DSS and Foster Care

Now, imagine sleeping in the back seat of a car, sleeping in garages, not being able to take care of your basic hygiene needs, and being malnourished is not by any means a nurturing environment, let alone for a boy who has special needs, it was all that you knew and your normalcy. However, one event was viewed as the ultimate act of parental negligence and grounds for removal by the Child Welfare Services.

 I was around ten years aged aiding my parents in cooking some hotdogs. Then, I had a spasm, or I grabbed the pot by the handle when my parents looked away for a moment and spilled the contents all over myself. As someone would imagine, I got terrible first-degree burns. A relative saw the burns and decided to file a complaint with DSS.

Once the caseworkers verified the veracity of the claims, they, as an organization, decided to remove me from my parents' custody. The caseworker and my guardian showed up at my school unannounced as the day was letting out, and explained to me what was happening, loaded me up in the car with the seals on the door, and drove me to my first of two foster homes, which was still in the suburb town outside of the port city. At this juncture, the removal of me, my sister, and my cousins was twofold. First, DSS wanted to ensure that we kids were safe in a stable environment, and second, the removal of us served as a motivator for my biological parents to get their affairs in order.

Life, as I knew it, ceased to exist in a blink of an eye, and I was going to stay with some strangers. I was terrified that day. Although I knew they had my best interest in mind, the shitty parental care was the only reality I knew of, and I adapted to it. I was crying inconsolably in the back seat of the car. I vaguely remember that first time pulling up into the driveway of my foster home. It was off a back road off the highway. Upon arrival, I noticed a trailer and a huge front yard with several children's toys, including a red punch buggy car. All of a sudden, out walked my foster mom, who greeted the social worker and me and began to try to make me feel at home. Once they helped me into the trailer, they began to unload and bring in my belongings, including my feeding machine and other medical-related supplies. Then the social worker showed my foster mom how to set up and operate the feeding machine. She would also demonstrate how to put on my AFO and open and close my walker. Eventually, the social worker said goodbye and left. I remember looking out the glass front door wishing she would not go and leave me with these strangers. I would meet my foster dad that evening.

Life at this home was more stable than life with my birth parents. I had a regular bedtime. I shared a room that had a bunk bed with my foster brother. I slept in the lower bunk, and he took the top bunk. Unlike being able to do anything I wanted at my parents' house, my foster parents had rules they expected me to comply with. I, however, did not want to do what was requested. I attempted to weasel myself out of being required to comply by throwing violent temper tantrums. I would flail my extremities, scream, hit, bite, pull hair, spit, throw things, etc. Despite my best efforts, I always eventually had to comply with the rules in the end. I am ashamed to admit that I used this tactic too often to get out of obeying.

For recreation, I had many activities to choose from. I had a red children's desk with a storage area. This desk had a whiteboard as a top for drawing on it with washable markers. When I opened the top, there was an alphabet board with spikes. I would have to press the letters onto those spikes. Likewise, this foster family had a gaming system I could spend hours on. I also enjoyed the red punch buggy car. Although I had long outgrown this car, I would somehow manage to fit myself in it and move it by pedaling it. People would also push me around the yard or down the road. I just had to hold my feet up.

Our neighbors, relatives, or friends of my foster parents had Billy goats and chickens. As an animal lover, I enjoyed petting and feeding the goats. On rare occasions, I could even hold a baby goat. At least once, my foster mom stayed up all night and assisted a pregnant goat with having her babies. The following day all I wanted to do was go out and see the little ones. At that point in my youth, I never understood why the male goats were always fighting and wanted to intervene because I thought they would harm each other. The less glamorous aspect of living around Billy goats is watching out for their pellet-sized droplets because stepping in a pile meant your shoes stank for a while.

I did not reciprocate my foster parents' nurturing and warm attitudes and feelings. I would always address my foster parents by their first names. When I was mad or did not want to obey, I attempted to deflect the situation by insinuating that they were not my biological parents. I would either yell, 'You are not my birth parents, so I do not have to obey you,' or 'I only will obey my dad.' I saw them as a barrier to me being with my parents. My thoughts were that if I hurt them emotionally and, at times, physically, I would be able to be with my parents again. Oh, how naive I was.

Since DSS revoked my parents' custody rights, I also had to be relocated academically because DSS was afraid that my parents would try to come to see me when they had no right to. In effect, I became the property of the state. I started attending the suburb’s middle school. I was familiar with this school because my half-sister went there. My time here was similar to my time at the elementary.

Meanwhile, my parents were allowed limited time with me under supervised visits. These visitations occurred at the rural DSS building. Usually, a social worker or my guardian would pick me up from my foster home, drive to the DSS building, help me enter the building, and subsequently into their offices. Sometimes, my parents would have already arrived, saw that we had just pulled up, and assisted me into the building.

These visitations occurred in a small, brightly painted room with a camera mounted in one of the corners. We rarely would be allowed to meet in the courtyard behind the building. At other times the caseworkers placed us in a conference room or the break room a few times for the visitations, which lasted forty-five minutes to an hour. During these visits, we would play with the toys in the room, and my parents asked me questions about my week and how school was going. On rare occasions, my hamster Lucky made a surprise appearance, usually in an empty ice cream bucket. I enjoyed seeing his furry little face and smelly sawdust body. When my parents scrounged up enough change, we would make the short trip to the vending machine to make the coveted purchases. My dad helped me walk, supporting me under the arms with his hands. I was delighted to feed dollar bills to the machine or insert change into the coin slot. I would choose from various options, including honeybuns, barbecue chips, cheddar cheese, peanut butter cracker sandwiches, etc. For something to drink, I would choose Mountain Dew when available, but Coke or Sweet Tea whenever my choice was unavailable. Once acquiring the edibles, we would return to the room where the visits would inevitably come to a screeching halt. Then we would say our goodbyes and my parents departed.

I did not handle these goodbyes well. I would hold onto my parents, especially my dad, until the social workers pried me off of him. When that did not work, I would throw temper tantrums that comprised of kicking, screaming, and being difficult to handle. Eventually, I calmed down to the point where the social worker or my guardian could get me in the car and drive me back to my foster home. Preferably I liked riding in my guardian's car because it did not have the seals of the department on its doors and felt like it was an ordinary car ride: a grandmother and her grandson instead of some forced legal transportation. I reacted poorly to my parents leaving the visitations because, as a kid, I felt like the relationships with my parents were the only ones I had known for my entire life, and then to have it dangled in front of me at certain times. It was a sense of security. However, due to my repeatedly poor behavior especially when leaving these meetings, they diminished dramatically. 

My guardian of litem was a constant throughout my time in the foster care system and the early phase of my adoption. A guardian of litem is a person who oversees the child’s best interests in the legal system. She was a soothing mechanism for me during the tumultuous period. As I mentioned, she would still take me to lunches and parks to bond with me. I loved going to the Walmart in the suburb town to get chicken fingers. In addition, I was able to talk to her regularly. Her voice was very calming and reassuring. One ritual I took comfort in was the prayers we would say over the phone at the end of our conversations. I can still hear her voice in my head from time to time.

Just as I started settling into a routine of school, home, and visiting my parents, my world changed dramatically and instantaneously. First, my birth parents identified where I lived and my foster parents' identities. Then, an anonymous tip to DSS alerted the officials of a credible physical threat by my biological father. One day out of the blue, my guardian showed up at the trailer. She proceeded to load my medical equipment, clothes, and other possessions into her car. Then she got me into the backseat of her car, buckled me in, back out of the driveway, and drove away. My clothes and other valuables were in black trash bags. Although these trash bags were clean, they represented the sad reality that I did not own suitcases.

Unannounced to me, the drive was going to be two hours. My guardian and I chatted most of the way up. I assumed I dosed off as well for part of the journey. But, like most ten-year-olds, I did not fully grasp the concept of time. So, I kept asking her how much longer we had on the road. Finally, after what seemed like an eternity, I saw a sign that read, "Welcome." Soon after, we turned off the main highway, entered a modest neighborhood, and eventually pulled into a beautiful front yard driveway, an upgrade from the trailer I had just lived at.

Shortly after, a well-dressed man and woman exited the house and walked towards the car. She had a toddler in tow. After greeting my guardian and talking for a few minutes, they approached the backseat of the passenger's side of the car where I was sitting. My guardian opened the door and introduced them to me as my new foster parents and sister. They proceeded to aid me in getting into the house and on the couch and unloading all my medical equipment and other possessions.

Once they had finished unloading everything, my foster parents gave my guardian and me a grand tour. The architecture was simplistic. Upon entering the house, there was a small corridor, and immediately to your right was an opening leading to the living room. Beyond the living room was the dining room with the kitchen on the right side. Through the kitchen and on the other side of the corridor was a hallway leading to the main bathroom, two bedrooms, and the master bedroom. The far end of the dining room had double glass doors leading to the backyard. In the backyard was an underground pool and a fenced-in yard.

My bedroom was the first of two rooms on the left side of the hallway which was catty-cornered to the bathroom. My bedroom had a king-sized bed. I was delighted with the size of bed, considering I came from a home with bunk beds. My room had a window facing the street and a closet with doors that folded up when opening up. However, my bedroom's most personalized piece of furniture was a blue-painted dresser with "MICHAEL" written in red across the top drawer. This personalization was unique for me because never in my life did I own anything that had my name on it. Once they had convinced me to contain my unbridled excitement, my guardian commenced talking to my foster parents about my care needs. She showed them how to put on my AFOs, set up my feed machine, hook me up to it, set up my walker, etc. After spending time with me and explaining things to my new foster parents’, it was time for her to say goodbye and hit the road to return to the suburban city. I am sure I made a fuss about her leaving me with strangers. I was scared because there I was starting all over again in terms of building relationships and learning the ropes of another environment.

Life with a clergy member differed from life in the rural suburban town. My foster dad was a pastor of a local church. He was busy on Sundays and Wednesdays. I often went with him during the week or weekend and hung out at the church while he worked on his messages or met with members. As the wife of a pastor, my foster mom was often making home visits, making dinners for people, or hosting Bible studies for the women members. During the summer, she would host play/pool dates for my foster sister, who was around two years old. As a clergy family, we got free dinners from our congregants.

However, when my foster mom cooked, it was delicious. I liked several of her meals, such as spaghetti, ham, rolls, etc. My favorite meal she cooked was meatloaf, though she did not cook it that often. She always prepared it in a glass bread pan. I literally would sit in front of the stove and watch it bake. The smell was so irresistible that my mouth began to water. I glazed my serving with ketchup and gobbled it down, savoring every bite. If I had my way, I would have eaten meatloaf for every meal.

My foster parents enrolled me in several programs while I attended this church. First, I was in their preteen program, held in a room off the right side of the sanctuary. Other than meeting during the church services and attending Vacation Bible School, I do not recall anything significant during my time in this program. Then one Sunday, I was promoted to the youth group, which met on the left side of the church near the crossing of the church.

As I recall, this youth group was fun. We met on Sundays and Wednesdays and did various activities designed to help us learn about Jesus Christ and his work on the cross and to help us bond together as a group. One memory, which never came to fruition due to a more significant event colliding with it, directly correlated to our increasing knowledge of Jesus Christ, his work, church's expectations of us as His followers. To publicly declare my allegiance to the church, my foster dad, the minister, would baptize me by immersion. I remember talking to my foster dad about the process. The font was behind the choir stand curtained off. I did not know how to hold my breath then, so he was afraid I would inhale while under the water. We discussed how I needed help getting in and out of the font. On the day of the baptism, I was supposed to wear a white jumpsuit because it represented being encapsulated with the blood of Christ, spilled on the cross for my sins.

Another distinct memory was a sleepover at the church on a Friday night which was super special for me because I would be free from my feeding tube. Yeah, from time to time, I was allowed to skip my nightly feeding when it was warranted. So, my foster dad dropped me off at the church, where I joined the rest of the group. We had pizza delivered to us for dinner. Some of the other boys had brought their gaming systems and had set up a landline gaming room with multiple monitors throughout the church. After staying up too late, we finally retired to our respective sleeping quarters. The boys slept on one side of the church while the girls slept on the other. Before we knew it, our leaders woke us up and told us to pack. Soon after, our parents picked us up one by one, and we went back to reality.

This reality included school. Now obviously, I was enrolled in yet another school in the Fayetteville area. No special memories come to mind besides bus rides to and from school. Due to our location and the route, the bus picked me up around 6 AM, and I rode it for two hours. I remember not wanting to wake up that early, being dressed by my foster dad, being helped to the bus, onto the bus, and ultimately into my seat. I still wore that harness that kept me from falling out of my seat while on the road. So, the bus driver hooked me into place, and we went on our merry little way. Likewise, the ride home from school was similar but in reverse.

Since I had to be ready early to catch the school bus, I performed the night before. Now I was mainly in charge of my hygienic conditions during this time. So, when I needed to use the bathroom at the house, I would crawl to the toilet, pull myself up using the sink as support, position myself, and do my business. When I needed to bathe, I would first rummage through my drawers to get what I wanted to wear and make a pile on my bed. Then one of my foster parents would transport my clothes and towel and place them on the sink countertop.

While they were transporting the clothes and retrieving the towel from the linen closet, I crawled to the bathroom. Once I was in the bathroom, shut the door, and got undressed, I would pull myself up using the sink and maneuver my way over to the tub using the toilet for support. Upon arriving at the tub, I would grab onto the little handlebar inside the shower, sit down on the side of the tub, swing my legs over the side, and lower myself into the tub. My baths consisted of hot water which was my liking. I often took bubble baths. Today I joke to myself that the hot water is as close to hell on earth.

Once I lathered up and had rinsed off, I pulled myself up using the bar, sat on the side of the tub, swung my legs back over the tub, and maneuvered myself into a sitting position on the toilet. I proceeded to dry myself off and get dressed. I struggled to keep my balance while putting on my underwear and pants or shorts. As a result, I often wound up on the floor, where it was easier to put on my clothes. Once dressed, I would crawl to wherever I wanted to be, whether to my bedroom or the living room.

Although my feeding tube was how I received the majority of my nutrition, I still ate portions of meals throughout the day. Thus, I needed to brush my teeth. I would crawl into the bathroom and pull myself into a standing position utilizing the sink. Then I grabbed my toothbrush and toothpaste and then maneuvered myself over to the toilet, where I sat while I brushed my teeth. During this time, I used a kid's toothpaste because I tended to swallow it, and it had less potential to harm me, being that I was consuming a whole lot of toothpaste. Occasionally, my foster parents would do a follow-up with a brush to my teeth to make sure it was thorough.

Meanwhile, my parents still had visitation rights. Since they were around two hours away and did not own a reliable car, the number of times I saw them greatly diminished, which was compensated by calls to me occasionally, which usually occurred after I had taken care of my hygiene needs. The phone would ring, and after realizing that it was my parents, my foster mom or dad would find me to hand over the phone to me. Eventually, I discovered that my foster parents would monitor these calls by listening via another connected telephone. These calls had time restraints, so before I knew it, one of my foster parents would be peering in and saying, "It is time to say goodbye and hang up." I would always try to get a few more minutes in but was not successful.

When they could arrange a ride up to Fayetteville to see me in person, we would meet at the Fayetteville DSS building or the mall. On one of these visits to the DSS building, Lucky made a surprise appearance. I was so excited to see his cute little face with his whiskers. I probably held him way too tight the whole time. As a result, he perhaps dropped turds out of fright. Ultimately, my parents rescued him from my clutches and placed him in the ice cream bucket. We gave him his chew stick. Sadly, this was the last time I ever saw Lucky. Though I never will know what happened to Lucky or how he died, I hope he received the proper care. That little rodent brought so much joy to my life.

Meanwhile, home life at this foster home was standard for a pre-teenager. I used to wake up on Saturdays before seven and crawl clumsily to the living room, where I would turn on the TV and navigate through the channels until I found a show that interested me. I would watch it until my foster parents woke up, got my foster sister up, and cooked a hearty breakfast. This breakfast usually consisted of sausage, eggs, bacon, and pancakes. During other down times on the weekends and holidays, I would watch prerecorded Pokémon episodes or play my Nintendo 64, which I enjoyed in the living room.

When I watched a Pokémon episode, I would maneuver myself over to the entertainment center, open the glass door, pick out the episode I wanted to watch, insert it into the VCR player, turn on the TV, and press play on the remote control when I was either on the couch or leaning against it. When I wanted to play my Nintendo 64, I would do the same ritual except with the game cartridges and console. In addition, I would unravel my controller cord, plug it into the console, and toss the controller in the direction of where I would be sitting.

As if those activities were not enough to keep me busy, I thoroughly enjoyed playing with the foster family's cat named Malcolm. He was tabby. Like any cat, he had moments when he wanted to be left alone. He also loved playing with those cat bell balls. I would toss one, and he went right after it. At first, he was scared of me as a human version of him clumsily coming his way on all four. Over time, he settled down and let me pet him. He would let me know when he had enough with his claws, though. He was a mixture of an indoor/outdoor cat, so my foster parents had a cat door leading to the garage. I got to admit I was mischievous. I would lock the door so he could not enter the house. Not soon after, we would hear meowing, and my foster parents would realize that I had locked the cat door and raced to unlock it, which was followed by a lecture not to obstruct the cat door.

However, these harmonious times were often abruptly interrupted by my outbursts of anger, which mainly stemmed from my not liking to be told what to do. I would yell, throw things, hit my foster parents, pull their hair, and even bite them at times if they tried to restrain me physically. These outbursts would usually subside once I either realized that my efforts to get out of what they asked me to do were in vain or I tired out. On rare occasions, they even called my guardian to see if she could calm me down and talk some sense into me. These violet bursts of anger became so frequent that my foster parents sought professional guidance on handling me. This move was also fueled by a genuine concern for their toddler's safety because when it escalated, it did not matter who was in my path. They were also concerned about my safety. So, the professionals came over to discuss de-escalation tactics.

There were two main de-escalation tactics the professionals taught my foster parents to employ depending on the danger level I presented to myself or others. If I did not pose any danger to anyone, my foster parents would leave me alone until I was tired and calmed down. Nevertheless, when I presented an immediate threat to those around me, the professionals suggested that, if possible, they wrap me up in a blanket papoose style. This strategy was to contain my limbs while I was uncontrollable and prevent me from hurting myself or others.

In between these outbursts and interventive measures, the professionals talked to me and attempted to teach me methods how to regulate my emotions and feelings. Ultimately, they intended to eliminate violence. They told me that it was completely normal to feel like I did and that talking about it was fine, but violence was not acceptable. The experts taught my foster parents questions that they asked if they sensed I was getting worked up. Questions like, "On a scale of one to ten, how angry are you?" With one being not angry and ten being anger beyond the level of de-escalation. However, when it reached a point beyond de-escalation, they suggested I find a pillow or something inanimate and take out my frustrations on it. Unfortunately, these proactive measures did not produce the desired outcomes.

While these violent temper tantrums were ongoing and frequent, we, as a foster family, did have some great times. The Christmas I was with them, we went up to a northern state to visit my foster parents' family. One early morning, we all got into the family's silver van and drove eight hours. My recollection of this trip is hazy; however, I remember riding a lawnmower with my foster dad. I also got a CD player for Christmas that year.

All the while, I continued to converse with my guardian regularly, if not daily. Occasionally, she made the two hours to Fayetteville to spend time with me in person. Regardless of whether we talked on the phone or spent time in person, we would say a prayer together. For me, it was a comforting measure and coping mechanism. During one of these in-person visits, my guardian broke some devastating news to me as a ten-year-old. She broke the news that Social Services had revoked my parents' parental rights, which meant that I would not be able to have any form of contact with my parents. As a result, Social Services would start searching for a new family.

However, I was going to be able to spend time with them one more time. Once the day had arrived, a social worker picked me up and drove me to the mall, where we met my parents. This meeting lasted two hours, during which we shared a meal at the food court. The meal consisted of chicken nuggets from Chick-fill-a. After we had finished the meal, we headed over to the arcade, where we indulged in playing games and taking pictures in the photo booth. Pretty soon, though, the time had elapsed, and it was time to say bye. Once we had said our final goodbyes, my parents aided the social worker with getting me into the car, where we embraced one last time.