true to form

The form came as an attachment to the expected materials. I barely gazed at it as I went on frantically through my day, my week, and then opened it once more. What’s this?

It was an assessment, for all intents and purposes. A self-assessment, the kind I have seen a thousand times before, the kind that is kind to the user, friendly, caring. It gives some ideas about how to make decisions, things to consider, lines where the user can list his strengths, his needs, and finally, his decision. It gives instructions that tell the user that as we are overwhelmed with the choices we must make, we should give ourselves time, patience, ask for help from our providers. We should network.

It all sounds so nice. It is caring, a respite from the cold world in so many respects. Isn’t it?

My reaction was to tear up the form.

I found myself nearly in tears as I saw it, thinking of all the people I have seen throughout the years who seem most grateful when I walk in and cut the bullshit and give them the information they need. I was thinking of my own reaction as I imagined myself receiving it: I would shut down. I would feel betrayed. I would feel that the person who had come in to help me was now in my kitchen, judging me, judging my life and what I want to do. I would be angry that this new person even expects to know.

I have never sat with a family and helped them make a decision–I think that is their job. Honestly, they don’t want me there forever. Well, sometimes they do. And that is never in the game plan. Forms like this, when accepted as useful, set people up to think I will be their friend.

Most people seem grateful when I sift through the grains of services and programs to find what is relevant to the questions they ask me. I cannot think of a single time that a person I have worked with has ever made a pros and cons list, at least in front of me. Generally, when a person is at risk of nursing home placement, his needs in the community are glaringly apparent.

If I am in a crisis, or if I am not, I want respect. I want dignity. I want to be treated like the person I have been all my life: able. I want to be treated like a person who can make decisions.

I was thinking as I talked to a friend who does business consulting. I know what we counselors should call ourselves. We should be consultants. I consult with people, help them get what they need, and go on. They hire me, in a sense (my services are free). They use my services, and live their lives. And that, really, is the kindest thing.