By Arcana Siddhi Devi Dasi
THE HOSPITAL ROOM SMELLS strongly of antiseptic as I walk in. Chris sits on his bed, immersed in rapidly pushing buttons with his thumbs. "Nintendo?" I ask nonchalantly, breaking his concentration. "Play Station," he replies, continuing to madly push buttons. I sit in a chair next to his bed, observing his strategy for blowing things up. After a couple of minutes, Chris slams the game paddle to the floor. "I hate this game," he snarls, with a few expletives thrown in. Instinctively I reply, "Hmm, sounds like you're really angry." My statement of the obvious sounds ludicrous to both of us. Chris ignores me. He covers his head with the bed sheet and mumbles to himself. I feel uncomfortable and don't know what to say to draw him out. Chris is an eleven-year-old boy I've been working with in mental-health therapy for the past year. He has a history of explosive, raging outbursts. Recently he kicked a brick wall so hard he broke the femur in his right leg. Now he's confined to a hospital bed with pins in his leg. I make another feeble attempt to connect to him. "Anger is a powerful feeling. Looks like we need to explore new ways for you to control it, rather than it control you." After enduring a few more minutes of silence, I decide to try a different approach. " I brought you some cookies," I say with as much enthusiasm as I can muster. At this, he peers out from under the sheet and asks, "What kind?" Relieved to hear some response, I reply "Peanut butter." He puts his hand out, and I place the cookies in it. Both he and the cookies disappear under the sheet. The muted sound of his munching fills the sterile room.