What’s On Your Mind?

Flash: Children Captured by Octopus

By Bob Herman, L.C.S.W

In the spring of 1967, I was working as a childcare counselor in a “residential” children’s hospital – my first real job. This was not your usual hospital. Here, half of the staff was required to take up residence in the hospital. This hospital served only very disturbed children – about 50 kids who had demonstrated that they could not be cared for in their own homes. They ranged in age from 5 to 14, and though they varied widely in their diagnoses and their symptoms, anyone entering the hospital knew right away that these were not typical children. My job was something akin to a summer camp counselor – a surrogate parent, taking care of eight kids, ever watchful for strange or uncontrolled behavior that could lead to upheaval or injury. Since the children lived at this hospital for many months, they also attended school there. In this one setting they ate three meals a day, played games, worked on crafts, took their evening bath, listened to bedtime stories, saw their doctors, watched TV, listened to Beatles records, etc. What they did not do were the usual chores of children: watching their little brother while Mom went to the washroom, helping Dad rake the leaves in the yard, helping Mom carry the laundry upstairs from the basement, peddling down to the market to get a gallon of milk needed for dinner, etc. In effect, the institutional structure of the hospital left nothing for them to do to help out. Then, too, many were considered simply incapable of reliably doing much of anything, and that was understandable since many commonly displayed fits of anger or were overwhelmed by tears and sadness, had episodes of sudden aggression toward other kids and adults, could get stuck in their obsessive thoughts and “lost” in their own private worlds, etc.

As a young man I was a builder by instinct, always looking for opportunities to exercise my design and construction urges. One day, looking out at the vast yard in which our young patients played, I had a vision which, if not something the children needed, was definitely something I needed to build. I imagined a unique play structure designed for eight children at a time – the number of children in each dormitory (which functioned like a family). This structure would incorporate numerous activities for the kids: they could slide down a fireman’s pole, climb a wall of rope, ride a sculpted rocking horse, etc. Its central feature, though, would be a large lawn swing, suspended from the frame of the structure, strong enough and large enough to enable an entire dormitory to sit in it at one time (eight kids and two adults!). [A lawn swing, you’ll recall, has two benches facing each other and is kept in motion by pushing with one’s feet at the attached “floor” while seated.] I built a miniature model and presented it to the hospital administrator. He bought the idea, figuratively and literally, and two weeks later a large load of wood was delivered.

My excitement was compromised, however, by the events that followed. First, a meeting had to be called among the staff. The subject was safety. I was about to start construction in the area used daily for play. We wondered how we could insure that the kids couldn’t get drawn to the power tools, the hand saws, the heavy timbers and the nails. Elaborate plans were drawn up to keep the kids at a safe distance from the construction work. We had “rescued” them! The children had already been introduced to the project with the aid of the miniature model, and all the rules that had been established for their safety were spelled out: there would be no playing inside or near the construction area ….. but they would be allowed to select a name for the structure and they could make suggestions for play equipment they’d like to see included on it. Because the structure stood on eight legs, the kids dubbed it The Octopus.

But the kids had their own ideas. As I walked among them through the dormitories and dining room, I heard them petitioning me: “I could help,” and “I’m good at hammering,” and “Hey, why don’t you let us help you build it?” [Curiously, the youngest kids seemed more determined to get in the action than the teens.] Soon I began to hear from my fellow counselors: “The kids are constantly begging us to let them help build the Octopus. They are really captured by this thing. They’re very excited and want to do more than just watch.” As a driven builder, I could certainly empathize with the children. But how could I rationalize handing a saw to a psychotic seven-year-old when I wouldn’t even consider letting him carry a bowl of spaghetti from the kitchen to our dinner table? How could I explain why I had allowed a schizophrenic twelve-year-old boy, who thinks he can fly, to climb an unfinished playground structure with no railings? How could I think of letting a five-year-old girl, who six months ago had tried to kill her younger sister, stand with a hammer in her hand high above the heads of her dormitory “sisters”?

The pressure built. The kids, though restrained, were angry and insulted. They felt unappreciated, shut out, dismissed. They had started to give their own counselors hell for failing to persuade me, and their counselors passed the pressure on to me. The boys in my dorm were livid. Since the project clearly emanated from their dorm (where the little model still stood like a trophy), they wondered, shouldn’t they be the ones privileged to help out? What had begun as a happy fantasy was quickly bringing an institution to its knees. I caved. New plans were drawn up to allow small groups (and occasionally larger groups – see picture) to be scheduled to work with me, along with additional counselors for extra watchfulness.

This true story has a happy ending. The construction was a success. Thereafter, many hours were spent for many years by many children swinging to-and-fro on the giant lawn swing on spring evenings. Beyond a couple of splinters, no children were injured during construction. To the contrary, the staff noticed that the kids seemed to take a vacation from their usual “crazy” behaviors, while pride and maybe a sense of worth replaced them. For the duration of the project, it was as if the children wore a new badge: I am a real person with something to contribute. Don’t dismiss me.

Perhaps you are wondering what this story has to do with your children and mine. Please read Part 2 next week for the conclusion.

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I invite suggestions for subjects you’d like to see discussed in this column: , or send a note (Attn: Bob Herman) through The Prairie Advocate. I also enjoy opportunities to meet personally with any group interested in discussing family or child-rearing topics (at no fee).