Tuesday, December 23, 2008
And Now, Back To Luke
I did not intend for the discussion of the end of my summer and the start of my fall to take until winter. Further, I don’t want my loyal and wonderful readers to think that Fantastic Spanking is no longer about, well, spanking. However, some things cannot be helped. Perhaps, as a Christmas present to you, I shall present an actual spanking story. But, for now, it is time to return to the boy Luke.
The Luke front was rather quiet for about two weeks after his adventure with jail. He went home, saw a doctor, and received a referral to a psychiatrist. Our town is fortunate in that there are a reasonable number of psychiatric doctors who work with adolescents (most places are severely underserved in this area), but it was still a month before his appointment. Luke started spending a considerable amount of time with Colette. Angela and I chose to carefully monitor this situation, but it appeared to be a case of “new boy-girlfriend-itis.” Besides, Colette and Angus were friends, so Colette was not afraid of mental illness. She is also quite an assertive girl, and Luke is not a large fellow, so I was not afraid of any unwanted physical advances, at least those initiated by Luke.
I had asked Colette to let me know if she saw any changes in Luke’s behavior that concerned her. For a week, everything was fine. Then Colette started getting calls and text messages from Luke at very late or very early hours. He did not seem to be interested in food. He seemed to be irrationally happy. Angela, Colette, and I sat down with him on the Saturday and went over the basics of mental illness and bipolar disorders. We explained that mental illnesses are due to physical problems with the brain, not because of a lack of discipline or character. We told him that we were not doctors, but that his behavior, while not yet dangerous, were clear symptoms of some kind of problem, and that the psychiatrist would be able to determine the problem and prescribe medication that would help him. We also explained that bipolar disorders are not, at this time, curable in the general sense, but are chronic diseases that require lifetime management, like diabetes or epilepsy. We told him that there was no reason why he could not lead a reasonable, productive life if he did indeed manage his disorder. Luke seemed to understand what we told him, and indeed confided that he did not feel “right” and was glad that relief was possible.
Unfortunately, Luke’s parents did not seem to be of the same mind. Despite considerable evidence to the contrary, they continued to tell him that he wasn’t really sick, that he need to “apply himself” more, study harder, and stop hanging around with “bad” people. I found that last one particularly irksome since the person with whom he spent the most time was my youngest daughter. If Luke’s parents thought that Colette was a “bad” person, he was going to have to deal with Angela, and nothing stirs my lovely wife more than someone doing wrong by her daughters.
The situation came to a head one evening when Colette was paying Luke a visit after school. I found out later that Luke had not attended classes that day, but I did not know it at the time. I only knew that she was to be going there at the conclusion of the school day.
It was about 4 pm when the phone rang. I answered, and before I could even say “hello,” Colette began screaming, “DADDY! Luke is really sick and his parents won’t do anything!” I found this statement somewhat bewildering, so I asked for clarification. “Lukey (Colette’s pet name for the boy) is curled up in his bedroom, crying and shivering, and his parents are just yelling at him!” Alarmed, I asked to speak to one of Luke’s parents.
Colette put Luke’s father on the phone, and I asked about the situation. “The kid decided that he didn’t want to go to school today,” he said. “I told him that if he didn’t go, that he could find another place to live. He moped out of the house, but came back an hour later and went right to his bedroom. So I told him that I was going to pack up his stuff!”
I heard Colette begin shouting obscenities, which would not do. Luke’s father returned the phone to her, and I told her to remain calm and wait outside of the house. Then I called Bernie and informed her of the situation.
There are little-used laws in most states that allow a police officer to have a person who is clearly suffering from a mental illness crisis to be committed to a hospital for 24 hours without the consent of the person or a judge. Most police do not use this authority because they are afraid of being sued, despite the fact that no one has ever won a judgment against a police officer for using this authority. I was afraid that Luke needed to go to the hospital, but that his parents would forbid it. Bernie could authorize hospitalization for 24 hours over his parents’ objections, and if he did not respond in that time, the hospital could keep him longer.
Bernie usually works in plain clothes, but she changed into a uniform for this occasion. She met Angela and I at Luke’s house, where we found Colette pacing frantically on the front sidewalk. We heard commotion coming from the house, and indeed Luke’s parents were shouting. Bernie pounded on the door, announced herself, and proceeded to enter the house before she could be invited in. Angela, Colette, and I followed her. Colette showed us where Luke’s bedroom was, and there we found the commotion.
Bernie’s presence, uniform and all, brought the room to silence. Then Luke’s father blurted, “See what’s happened now, you little idiot! The neighbors have called the police!”
“No they didn’t,” responded Bernie. “I was called by a concerned friend, who said that there was a sick child here that was being abused. And, from what I’ve witnessed so far, they were exactly correct!” This brought Luke’s father up short.
Bernie and Angela herded Luke’s parents to the living room, and Colette and I went over to see about Luke. He was indeed curled up into a ball, shaking uncontrollably. His back was to me, but when I looked over him I could see that his eyes were as wide as saucers and filled with terror. “Go away,” he whimpered.
“Fuck you,” responded Colette. I’m sure that she meant it in the nicest possible way. However, sometimes I think that little girl is perhaps a little too much like her father.
I beckoned Colette to silence, then sat down on the edge of Luke’s bed. “Tell me what you’re feeling right now,” I asked him, quietly.
“I don’t know,” he said, shakily. “I’m scared. I can’t move. I can’t stop shaking. I think I’m going to puke.”
When a person is in crisis, I know better than to make any sudden movements or touch them without asking them first. “Luke,” I asked, “is it okay if I put my hand on your neck and head.” Luke drew a shaky breath, then nodded his head. His forehead was warm and clammy, and the muscles of his neck were completely rigid. I took his pulse, and found it to be extremely rapid but strong. “Do you hurt anywhere?” I asked.
“Only my gut,” he replied.
“Have you thrown up?” Luke shook his head.
“Okay, this is going to seem like a silly question, but please bear with me. Tell me exactly what you are thinking right now.”
“I can’t think!” he almost screamed. “My brain is full of stuff, but none of it makes sense. I’m so sad I feel like that all of my friends have died! I want to out and run as fast as I can until I either crash into something or collapse and die!”
The symptoms seemed to fit. Luke is suffering from a bipolar disorder, I thought. But I am not a medical professional. He needed to see a doctor.
Colette came over. “Luke,” she asked, quietly, “can I please hold your hand?” Suddenly, the shaking subsided somewhat, and Luke rolled over onto his back and offered his hand, which Colette gently took.
I realized at that point that Luke had just one chance if he was going have any chance at recovery. He was going to have to come and live with us.
Tomorrow, I hope, I shall complete this story of how the Spanko family grew by one.
The Luke front was rather quiet for about two weeks after his adventure with jail. He went home, saw a doctor, and received a referral to a psychiatrist. Our town is fortunate in that there are a reasonable number of psychiatric doctors who work with adolescents (most places are severely underserved in this area), but it was still a month before his appointment. Luke started spending a considerable amount of time with Colette. Angela and I chose to carefully monitor this situation, but it appeared to be a case of “new boy-girlfriend-itis.” Besides, Colette and Angus were friends, so Colette was not afraid of mental illness. She is also quite an assertive girl, and Luke is not a large fellow, so I was not afraid of any unwanted physical advances, at least those initiated by Luke.
I had asked Colette to let me know if she saw any changes in Luke’s behavior that concerned her. For a week, everything was fine. Then Colette started getting calls and text messages from Luke at very late or very early hours. He did not seem to be interested in food. He seemed to be irrationally happy. Angela, Colette, and I sat down with him on the Saturday and went over the basics of mental illness and bipolar disorders. We explained that mental illnesses are due to physical problems with the brain, not because of a lack of discipline or character. We told him that we were not doctors, but that his behavior, while not yet dangerous, were clear symptoms of some kind of problem, and that the psychiatrist would be able to determine the problem and prescribe medication that would help him. We also explained that bipolar disorders are not, at this time, curable in the general sense, but are chronic diseases that require lifetime management, like diabetes or epilepsy. We told him that there was no reason why he could not lead a reasonable, productive life if he did indeed manage his disorder. Luke seemed to understand what we told him, and indeed confided that he did not feel “right” and was glad that relief was possible.
Unfortunately, Luke’s parents did not seem to be of the same mind. Despite considerable evidence to the contrary, they continued to tell him that he wasn’t really sick, that he need to “apply himself” more, study harder, and stop hanging around with “bad” people. I found that last one particularly irksome since the person with whom he spent the most time was my youngest daughter. If Luke’s parents thought that Colette was a “bad” person, he was going to have to deal with Angela, and nothing stirs my lovely wife more than someone doing wrong by her daughters.
The situation came to a head one evening when Colette was paying Luke a visit after school. I found out later that Luke had not attended classes that day, but I did not know it at the time. I only knew that she was to be going there at the conclusion of the school day.
It was about 4 pm when the phone rang. I answered, and before I could even say “hello,” Colette began screaming, “DADDY! Luke is really sick and his parents won’t do anything!” I found this statement somewhat bewildering, so I asked for clarification. “Lukey (Colette’s pet name for the boy) is curled up in his bedroom, crying and shivering, and his parents are just yelling at him!” Alarmed, I asked to speak to one of Luke’s parents.
Colette put Luke’s father on the phone, and I asked about the situation. “The kid decided that he didn’t want to go to school today,” he said. “I told him that if he didn’t go, that he could find another place to live. He moped out of the house, but came back an hour later and went right to his bedroom. So I told him that I was going to pack up his stuff!”
I heard Colette begin shouting obscenities, which would not do. Luke’s father returned the phone to her, and I told her to remain calm and wait outside of the house. Then I called Bernie and informed her of the situation.
There are little-used laws in most states that allow a police officer to have a person who is clearly suffering from a mental illness crisis to be committed to a hospital for 24 hours without the consent of the person or a judge. Most police do not use this authority because they are afraid of being sued, despite the fact that no one has ever won a judgment against a police officer for using this authority. I was afraid that Luke needed to go to the hospital, but that his parents would forbid it. Bernie could authorize hospitalization for 24 hours over his parents’ objections, and if he did not respond in that time, the hospital could keep him longer.
Bernie usually works in plain clothes, but she changed into a uniform for this occasion. She met Angela and I at Luke’s house, where we found Colette pacing frantically on the front sidewalk. We heard commotion coming from the house, and indeed Luke’s parents were shouting. Bernie pounded on the door, announced herself, and proceeded to enter the house before she could be invited in. Angela, Colette, and I followed her. Colette showed us where Luke’s bedroom was, and there we found the commotion.
Bernie’s presence, uniform and all, brought the room to silence. Then Luke’s father blurted, “See what’s happened now, you little idiot! The neighbors have called the police!”
“No they didn’t,” responded Bernie. “I was called by a concerned friend, who said that there was a sick child here that was being abused. And, from what I’ve witnessed so far, they were exactly correct!” This brought Luke’s father up short.
Bernie and Angela herded Luke’s parents to the living room, and Colette and I went over to see about Luke. He was indeed curled up into a ball, shaking uncontrollably. His back was to me, but when I looked over him I could see that his eyes were as wide as saucers and filled with terror. “Go away,” he whimpered.
“Fuck you,” responded Colette. I’m sure that she meant it in the nicest possible way. However, sometimes I think that little girl is perhaps a little too much like her father.
I beckoned Colette to silence, then sat down on the edge of Luke’s bed. “Tell me what you’re feeling right now,” I asked him, quietly.
“I don’t know,” he said, shakily. “I’m scared. I can’t move. I can’t stop shaking. I think I’m going to puke.”
When a person is in crisis, I know better than to make any sudden movements or touch them without asking them first. “Luke,” I asked, “is it okay if I put my hand on your neck and head.” Luke drew a shaky breath, then nodded his head. His forehead was warm and clammy, and the muscles of his neck were completely rigid. I took his pulse, and found it to be extremely rapid but strong. “Do you hurt anywhere?” I asked.
“Only my gut,” he replied.
“Have you thrown up?” Luke shook his head.
“Okay, this is going to seem like a silly question, but please bear with me. Tell me exactly what you are thinking right now.”
“I can’t think!” he almost screamed. “My brain is full of stuff, but none of it makes sense. I’m so sad I feel like that all of my friends have died! I want to out and run as fast as I can until I either crash into something or collapse and die!”
The symptoms seemed to fit. Luke is suffering from a bipolar disorder, I thought. But I am not a medical professional. He needed to see a doctor.
Colette came over. “Luke,” she asked, quietly, “can I please hold your hand?” Suddenly, the shaking subsided somewhat, and Luke rolled over onto his back and offered his hand, which Colette gently took.
I realized at that point that Luke had just one chance if he was going have any chance at recovery. He was going to have to come and live with us.
Tomorrow, I hope, I shall complete this story of how the Spanko family grew by one.
