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In my field of “community disabilities,” I once attended an afternoon workshop on “How to Pick a Candidate” for a rehabilitation team. Mostly we learned to look at our existing team, and then hire someone who would offer complementary skills.
At the end, as we were winding down, we talked of hiring practises that were less ethical, such as when you face a long interview and then, just when you thought you were done, hearing a surprise announcement that a big long psychology test had to be filled out. I was annoyed to hear of such false self righteousness, and annoyed too at the over emphasis on hiring for folks wearing rehabilitation ethics on their sleeves. So I spoke up.
“This talk of rehabilitation ethics is all very well, but do you know what the clients want in a staff? Really, really want? They want to know if a staff is any fun!” Laughter, long and loud, told me I had expressed something that had to be said.
As for fun, how about the sounds you make? Anyone can toss a sweater on a bed and say, “Two points!” Just like some over-dignified, over-conventional adult. But how about saying “zip,” or “zeep,” or whistling like that falling coyote on the cartoons?
How about a skedaddling noise if you have to circle around someone in a hallway? (I just made that up) Or zonking cups away into a cupboard? (Made up) Or a “bip.” (Good for pressing switches) Sometimes I even add, “I zeeped you.” What the clients can guess is what a “zeep” is; what they know is that you are sharing a good time with them.
You may have heard that cliche of certain business leaders, the ones who say, “My guys don’t have to like me, they only have to respect me.” True, for middle aged sticks in the mud. As for young clients, they don’t merely want to know that you ethically respect them: They want to know that you like them.
They find it reassuring if you are relaxed enough to burst into song while you work in the next room. This happy surprise means you are happy with them, and they want to know that, too… A farmer’s wife once put out some hay on the plates of her husband and sons. Turns out they had never thanked her: “I might just as well have been feeding you hay all his time.” We need “thanks,” we need “I like you’s,” whether by word or deed. As for that wife, she needed an occasional “I love you,” too.
… …
The Dignity of Risk
Every Saturday I am invited to be with a married couple using electric wheelchairs, call them “John” and “Janet.” This while their Supportive Roommates go to church for the day. This week, as I parked at their place, a couple parked behind me, and then, with much amusement, joined their arms, and skate-walked up to the neighbour’s door. Sounds of scruff, scruff, scruff. Yes, the streets and sidewalks had iced up overnight. In fact, all the drivers had curved over the Calf Robe bridge at only 65% of the posted speed.
When my clients and I had bundled up—I push on their elbows to fit into their jacket sleeves— and moved out onto the porch, I voiced a thought: “Say, that pedestrian overpass might be too icy.”
They replied hotly, “We’ve done it before! With you!” Oh. (I still don’t remember) As I scuffed down the street with them we agreed I shouldn’t try to skate. They live only a few doors down from the end of the road and the big pedestrian overpass: Six lanes of traffic, then down to the mall sidewalk. I might have guessed things would be harder this time when they both had trouble getting up the curb dip. So I helped by slight pushing, thinking nothing of it, as I sometimes had helped at that curb before.
On the long up ramp up? As the husband led, the wife needed me on her handle bars, because, to our surprise, the slick surface meant she couldn’t steer straight. I could help her, but not much, as my feet were sliding. Janet veered left and right, and gently crashed into the railing, just as John crashed into the top 90 degree turn. I looked down at the wife and joked, “Are you still alive? We’re having an adventure!” She laughed… In rehab lingo, I had just “reframed the situation.”
I said, “I better go see John.” So I waddled up; said much the same. He laughed too, as I re-buckled his feet into his pedals. He stayed there to wait for us. Back to Janet. Handle bars again. Called to John, “You better move out of the way, we have to crash!” Not a big crash, mind you. Then across the road, then a short ramp east, turn, long ramp west. I called “Hey, there’s a dryer patch to right, stay right.” We tried to do so, but… Finally, we were back on the blessed sidewalk, slick but passable, going past Christmas bush lights to the mall…
…Inside, we accomplished our errand: bought an electric toothbrush head. Once I said, “No, I am not going to try to carry any coffee back.”
Before leaving the mall, I said, “Maybe the city will have salted the overpass before we go back.” To my delight, we found the mall staff had de-iced the sidewalk, with lots of white grains visible, but of course the city hadn’t done the ramp yet.
“You know, we could take the Bonaventure Drive sidewalk, but it’s a very long way around.” They wouldn’t hear of it—Great! Up we went. The drier part first; that was OK, with me doing the handlebars thing. Across was OK, we managed.
At last, with John waiting where he had waited before, Janet and I approached the dreaded down ramp, sans dry spots. “I better go help John; we better do one person at a time.” My feet still slid, of course, and the steel railing was still hopelessly slick, but—rungs! The railing had rungs! With John saying, “Hold onto me Sean!” I managed to grab a rung, while stretching an arm on the mid-frame of the chair. The chair kept going down, and I kept snagging rung after rung. With a silent, “Ouch, ouch, ouch.”
Then it was Janet’s turn. “Go real slow,” I said, “real, real slow,” as a foot would occasionally lose traction, a most disquieting feeling. “Steady as she goes, Mr. Sulu…”
It was a short happy slide home. John suggested we call the city, at 311, to report a need for de-icing. “You talk,” he said.
“I can do that, as I am “specially trained” at being brief and concise for the army walkie-talkies… when a whole battalion is all trying to use the same frequency.” I put us on speaker phone. I explained.
The city clerk hesitantly asked, “So, do you only need de-icing on the sloping part?
They both chimed, “No-o-o!” As I told the clerk, “That’s a firm no.”
…In rehab lingo, we had experienced “the dignity of risk.” As we laughed proudly about our adventure, I pointed out that many of our fellow clients and staff would have been too wimpy to try the crossing. And John remarked, “That was quite a trip, just to buy a toothbrush head.”
…
…
Sean Crawford
In God’s own country
November
2021
Resource: A penpal tells me I can “see the dignity of risk ethos” in a movie, on Netfix, The Peanut Butter Falcon. I haven’t seen it, but it sure looks good in the Roger Ebert review site.
