And always, at the end, Is there anything else I can do for you? Sometimes I ask a second or third time before I really leave, because the thing about this work is it's never done. There is always another need to address.
My therapist told me this morning, you're so encouraging! Your email made my whole day!
Therapist as in the therapist under me who I supervise. A late-teen, early-twenty, usually female, usually tiny little girl who wants to work with cute kids. Not a therapist as in I'm actually getting help for my shit. No no.
We don't do that here.
After settling my therapists, I left the playroom to tell kiddo's mom that I'd reached out to kiddo's speech therapist to observe a session next week. I explained: behavior is my specialty, not speech, but if I can coordinate with speech and learn what they are doing, we can implement it during our sessions and ideally make more progress with teaching kiddo to communicate.
Kiddo's mom teared up a little. "You're the first person to care enough to want to talk to speech."
I opened my mouth, then closed it, trapping the expletives. Coordination of care isn't a big impressive thing; it's a requirement of our ethical guidelines.
"Really?" I asked.
"Really," she nodded. And then she said, "I've been praying for someone like you."
And I felt two things. I felt sixteen year old me clawing, screaming; furious and vindicated. Someone needs me. Lots of someones need me. If people need me, then I deserve to live.
But it also means the person before me did a garbage fucking job. The person before me sat around for at least seven months, maybe more, and did fuck all for this child who doesn't have functional fucking communication skills. This child who can't get her needs met. Who can't tell her mother she loves her. Who can't say when she's angry, or tired, or hurt, all of which compound the pain.
Think of the worst you've ever felt. The most horrible moment in your life.
Now pretend someone has sewn your mouth shut and cut off your hands.
Now also pretend you are six, and who knows how much you understand about anything. Maybe you understand everything. Maybe nothing.
I'm not sure which is worse.
The person before me allowed that to continue for seven months when we are already in a race against time.
This isn't a thing I tell the parents who don't know, but early intervention is effective because before five years old, the brain is plastic and can still be molded. After five, neural pathways solidify, and it's much harder to make lasting progress.
And my predecessor who, according to Google, has been in the field ten years longer than I have, likely knew this. And she did nothing.
Sixteen year old me howled, anguished, and I swallowed her whole. There isn't time for your sound and fury anymore, little girl.
We have work to do.