Week One

Week one of my first Level II fieldwork: could it have been anything but overwhelming? I confess that when I read “Developmental Disabilities” on the description for the Central Wisconsin Center (CWC), I imagined a range of diagnoses; autism, mild to moderate mental retardation, and maybe Down syndrome or Cerebral Palsy. I should have realized that in 2012 the only people who still live in institutions are those so disabled and medically complicated that they cannot live in a community setting. Most of our residents don't walk or speak. Many have little control over their bodies due movement disorders. The term we use to describe them is "profound." Profoundly disabled.

Monday morning at 7:30am, my fellow student and I walked into a sunny day room looking out onto a lush green lawn. The resident we were to observe for breakfast sat in her chair, not moving. Her neighbor’s head lolled to the side, and something that looked like green peas slid in thick rivers down his chin and onto his vest. My immediate reaction - ‘I’m glad I don’t have to feed him!’ disgusted me. I'm entering into a helping profession. The repulsion I felt in that moment is not appropriate for someone who claims to honor life in all of its forms.

I realized later that this response is probably normal. We are all afraid of difference, and the residents at CWC are very different. Their bodies are twisted and move in strange patterns. An article we read this year on Mirror Neurons found that difference is most unsettling when it is unfamiliar. With exposure, the brain reacts less strongly over time. Remembering this, I spent the week watching the residents closely, trying to read their faces and bodies to determine when movement was expressive and when it was simply a dystonic pattern. The residents are like packages, wrapped up in clothes and blankets, lap trays, thoracic pads and head supports. Who knows what’s really inside? It’s hard to tell when watching for a person's eye blinks is your only means of communication with them.

CWC is like history lesson. Build in the 1950’s, it’s an old-school institution – straight out of a Ken Kesey novel. Underground tunnels connect the out buildings. These tunnels also house a pool, therapy rooms, splinting clinics, a wheelchair seating workshop, and all of the odd cubbies, spare rooms and passageways that would make the place terrifying if you were there alone at night.

It is also is huge. The tunnel from one end of campus to the other is 1/3 mile long. At one time, 650 residents with a range of impairments walked these halls. Legislation requiring that people be placed in the least restrictive environment possible has left only those with the most severe impairments in the center.

This will be an interesting summer. There are peaceful moments – an oral feeding session with a resident learning to eat. Her eyes fill with tears and her body arches as she tries to swallow the pudding I feed her. I stroke her face and talk to her to calm her. She smiles, and her muscles relax. A few hours later I sit in the back hall of the behavioral wing reading charts. A resident screams and screams because she can’t go with her parents to a meeting. She begins to lash out physically and is restrained. Three minutes later, she’s ping ponging around the back hall, talking to me about how she is losing weight and looks so different from her picture in the chart I’m reading. There's a lot to learn. I hope I am able to absorb it all.