On the Eve of Depression

This post is about my job and all the feelings I am experiencing right now. I generally do not talk about it too much, it’s my job but recent events and the overall plan at the place has me slipping downward and I am hopeful writing about it will help put it into a perspective.


(Monson State Hospital for Epileptics, 1911)

I am a social worker at a state facility for people who are developmentally challenged and have epilepsy. Historically the facility is over 130 years old, having started as a poor farm for the indigent from Boston but developing over the years as a state hospital and then Developmental Center for this current population. I started working here in 1983, just beginning my 28th year a couple of weeks ago. When I began here there were about 700 residents in some 15 buildings and about 1600 staff. In December 2009 we were informed that the state was going to close 4 of the 5 facilities for this general population over the coming three years. Now, with 19 months left we are down to 90 people and 300 staff. Just 2 buildings. If all goes according to plans, in the next 3 months, an additional 18 people will be moved, along with about 50 of the staff. This means our population will be down under 75.


(Simon Building, my first office space in 1983, picture about 1970)

Along the way it has been hard to say goodbye to the individuals and their families, some of which I have worked with for more that 25 years. But it is more than that because people have left before – moved or died. Even changes in caseload meant that families I have had a relationship with changes on a regular basis. But this is different as there is a sense of finality to it.

It first became noticeable soon after the closure announcement. People were down, worried about their jobs, worried about the people who lived here. How would they handle the change after living here so long? Many of the individuals on my caseload have been institutionalized for 60 years or more. They have severe physical and developmental handicaps. How would their families handle this? They have felt a sense of security about the health and safety of their family members for all those years. I spent hours on the telephone speaking with dozens of family members, reassuring them, crying with them, helping them plan and look at options. Helping them make one of the most difficult decisions they might ever make about their loved one. This has been a difficult time for all involved, including me.

More recently two things have happened that have hammered home these points. The first was in early October, our annual Family Day. We have had about 13 of them and I had gone to all but one, which I missed when I lost my leg. It has always been a time of connecting and happiness, often being the only time I might see a person that I talked to regularly on the phone. They always went well. I did not attend this year, I was at a wedding on Long Island and had to miss it. When I talked to staff and family members afterward, everyone commented on the fact that it seemed subdued, that there was little joy there. There was much sadness over speculation that this might be the last one we have. By next October, our population could be about 50 residents or less. Not much for a party.


(Closed Building, current picture)

The other event was more staff-centric. This week we had the annual Employee Christmas Buffet. In my 28 years there have been 27, one being cancelled due to budgetary issues about 10 years ago. I remember when the line for the buffet went out the door and outside of the auditorium where it is held. On this day there were no lines, plenty of empty tables and no waiting. No spirit either. There was a sense of doom and gloom about. There was plenty of speculation that this could be the last one. For the record, the vegetable lasagna was good and the pie, very good. A good time was not had by all.