Easy Money and White Ermine

As I made my rounds of 9 North, I heard the sound of a young woman sobbing. Was this fragile girl, as delicate as a butterfly drained of every vestige of color, the prostitute whose chart I had scanned that morning? As I approached her bed, she wept, “I want to go ho-ome, home to my Momma.”

Although her mother lived in another state, we succeeded in reaching her, and the woman seemed pleased to hear that her daughter wanted to come home. But she indicated that she was not able to send her money for the bus fare.

Nor did Traveler’s Aid have funds, I learned, to help those whose wallets had been stolen or lost nor our fragile slip of a girl, however sad and painful her circumstances.

Once more I dipped into my own pocket, later to be reimbursed by The Ladies Auxiliary. I never failed to feel that we in the social work department owed an enormous debt to those ladies for their monetary support of our efforts.

A little money was more than helpful in carrying out a plan of action. When this young girl who seemed so innocent, so vulnerable was discharged, I hoped that she would return to school, put her city adventures behind her, settle back into the life of a small-town girl, for she lacked any of the hardness and big city sophistication of others who were admitted to 9 North.

One such patient told me that she was financially unable to give up her profession, because she could make thousands in a week. Easy money. When she told me what she paid for rent in the luxury apartment building in which she resided, I was tempted to whistle to show my amazement. A great gulf yawned between us and between our respective earnings. If I had revealed my salary to my patient, she would probably have hooted in derision. Of course, she had no intention of giving up her line of work, to give up the luxurious lifestyle she enjoyed. That last word — I cannot help but ponder, did she enjoy what she did to earn the money to pay for her luxurious apartment, the designer dresses she wore?

One young woman told me that with the advent of crack upon the New York scene, she saw a frightening change in the behavior of her pimp. She had never seen such violence, she admitted, shivering as she spoke, now fearful of the man who was supposed to be her protector and manager. Yet I was certain that she was not ready to give up prostituting and might never be.

In France, I read that prostitutes are supervised by the government and given regular medical examinations. That struck me, as a believer in preventive medicine, as a civilized approach to the world’s oldest profession, whereas, in New York City, from time to time the newspapers wrote of prostitutes rounded up and incarcerated for plying their trade. And from time to time they applied to Bellevue for treatment of severe infections, and still they plied their trade.

A young woman insisted that she wanted to consult me. I did not make a habit of trying to convert prostitutes to different life styles. In fact, I was often skeptical when they asked to see the social worker, even resisted expending valuable time interviewing them. But this young woman begged me to help her. If I did not help her, she said, she would die on the street. She feared she would die of an overdose of drugs. Was she really ready to give up this life? Yes, she said, hadn’t she told the nurses that she did not want her pimp visiting her, hadn’t she refused to see him?

With her firm assurances, her impassioned pleas for help ringing in my ears, I contacted a residential facility for young addicts. Write a letter giving some background information, include pertinent medical information, I was told, and when she was ready for discharge, I was to inform the facility that she was on the way. It did appear at this point that she had been infected with fear, and fear could be a powerful motivater.

When another patient expressed concern about her future, working as a prostitute, she too seemed fearful of continuing in her profession. Although she had a kind of tough, hard exterior, when she told me that she had no family, no friends, and asked to be referred for public assistance, I wanted to show her that someone cared enough to go out on a limb for her, so to speak; therefore I arranged to meet her at the welfare center and waited with her until she could be interviewed.

The day that the young woman who pleaded with me to refer her to a facility for young addicts was discharged, the head nurse told me that she had waltzed away from 9 North without picking up her prescriptions or her clinic appointment, without a thank you or a goodbye.

“That girl was wearing a floor length white ermine coat,” the head nurse said. “Now why couldn’t I have a coat like that?” she laughed. The other nurses giggled and raised their eyebrows. I smiled to think of our wonderfully intelligent, stalwart head nurse with her dark skin clad in white ermine.

That same year my fragile slip of a girl whom we had seen on her way back to her home state and Momma, showed up again. Readmitted to be treated again for pelvic inflammatory disease. Of what use would it have been for me to intervene on her behalf again? I decided that she was neither as fragile nor as innocent as she had appeared, for she found the means to return to New York and to resume her former way of life. Had she missed the excitement of New York City, had she missed the protection of her pimp, the lure of easy money?

Had she found life with her mother back home unable to sustain her emotionally? I chose not to interview her again, for we social workers cannot always rescue those who seem in need of rescuing.