News for Women in Psychiatry

By JULIE HOLMAN, MD

Yesterday, I placed a four-year-old munchkin from my lap into the arms of a new daddy whom he had met only moments before. It was a simple passing, offered in response to his sudden request, yet each of us was surprised in the moment of his asking for "Daddy? Daddy? Daddy?"

I stood up from the rocking chair as the clinging child nuzzled closer and gave a tentative look over my shoulder for the man with the hat. Then to now, and I was the bridge. Emotions surged as I stepped aside and New Daddy occupied the safety of the rocker. In slow motion, seemingly suspended in time, this little one turned away from his horrific past and slipped into the arms and lap of his hopeful future. He settled quickly, sighed, peered into New Daddy’s face and said, "Let’s go."

He had not known he would have a new family. The nurse who daily changes his bandages had moments before introduced the couple as "the people you will live with when you leave the hospital." He had covered his head and peeked out, each surveying the other awkwardly. I do not know what he heard or what he thought. The man talked about cars and trucks, and the woman tried not to cry. They asked to see me.

I am a fellow in child psychiatry, a career chosen later in life, a good life, formed in ways seemingly, hauntingly unexplained. I had believed that as a child psychiatrist I could offer the greatest possibility for change and hope in the lives of the most vulnerable among us. Until this week, I am not certain I had considered my need to do so.

I remembered this week the day my father brought home a young boy stating simply that the judge said he’d be safe with us. It was the summer after the assassination of President Kennedy, who was buried on my birthday. Too young to verbalize my confusion, watching the anguish of the world, I came to truly know for the first time that life was unfair and the world was unsafe. Who could protect us now? I watched it all on television: the funeral, the widow, the children, the salute. Incredibly and ironically this week, JFK, Jr., the son, the saluting, was buried at sea. In addition, this week I passed a four-year-old child from his horrific past into the arms of his future He will be safe with them.

As his child psychiatrist, I had recommended "a long term stable placement" and the couple had questions: "Does he ever talk? How serious are his injuries? Will the wounds heal? When can he leave the hospital? What will he need? Would he be able to start preschool on time? How long will he be ours?" They confessed anxiety but having two older foster children now, they believed they were ready. His nurse knocked, saying, "He wants to see you, doctor," and mumbled something about throwing his toys. I smiled and excused myself.

As I entered his room, he sat in bed, his police motorcycle in his lap, with visiting hospital clowns cajoling at the bedside. He looked dazed, his eyes frozen, silent. The clowns gave up and left. Suddenly he threw back his bedcover, slipped from his bed, and climbed up my legs into my arms and pointed to the corner. I soothed, sat, and gently rocked. His day sitter covered us with his special quilt, and he clung to me, head buried, as we rocked. it was only a moment later when he said, "Daddy?"

"You want your new daddy?" He nodded, head still buried. "I think I know where we can find him." He nodded. The sitter left and the man with the hat returned. "Hi, buddy."

The child stole a glance and ever so gently loosened his grip. We rocked. Softly, moving closer so slowly, the man said with great assurance, "I’ll be your daddy." Then the exchange, from then to now, from terror to safety, from past to future.

Let’s go.,,

I am a child psychiatrist. I help make the world a safer place for children.