, every resident and all of their necessities were safely relocated to their temporary home. I made the rounds visiting them and my staff that went with them to care for them and it was the only disheartening part of the whole experience. The staff at our “sister” facilities were rude to our residents and our staff. They were completely put out by us invading their space. Which I can honestly understand in some aspects. But knowing what they have been through and knowing the staff that understood them best was there to meet their needs, wouldn’t you have some ounce of compassion?? Had the tables been turned, I know we would have welcomed the newcomers with open arms and made sure they knew they were welcomed.

The company felt no need to move the residents from their evacuation areas. “They can just double up with the residents there for a bit, they’ll be fine.” They were far from fine. They were miserable. Tossed in a new location was hard enough. Yanked from their regular routines was beyond hazardous to triggering behaviors they fought to control. Most importantly, they had bonded with each other and the staff in a manner where we really were a family. One that truly put the fun in dysfunctional. And, we were they only family most of them had. So, I pulled out the big guns. I went through the HFS 83 State codes we were governed by and pulled out every single potential violation we could be sited for. The company HATED me. I was proud. By the end of the day, our entire facility, med cart and all, was moved into our own floor of a hotel.

It took the restoration company an entire month to repair all the damage that had been done and bring the building back up to code. It proved to be one of the longest months of my life. I worked literally every single day. The smell of mold will forever bring back a nauseating feeling. I also know much more about abatement and dealing with contractors than I ever thought I would.

During this whole time, the initial conversation I had that night with third shift bugged me incessantly. Coupled with the fact that the two who were on duty that night were magically transformed into amazing employees, picking up shifts they never would have before and actually charting in a manner they never had and yeah, something stunk in Denmark. Yet, neither would spill. I had investigated to the point where I knew, without a doubt, that they could not have prevented what occurred in any way. There was no way I would tell them that though. But “some” water versus a veritable waterfall weighed on me.

Then one day I was cleaning at the facility, getting it ready for our family to come home, and I just happened to check the DVD player in the first floor living room. The very living room that lay directly under the smoke room. I could have smacked myself for not thinking to do so earlier. In it was a bootleg copy of Hustle and Flow. Oh the irony.

Harold: So. you don’t use the umbrella any more? No more revolts?

Maude: Oh yes. Every day…but… I don’t need a defense any more, I embrace. Still fighting for the big issues but now in my small, individual way.

After my year term as president for SFAR, I stepped down. No more standing at the edge of a corn field on dark, damp nights with a half ass tv crew facing the owner of a dog farm, his friends and the damned Sheriff all glaring at us while toting shot guns. I will have to find the photo of his giant “stay off my land or alce” sign. Yup, alce.

I had to. Not long into my sophomore year of college, my year from hell began. From that point on, my umbrella was put to rest. The next few years were simply survival mode and healing. But, slowly, surely, my inner Maude returned. I too embraced embracing. Years, experience and some wisdom gained through those had shaped a different spirit of protest for me. No longer standing with a picket sign did not mean I turned a blind eye either. I never stopped voting, writing letters and signing petitions- using the voice, albeit more tempered and quiet, that I had. I strived to lead by example. Hoping it would be infectious. I also learned to choose my battles wisely.

It wasn’t until I left graphic & web design and went back into health care that my voice would once again return with some chutzpah. I have a fiery instinct to protect my residents. My first round back was at a company with all new construction and hoity toity lil old people for residents. So, my biggest battles typically were with hospitals that wanted to discharge them to nursing homes and doctors that didn’t follow through. There is, however, one priest that is not likely to forget me anytime soon.

One of the hardest things to do is to get a priest to come to a group home. Seriously. I’ve had Catholic residents whose entire parish was off on sabbatical and they were dying and no priest from another parish would come to visit them to administer the last rights (now called “anointing of the sick”.) I had a 92 year old lady move in from Racine ( a good 1/2 hour away from where the home was). She was Catholic, came from a nursing home and her priest had developed Alzheimer’s. She still wanted communion every month, so it was my mission to make that happen. Well, I struck out everywhere and finally just called the priest that came by already for another resident. What’s one more for communion? He was a crab on the phone, but agreed to see her and “see what he could do.” In he glides on his monthly visit and all the staff are warned not to let him leave without seeing the other lady. Sure enough, he tries to fly out of there and encounters me at the door. Smiling. I gently remind him of his promise. This jack ass then walks up to my lil 92 year old in the dining room and YELLS in her ear “ I DON’T KNOW WHY I’M SUPPOSED TO TALK TO YOU. YOU ARE NOT MY RESPONSIBILITY. CALL YOUR OWN PARISH.” Oh the seething. I turned and walked outside to the parking lot while he said goodbye. As soon as he walked out that door (all the staff’s faces now popped up pressed against the windows) I let him have it. Both guns blazing. “WHO THE HELL DO YOU THINK YOU ARE? You can NOT talk to my residents like that!” He didn’t even looked shocked. Just smug and pious. “She is not my responsibility. She is not part of my parish.” “Really? Well it’s a good thing Jesus didn’t operate on that theory now isn’t it? That is THE most unchristian thing I have ever heard.” His retort? “I don’t expect you to understand. You are just a commoner and most likely not even Catholic.” *deep breath* “I’m a recovering Catholic and they have the likes of people like you to thank for that. As far as the ‘commoner’ thing goes? Well, you weren’t born with some special mark on you that deemed you the chosen one, you pompous ass. ANYONE can take the vows you have. Clearly they were nothing more than some regurgitated words for you and hold no meaning. Even a “commoner” grasps the concept of the Golden Rule. If Jesus not only did not turn away lepers but embraced them, what gives YOU the right to turn anyone away? Let alone some sweet little 92 year old lady that has been a devout Catholic her entire life. So, go ahead and prance your self-righteous self back to your Mercedes and drive off out of here. But trust me- when it comes time for the God to whom you have supposedly vowed your life to judge you, He will knock that smile off your face.”

I called my mom when I got back in “Mom, it’s official. I am truly gong to hell. I just cussed a priest out in our parking lot.” My mom, bless her lil heart, “Well, that took longer to happen than we all thought and I’m sure he had it coming..”

Then I began running the “community based residential facility for those with chronic mental illness.” My first couple of weeks there I heard the phrase “ Oh ___ , you guys will take ANYONE.” At first I was offended. A long time case manager friend of mine came in surprised as hell to see me there one day. Just like the rest, she uttered “What the hell are you doing here? This place is a total hole and will take ANYONE.” And it hit me. Harder than Bobbie slapped Whitney around. “You’re damn right we will, J. You know why? EVERYONE deserves a home. Period. Yeah, it’s a bit of a hole right now, but I’m working on that. Someday we’ll be the Pfister for “crazy” people.” My crusade on behalf of those with severe chronic mental illness in Milwaukee then began.

The biggest thorn in my side? The VA. They HATE me there. I have gotten in more knock down, drag outs with them than I can honestly count. The reason? I have never seen a more gross negligence for the care for one’s patients EVER. And these are VETERANS. The very people that have laid their lives, and sanity, on the line for us. I have marched my happy ass down there and stood outside doctor’s doors waiting for them to sign off on a script renewal because it’s Friday and they have ignored my gentle fax reminders for two weeks letting them know their pharmacy will not dispense another supply of oh Depakote until the order is renewed. If it’s not signed that day, they don’t have Depakote for the weekend and the last thing that a person with schizoaffective disorder needs to do is go cold turkey off of that. They also insist on messing with the dispensing as well and that is a fight I have yet to win. The prescription will read “75mg of Zoloft, one tab, by mouth twice daily” Do they dispense 60 tabs of 75mg Zoloft? No, they dispense 30 tabs of 150mg and tell us to cut it in half. Not only does this not match the order, most of these medications they have us do this with are not to be cut PER MANUFACTURER’S INSTRUCTIONS. They don’t care though, because it’s cheaper that way. And, well, Post Traumatic Stress Disorder doesn’t really exist. They’ll tell you so.

So, I found my voice again, using it boldly with my head held high, but only for small, individual “fights” if you will. No picket lines. No rallies. No mass assemblies. No newspapers. No half ass TV crews. No fields at night.

And then, one night, a tweet passed by my screen. It caused me pause. A desperate plea from what appeared to be an Iranian to hackers for assistance. It was @PersianKiwi and I knew there was a chance it was real. From what it was requesting, I knew what it was looking for and why it would be. (Sometimes the 2 years I dated a hardcore hacker comes in handy). As I clicked and read and clicked and read, the story unfolded. I began to research the Iranian election and the candidates that ran. That is all I could find. Nothing of this scandal that they were tweeting of. I then stumbled upon one Twitterer whose emotion was way too human for him to be bullshit. When my eyes could no longer focus, I went to bed.

My head swimming. My heart aching. My eyes wide open.

The decision was simple. I was picking up my umbrella again. That morning, Elphaba was born. My own little personal declaration of unity and support. Over the course of the next weeks I stayed glued and focused on what was going on. I am not ashamed to admit that I have sobbed, screamed and wished that I could do more to help these people that, yes, I don’t even know.

There have been many arguments thrown out there and at me:

“These are Iranians. They hate us, They are our enemies.”

“The change of power will do nothing to protect us from their nuclear program.”

“They made their own bed, let them lie in it.”

“How do we know it’s even real and not some propaganda to engage us in war.”

My retort is simple. Firstly, I respect the opinions of others. It would be hypocritical of me to not and I do understand where their points may come from. Mine is this:

Ghandi is the man in my book. We do need to be the change we wish to see in this world. Whether they are in Iran, China or Istanfreakinbul, they are people. Humans. Just like us. People have been a fascination of mine all my life. I have taken several different language not just for the language, but to understand the culture as well. These people standing (for the most part) silently declaring their desire for independence, for their vote to actually count, for their government to recognize they have given them a vote and need to uphold that are not the same “Iranians” that we have been shown via media for years. Propaganda and distortion of the facts by government and media works all ways. Could their nuclear program remain intact regardless of a change in regime? Possibly. But, I highly doubt it. One of their platforms for change is peace. Symbolized by the beautiful green ribbons bound around their peace fingers. Their eyes have been opened to the truth of the world, not what their government has force-fed them for years. They know. They don’t want to become another America, they don’t want to completely abandon their culture, their beliefs. Their requests are simple. Basic. They want to live peacefully with the rest of the world, they want more of a real say in their government, they want to live more humanely. And I wholeheartedly support them in all of that. Life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness are basic human rights no matter what soil ones bare feet intertwine with. No matter what language they speak. No matter what God they pray to, or don’t pray to.

Perhaps I am odd, but, if someone walked up to me, told me they hated me (yes even if they stated they wished me dead), then was being beaten in the street two minutes later because they were simply walking down the street holding the hand of the person they love, I would stand next to them in saying it was wrong. That, dear friends, is just how Elphaba rolls.

And, for now, Elphaba isn’t going anywhere.

It was roughly three weeks into running a 46 bed group home for those with chronic mental illness, when I was in my office working on an Individualized Service Plan. (Fancy term for basically the packet of instructions and care plan for a resident.) My doorway was the third most popular location in the building- the first was the smoking lounge, the second was the vending machine room. Three of my guys were hovering in my door way when the following conversation occurred…..

Mathew*: “Antanette, Antanette, I didn’t get a hug yet today. Antanette, can I have a hug.”

Mark*: “You’re an idiot Mathew*- her name is Nadia.”

Luke*: “You’re both morons, her name is Natasha.”

Antanette/Nadia/Natasha/Me: “Actually, my name is Natali.”

Luke*: “Shut up, Linda!”

I still don’t know who Linda is…..

*All names were changed to protect resident privacy per Federal HIPAA guidelines.