Skip to main content

Occupational Therapy

 My husband studies me. He says, "I'm surprised you're not writing about the occupational therapist."


This makes me think of the writer Lorrie Moore--and the moment her husband said, "Write about our child's tumor?" Moore said: "I do zany holidays. I do wacky family outings with the dog. Child tumor? I don't cover that."

The occupational therapist was wildly mediocre. I could empathize--because I've made friends with mediocrity, many times in life.

The O.T. was named Emily, and she wanted to assess my child via Zoom. She suggested that she just park herself in her desk chair--and watch the clock, for sixty minutes.....and then she could e-mail a "visit log" to me, and this could help me to "procure services." When I insisted on an in-person visit, Emily began a week-long tug-of-war with many references to her own childcare burdens, then she lost my address, forgot the time she had committed to, and asked me to research the names and phone numbers of several of her (ostensible) early-intervention colleagues.

When Emily finally entered my house, she sat far away from my child and murmured that he seemed to like Dr. Brown bottles -- liked these too much for a child at his particular stage of development. A deafening silence filled the house, and my child grew agitated. Without offering to engage with Joshua, Emily said that my son seemed to struggle with attention issues. She said, "I would have brought toys--but--gosh! You know. Covid."

After forty-five minutes, Emily said, "If you sign my log and pretend it's an hour, we can wrap up now." She said: "Maybe give your child some dry rice, for a sensory experience." She said: "Have him eat BEFORE he drinks milk, or the milk becomes the food." (I did not point out that my son works himself into a near-homicidal fury pre-bottle, and that withholding the bottle is sometimes like asking my son to recite "War and Peace," in Russian. I was finished with Emily--by this point.)

I write this in a community-minded spirit, because I sense I'm not the only person who has encountered an Emily in the recent past.

I send well-wishes to E -- and I hope I never see her again.
Labels:

Comments

Post a Comment

Popular posts from this blog

How to Host a Baby

-You have assumed responsibility for a mewling, puking ball of life, a yellow-lab pup. He will spit his half-digested kibble all over your shoes, all over your hard-cover edition of Jennifer Haigh's novel  Faith . He will eat your tables, your chairs, your "I {Heart] Montessori" magnet, placed too low on the fridge. When you try to watch Bette Davis in  Hush Hush Sweet Charlotte , on your TV, your dog will bark through the murder-prologue, for no apparent reason. He will whimper through Lena Dunham's  Girls , such that you have to rewind several times to catch every nuance of Andrew Rannells's ad-libbing--and, still, you'll have a nagging suspicion you've missed something. Your dog will poop on the kitchen floor, in the hallway, between the tiny bars of his crate. He'll announce his wakefulness at 5 AM, 2 AM, or while you and another human are mid-coitus. All this, and you get outside, and it's: "Don't let him pee on my tulips!" When...
3 comments
Read more

Raymond Carver: "What's in Alaska?"

Outside, Mary held Jack's arm and walked with her head down. They moved slowly on the sidewalk. He listened to the scuffing sounds her shoes made. He heard the sharp and separate sound of a dog barking and above that a murmuring of very distant traffic.  She raised her head. "When we get home, Jack, I want to be fucked, talked to, diverted. Divert me, Jack. I need to be diverted tonight." She tightened her hold on his arm. He could feel the dampness in that shoe. He unlocked the door and flipped the light. "Come to bed," she said. "I'm coming," he said. He went to the kitchen and drank two glasses of water. He turned off the living-room light and felt his way along the wall into the bedroom. "Jack!" she yelled. "Jack!" "Jesus Christ, it's me!" he said. "I'm trying to get the light on." He found the lamp, and she sat up in bed. Her eyes were bright. He pulled the stem on the alarm and b...
1 comment
Read more

My Favorite Pop Song

  One thing I admire about Prince is his weirdly pretentious verses: Dream, if you can, a courtyard-- An ocean of violets in bloom. Also: Touch, if you will, my stomach. Feel how it trembles inside. No one else writes like this. Did people try to shoot down these choices? Did a producer say, "We'd like to rethink this one... Touch, if you will, my stomach...."  I can't help but wonder. But it's the chorus that makes this a classic. It's direct and universal--and it ends with that bizarre flourish, the allusion to "the crying doves." (Prince's song was number one in America for quite a while; it defeated Bruce Springsteen's "Dancing in the Dark.") How can you just leave me standing-- Alone in a world that's so cold? Maybe I'm just too demanding. Maybe I'm just like my father--too bold. Maybe you're just like my mother; She's never satisfied. Why do we scream at each other? This is what it sounds like when doves cr...
Post a Comment
Read more