tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-59333570075966235872024-02-01T23:43:40.537-06:00"Hold my hand" A social worker's blogStories and reflections from my personal and professional journey.Hold my hand: a social worker's bloghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06283197748791227012noreply@blogger.comBlogger101125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5933357007596623587.post-74807187805963989702014-11-18T07:14:00.000-06:002015-09-27T13:59:31.342-05:00Finding Inspiration
Her face brightened as she told me beautiful stories about her grandchidren.
Wait! I thought. I'm documenting my visit with my patient, not writing a story! I hit the delete key. I stared at my computer screen, and sighed. Then started to type again.
Patient displayed contentment when speaking about her grandchildren.
This sounds more professional, I convinced Hold my hand: a social worker's bloghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06283197748791227012noreply@blogger.com54tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5933357007596623587.post-64720165053396317082013-08-03T13:32:00.000-05:002013-08-03T13:56:52.306-05:00 "A String Of Pearls" by Linda Austin, Guest Blogger
It's an honor to have author and blogging friend, Linda Austin as our guest blogger. Linda's writing has been notoriously influenced by her experience with her mother who struggled with Alzheimer's. Linda brings in her writing delicate and heartfelt reflections of her journey as a daughter and caregiver of a loved one with dementia.
Please welcome Linda Austin, author of "Cherry Hold my hand: a social worker's bloghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06283197748791227012noreply@blogger.com42tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5933357007596623587.post-17322358864427234492013-07-14T17:19:00.000-05:002013-07-14T17:19:37.894-05:00A Man's Repentance
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Mr. Richardson was praying. His head bowed, his eyes closed. It was a quick yet powerful scene as I glanced into Mr. Richardson’s room while Hold my hand: a social worker's bloghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06283197748791227012noreply@blogger.com22tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5933357007596623587.post-48380041346664452972013-03-31T21:33:00.001-05:002013-03-31T21:33:10.340-05:00Blogging From A to Z April Challenge
This will be my third year joining the "A to Z April Challenge." The premise of this challenge is to post something on your blog every day in April except for Sundays. In doing this you will have 26 blog posts—one for each letter of the alphabet. Each day you will theme your post according to a letter of the alphabet. For more information, please click here .&Hold my hand: a social worker's bloghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06283197748791227012noreply@blogger.com10tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5933357007596623587.post-40380528857062258182013-03-24T21:24:00.001-05:002013-03-24T21:24:45.576-05:00At home... in the nursing home
“Mr. Russell wants to know if you have a room for him,” the hospital discharge planner asked me on the phone. “He was going home, but then he changed his mind and requested to be sent to your facility,” she continued.
I remembered Mr. Russell very well. He was at our nursing home two years ago, when he came to us for a short stay, for therapy.
“We do have a room for him!” I exclaimedHold my hand: a social worker's bloghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06283197748791227012noreply@blogger.com22tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5933357007596623587.post-32154478330881695962013-01-01T14:22:00.001-06:002013-01-02T18:59:16.627-06:00The Janitor
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Dan was a quiet man. As he walked calmly, his slender figure seemed almost unnoticed in the halls of the nursing home where he worked. He was our Hold my hand: a social worker's bloghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06283197748791227012noreply@blogger.com27tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5933357007596623587.post-89147905540443427772012-11-19T21:01:00.000-06:002012-11-19T21:01:13.325-06:00Finding Peace
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“My Dad is not crazy,” Mr. Martin’s daughter expressed.Hold my hand: a social worker's bloghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06283197748791227012noreply@blogger.com48tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5933357007596623587.post-46302601548287773632012-10-28T21:50:00.000-05:002012-10-28T21:50:33.056-05:00Laughter, The Best Medicine
“She is hilarious!” I heard my co-worker say. I glanced at him and at the other three co-workers, noticing their playful grins. While waiting for a meeting to start, I was distracted reading a document and missed their conversation.
“Who are you talking about?” I asked, now intrigued.
“Ms. Clarkson.” My coworker said. “She comes up with jokesHold my hand: a social worker's bloghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06283197748791227012noreply@blogger.com18tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5933357007596623587.post-47636526540146427552012-09-16T19:14:00.001-05:002012-09-16T19:14:59.677-05:00Colors Through My Resident's Eyes
I looked at myself in the mirror. My pink skirt suit seemed to reflect my mood that day. It was intense. Bright colors lift my mood on dull days—just like that particular winter morning.
My day started well, and the many “good morning” and smiles from co-workers and residents appeared to be a preamble of a splendid day.
But my gleeful morning didn’t last long. &Hold my hand: a social worker's bloghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06283197748791227012noreply@blogger.com23tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5933357007596623587.post-32618931976675389602012-08-26T18:24:00.002-05:002012-08-29T21:04:54.739-05:00Thankful Hearts
“What a treat!” Barbara exclaimed, flashing a charming smile. Then she took a sip of her black coffee.
“We haven’t been here in a while!” I said as I scanned the breakfast place.
It was a delightful Friday morning. I was determined to fully enjoy my day off. I had stopped at the retirement community and surprised Barbara with an invitation to a sumptuous breakfast, Hold my hand: a social worker's bloghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06283197748791227012noreply@blogger.com16tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5933357007596623587.post-19434303757212411902012-07-28T21:38:00.001-05:002012-07-29T11:44:09.189-05:00Haiti- The Pearl Of The Antilles (Part 2)
We finally arrived to Les Cayes, formerly Aux Cayes, a town and seaport in southwestern Haiti, with a population of approximately 46,000 people. We turned onto a gravel road, and for a few minutes we struggled with the bumpy car swings until we entered Pwoje Espwa or “Hope Village.”
There’s a gate, with a security guard. The first building we spotted on our left was theHold my hand: a social worker's bloghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06283197748791227012noreply@blogger.com15tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5933357007596623587.post-564553880640965902012-07-15T21:01:00.002-05:002012-07-15T21:01:50.782-05:00Haiti- The Pearl Of The Antilles (Part 1)
I’m reading about Haiti’s history, and I shake my head, trying to understand the problems the Haitians have faced for centuries. As a child, I remember hearing people referring to Haiti as “The Pearl of the Antilles.” A history where beauty and struggle collide. A country earlier renowned for the splendor of its landscape, Haiti has faced fierce exploitation of natural Hold my hand: a social worker's bloghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06283197748791227012noreply@blogger.com17tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5933357007596623587.post-30259676384311909112012-07-01T20:32:00.001-05:002012-07-01T20:43:38.123-05:00Destination Haiti: Guest Post
My guest post on our mission trip to Haiti, "Day Three," has been published over at the Schweitzer United Methodist Church website:
http://haiti.schweitzerumc.org/?p=255
Hold my hand: a social worker's bloghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06283197748791227012noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5933357007596623587.post-50212941938419043612012-06-30T15:05:00.003-05:002012-08-01T19:29:12.310-05:00Destination Haiti
I inspected my small suitcase one more time. I had packed the most essential items for this particular trip. Unlike most of my recent vacation trips to the Caribbean, in this case I didn’t need to pack my hairdryer, or jewelry or an evening dress. That was the lightest traveling bag I’ve ever packed, considering I was going overseas. What made this trip so different from my prior ones? It Hold my hand: a social worker's bloghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06283197748791227012noreply@blogger.com17tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5933357007596623587.post-68829400491897584482012-06-24T08:14:00.000-05:002012-06-24T08:14:12.389-05:00A Bridge to Betsy's World
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Betsy was in Hold my hand: a social worker's bloghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06283197748791227012noreply@blogger.com19tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5933357007596623587.post-69109797088153305642012-06-17T08:50:00.000-05:002012-06-19T18:27:40.354-05:00My Papá
I didn’t know I was about to ask the first really complex question in my life. I had little idea that the answer to my question would reveal to me, at a tender age of six or seven, a small window of a turbulent family past, a past that would haunt me for many years.
“Mami, why is Papá black?”
My innocent words rocked my Mami’s world, I sensed as her hazel eyes narrowed, glaring at meHold my hand: a social worker's bloghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06283197748791227012noreply@blogger.com19tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5933357007596623587.post-31772787680773311812012-06-09T11:33:00.001-05:002012-06-09T11:34:54.724-05:00A Pet For My Patient
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Mr. Lewis was one of the finest patients I’ve ever had. Polite, Hold my hand: a social worker's bloghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06283197748791227012noreply@blogger.com15tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5933357007596623587.post-85516357206836859012012-05-30T21:58:00.000-05:002012-05-30T22:05:43.794-05:00My Courageous Patient
“Oh my God!” The charge nurse shook her head, and sighed. I heard her, as I stood by her desk, looking for a medical chart.
“What’s wrong?” I asked.
“The new admit...” Her face had an unusual, worrisome expression. “Have you met him?”
“No, not yet. I’m actually looking for his chart.”
“Please, go and see him.” She looked distraught. “I’ve never had a patient that looked like that. Hold my hand: a social worker's bloghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06283197748791227012noreply@blogger.com19tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5933357007596623587.post-52794727572545993742012-05-20T12:20:00.000-05:002012-05-20T12:20:16.125-05:00A Goodbye Melody
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I heard music as I entered the nursing home. IHold my hand: a social worker's bloghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06283197748791227012noreply@blogger.com14tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5933357007596623587.post-90966560039896347612012-05-14T22:00:00.000-05:002012-05-14T22:01:39.024-05:00The day before Mother's Day
The food was scrumptious. That’s all I could think as I finished my meal. I glanced around, observed the few other customers eating in the cafeteria, which was a satellite off the main dining hall of the hospital. Everyone seemed to be pleased with his or her orders. I observed a woman in her fifties sitting at a table near by, talking to another woman who appeared toHold my hand: a social worker's bloghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06283197748791227012noreply@blogger.com14tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5933357007596623587.post-36925779608441945162012-05-05T17:26:00.000-05:002012-05-05T17:26:17.266-05:00Gracias
Since today is Cinco de Mayo, instead of "Thank you," I will say, "Gracias" to everyone who followed my posts during the A to Z April challenge. "Gracias," for your thoughtful comments and your encouragement; and "Gracias," for your friendship and kindness.
The 26 vignettes have been removed, and after some editing, they will be compiled into my book in progress entitled Hold My Hold my hand: a social worker's bloghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06283197748791227012noreply@blogger.com25tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5933357007596623587.post-32417319330664856562012-05-05T16:17:00.003-05:002012-05-05T17:28:29.409-05:00Peter's Legacy
“Are you a family member?” the ICU nurse asked, glaring at me as I was approaching Room 7 where Peter, my nursing home resident, lay on a bed, hooked to multiple life-prolonging machines. I turned around to face the nurse.
“I’m the social worker from the nursing home where Peter lives.” I drew closer to her, and tapped my chest, whispering. “He has no family; we are his family.”
The Hold my hand: a social worker's bloghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06283197748791227012noreply@blogger.com9tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5933357007596623587.post-83832080258852709482012-03-02T07:46:00.002-06:002012-03-02T07:46:59.279-06:00When 'Jack Reacher' became my hero. A reflection on writing to heal (3)
Part 3
On the morning of April 26, 1994, a woman called to my office, to notify me that my cousin Lucrecia, or “Luca” as we called her, had been murdered. Luca, age 25, was gang-raped, and her throat slit. The next morning, her body was found in a vacant lot. It was a brutal crime. It was a dark, very sinister event in the history of our family, and too devastating Hold my hand: a social worker's bloghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06283197748791227012noreply@blogger.com23tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5933357007596623587.post-43723842670362249402012-02-29T05:03:00.001-06:002012-03-04T10:59:44.335-06:00When 'Jack Reacher' became my hero. A reflection on writing to heal (2)
Part 2
My husband, a writer in his spare time, finds passion in mystery. I like his refined writing and the meticulous details in his novels. Yet, I had a feeling of queasiness in my stomach the first time I read a murder scene on his published novel "Confirmation Bias". Something made me feel uneasy.
I am not into horror scenes, I thought. That explains itHold my hand: a social worker's bloghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06283197748791227012noreply@blogger.com12tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5933357007596623587.post-91791789701928279752012-02-27T06:44:00.000-06:002012-02-29T05:17:41.474-06:00When 'Jack Reacher' became my hero. A reflection on writing to heal (1)
Due to its length, this post will be published in three parts. Look for Part 2 on Wednesday, and Part 3 on Friday.
Part 1
“Ms. Denniston, do you have any children?” I asked as I was interviewing my new resident. Regardless of that information being a component of my social services assessment, I always feel the genuine interest in getting to know my nursing home residents. Hold my hand: a social worker's bloghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06283197748791227012noreply@blogger.com13