Waiting for His Life

A young man sits in his wheelchair, watching time pass, while his life is shaped by appointments, interruptions, and other people’s schedules.

I was assigned as a CASA (court-appointed special advocate) to a teenager in foster care. He had paraplegia and a traumatic brain injury after an accident. Combined with a complicated family situation, his injuries placed him in permanent state custody.

I began visiting him when he was seventeen.

As foster placements go, his was good. He lived in a private apartment with another teenager and a full-time caregiver. He had strong support, including a person who had cared for him in the hospital and remained a constant. His friends’ families included him in holidays and gatherings.

My role was simple: check in, build a connection, report to the guardian ad litem.

I visited monthly. I usually brought food—Chick-fil-A, In-N-Out, and his favorite Chips Ahoy.

He was always polite.

But there was no connection.

Even after a year, I didn’t really know him. I was just one more adult from “the system” showing up once a month to ask how he was doing.

I was an inconvenience—

until he got sick.

He developed severe wounds on his feet and needed constant care: complicated soaks, dressing changes, and caregivers arriving at different times. They were often late and rarely the same person.

Each visit meant waiting.

Strangers in his space.

His routine disrupted.

He had places to go and things to do, but instead he stayed home, waiting.

He hated it.

When there was a brief gap in support, I offered to come during his care visits. He said he would be grateful.

So I increased my visits.

And while I sat with him, he talked.

That’s when I finally met him.

He was funny. Once, he made exaggerated gagging noises to see if he could make me jump. When I scooted back, startled, he burst out laughing.

“Made you jump.”

He told me about girls he liked and the drama on the bus.

Then he told me the hardest thing in his life.

It wasn’t the accident.

Or the wheelchair.

Or the pain.

Or losing his family.

“Being paralyzed isn’t my problem,” he said.“All these people who come to see me and interrupt me—that’s the problem. I can’t live my life. I have to wait for them.”

“The social worker. The caseworker. The guardian ad litem. Home health. Therapists.”

“I want to be with my friends—playing basketball, sled hockey, skiing. But I have to stay home and wait. It’s wrecking my life.”

He didn’t say my name.

But I knew I was included.

As his health improved and things stabilized, I stepped back.

The last time I called to schedule a visit, he said, “I’m going to a friend’s house, but I can come back sooner to meet you.”

“No,” I said. “You don’t need to.”

By then, he was twenty—still under state care, but capable of deciding how to spend his time and with whom.

I wasn’t helping him anymore.

I was interrupting his life.

To protect resident privacy, identifying details in this story have been changed. The situations described reflect real issues encountered in long-term care.