The suicidal Prostitute in my office
A stuffed animal helped save a life.
Prostitution. The second oldest profession is still a crime. No longer considered as serious as some statutes, it could still lead to incarceration.
Such was the case when she sauntered into our office. When she sat, she bent, head in hands with her palms providing protection from eye contact, a place to hide while meeting within arm’s length.
Not to be unkind, but these were some of my thoughts.
This person was not the least bit attractive. Why would someone pay her for sex?
In our culture, where hookups are easy with no commitments, why resort to a paid erotic encounter?
This was not the woman’s initial court exposure. Because she was a repeat offender, she was facing jail time.
She was obviously already locked up, even if not behind bars.
She conducted a transaction with an undercover officer resulting in her arrest, but other customers caused her more harm. What wasn’t as explicit were the hurts and pain she implied, but that screamed at me. Her mood deteriorated during the interview.
The Dilemma
Suicide was not a taboo topic in our offices. Most of the time, when it came up; it was not taken seriously.
This woman told me she not only felt helpless and hopeless but confided that death looked attractive. Pills, alcohol, and other drugs were readily available. She had a timeframe in mind when she wanted to check out.
These warning bells grew louder. I could not coerce her to get help unless she harmed herself in my office.
She wasn’t the only one who needed saving. I wanted to consult with a supervisor for help with how best to help her. I suspected that if I abandoned her, she might leave. I felt not only responsible but also urgently obligated to act.
On my office shelf, I had a few small stuffed cows. Family and coworkers knew of my affinity for them. They gifted me with a small herd, a few of which were corralled in my office. They provided smiles and stress relief.
Comfort Offered
I grabbed one and handed it over, promising a quick return. I thought I saw her lips quiver.
After quickly securing advice, I called the Rescue Squad. They told me she could only be transported to the Mental Health Unit if she agreed to go.
When I returned to her, she was clutching the little cow like a cowboy taming a calf in the rodeo. I explained her options.
While awaiting the ambulance, in my head, I questioned, “Whatif she leaves? What if she kills herself?”
I felt a little fearful and sad. It felt horrendous to be in that room. I’m sure she felt far worse.
Compounding the ambiguity, she didn’t agree to get on the stretcher until the First Responders got there.
As they wheeled her into the hall, I felt so relieved.
My supervisor came to assure me that I handled the crisis well. My tears flowed by then, but I was thankful for the outcome. Though I dare not call it happy.
I ran into the client some time later. She didn’t thank me. I think she was embarrassed, but she told me she still had the little cow. I never anticipated using the little stuffed animal in that manner, but I was so glad it was available and that I was able to provide a bit of comfort in this truamtic encounter.
