Pear-Shaped, My Ass. (Well, Actually…)

The other day, I wore a new pair of pants to work; nothing too exciting, just Old Navy courderoyish (not quite that much of a ridge pattern, but similar), in an olive-drab color. Paired them with a black long-sleeved t-shirt and black clunky loafers, and felt reasonably good about my outfit. It was nothing outstanding, but it matched and didn’t appear to highlight any of my personal weak spots or disproportions.

Hah.

Today, I came in and read an email sent to my supervisor by the local police department. They’re unhappy that I sent that particular client home, even though the client was not suicidal, the family had no extra information to add and was not willing to commit him to the state hospital, and the police officer who was present barely acknolwedged my presense, much less offered any input to my assessment. Plus, the client has a standing diagnosis of a Traumatic Brain Injury following a car accident three years ago; good luck getting him placed in a psychiatric facility until they are good and certain that they can’t pawn him off on a medical facility somewhere.

There were lots of politics involved, and I realized this, so I documented everything carefully and went about my day. Apparently this same client went home and had an “outrage,” his term for losing control, harming himself, damaging property, and so on. The police think that if I had hospitalized him, this subsequent event would have been avoided. Perhaps they’re right, but I acted in good faith and would come to the same decision if presented with the same information again. So I’m not terribly concerned about the police being unhappy; if I get through an entire week without irritating someone with a work-related decision, I think there must be something wrong.

No, what upsets me is that first of all, the police officer on site lied. He said I had not consulted with the family or with police before making my decision; for one thing, I don’t always need to, depending on circumstances, but for another, I sat in a room with the family for half an hour, and asked the officer, twice, if he had anything to add. The fact that I did not simply, blindly hospitalize this guy just because the police officer brought him in does not equal a failure to corroborate evidence. The cop never even said, “I think you should hospitalize him,” so while I understood, implicitly, that this is what the police always want when they bring someone in, I didn’t receive any actual feedback to the contrary.

And secondly, I’m personally offended by the way the officer described me in his report. He never bothered to ask my name, and he described me as “a pair-shaped [sic]  young woman with dark hair pulled into a ponytail and glasses.” I did not have my hair back in a ponytail. And pardon me while I correct your grammar, but pear-shaped? Really? Ugh. I get that I’m heavyset, but I always thought I was at least top-heavy enough to balance out the bottom half.

I am never wearing those pants in public again.