And Ron’s right, we do have clients coming. As occupational therapists in early intervention work, our clients are children from ages zero to six. We always need to be at our best for them, but right now for me, it’ll take a Herculean effort to put this new info on hold.
What’s going to happen to these kids when the center closes?
Ron offers a sad smile. “Again, I’m sorry about the grant not being renewed and the university reallocating our funds.”
“Reallocating, my foot,” Tracy whispers her retort.
Ron gives a look that means to be reprimanding, but we all see through it. Ever since the university got a new president last year, there have been talks of a “reallocation of funds” for some of the smaller programs like ours. Really, it’s just the university saying our program isn’t flashy or sexy enough to garner the big bucks. Prevention, even when we’re talking about kids, takes a back seat to the programs that bring in the fancy donors, like sports. Allegedly, sports are flashier.
“Like Charlotte said, It’s the nature of programs like ours.” Ron chews on his lips. They look dry, which makes me wonder if he’s dehydrated from his surgery. “And to be clear, the university isn’t cutting the program outright, they’re just…not renewing us.” But from the look on Ron’s face, he knows the difference is a fine line.
Silence settles around us and I shift, wishing I could go back to the time before this announcement.
Tracy’s right,” he says. “The work we’ve done will continue and the impact each of you’ve had can’t be overstated. She and I will regroup.” He looks down at his casted arms, tries to raisethem, and then winces, setting them back down. “I just apologize that this leaves no more funds for your salaries. I will vouch for each of you. There are other OT jobs on campus and in the community, so I’ll do all I can to help you get settled into something else as quickly as possible.”
“So we have about two months?” Willa asks, her face pale. “Til the funding runs out?”
Ron nods. “June first is the expected closure date.”
His eyes brim with tears under his thick glasses, and I have to fight back my own.
“If you end up getting a job, obviously, no need to stay until June first,” Ron adds. “We’d love to have you until then ,if possible, but we understand when you get something else, you can’t always wait to start it.”
“Two months!” Tracy’s got her “rallying the troops” look on her face again. “We’ve got two months to end things on a high note!” I’ve seen the look in staff meetings, when we’re brainstorming over a particularly difficult client. Or at our Christmas parties, when she tries to take a non-existent budget to make something nice for us. Usually that involves homemade treats and a highlight reel of all the photos she’s taken throughout the year.
With a dash of pain, I realize there won’t even be a Christmas party this year. By the time Christmas rolls around, the center will be long gone.
“What about our clients? They’re getting the shaft, too.” I lean back in my chair, the urge to fight this thing threatening to take over. I think of MJ, one of my favorite kids. I just worked with her this morning. She’s got sass, spunk ,and strength—and a case of Developmental Dysplasia of the Hip so severe she needs to have surgery.
At five years old, she has to go under the knife because her symptoms were initially so mild that no one noticed. Her caseflew under the radar until she presented with hip pain and came here.
The first day I worked with her, I was afraid this would happen. And this morning, they confirmed it. The brace we tried didn’t help, and she’d finally gotten in to see the surgeon, who wanted to schedule right away. In tears, her mother begged me for a second opinion, an alternative to the open reduction with pelvic osteotomy.
I couldn’t give her one. I know that, in the long run, the surgery is best. But that also means weeks in a waist-to-heel cast. And then more bracing in a harness.
It’s brutal.
I know because I’ve been there. I was four when they did the open reduction—cut bone, screws, and months in a spica cast.
I wouldn’t wish it on anyone, especially not MJ.
That was when everything changed.
Chapter 2
Taysom
Sharppain.
It hits me hard for a second, and then it goes down to a raw throb.
I’m fine. I plant my hands on either side of me on the practice field at the San Antonio Wolves stadium. If I put most of thepressure on my left arm, I’ll be able to get up. It’s just a stinger in my right shoulder from all the throws.
“You good?” my teammate, Foster Massey asks, extending a hand to help me up.
I shake my head at his hand. Getting up on my own will help work out the throb. I’ve been pushing myself extra hard today at our spring workout due to last night’s news.
Somehow despite the whistle in his mouth, our offensive coordinator Coach Scarloni manages to let out a string of obscenities.
