Sometime before Christmas, I received a call from a (mildly) injured employee, Pattycakes. Pattycakes and I had some trouble finding a suitable doctor who could see her immediately, but we finally tracked one down. She was treated and, afterwards, sent me a Christmas card telling me how grateful she was for my kindness and compassion on the phone with her that day. Yes, I was touched, but something deep inside me mumbled, "Careful."

A couple of weeks later, I received another call from Pattycakes, asking me to compare our corporate insurance benefits/costs to her current provider, the carpenter's union. She told me she'd been abused as a child and needed to get some psychological counseling. (Sound of alarm bell blaring in my head.) Unfortunately, I told Pattycakes, she has no choice. As a carpenter, she must use the union insurance even though it's exorbitantly costly and offers paltry coverage. Again, that voice deep inside me grumbled, a little louder this time, "Careful!"

Today I received three, count them, three separate injury reports from Pattycakes. She included three separate EOB statements from her health insurance provider and a note asking for my help in resolving payment issues with the hospital/radiology clinic/masseuse. Are the injuries work related? She doesn't know, but she thinks so. Why did she submit the bills to her health insurance provider? Beats me. See? Always, always listen to that little voice.

Needy. Pattycakes is needy and talking to Ggirl can be such a comfort. Ggirl, much like mommy, can make it all better and make you laugh. I believe I have a winner. Pattycakes is my first Problem Child of the new year. Don Quixote was scary; that does not constitute Problem Child status. No, the Problem Child will continue to haunt me for months, pleading with me to intercede on her behalf with our workers' comp provider. Pattycakes the Problem Child will be anxious about being fired (which she will not be), she will continue to have hurties (because they're all kind of nebulous and hard to pin down), she will eventually strain my patience to its limits. She will test my patience because what she really wants is emotional comfort. Unfortunately, that's not my job.

I've had at least one (but generally two or three) Problem Children every year for the past ten years. From time to time, one Problem Child is held over for a couple of years, eventually and invariably becoming Hurt Employee Who Will Make Me Wade Through Tons of Paperwork and Attend Countless Hearings. I don't think Pattycakes will become one of those, but it's anybody's guess at this point. As I previously noted, our hurties are nebulous.

I'm a beacon of hope in a hopeless world. I always have been. The hurt, the needy, the merely inconvenienced flock to me in droves. "Let me tell you my problems," they say, "let me grab you around the neck and squeeze so tightly that you can't breathe. Because I need you. Because you're the only person who can help me. You're the only person who understands me." Sometimes, when I can't stand it anymore, they stomp their feet and demand that I dedicate myself to comforting them. I have made a career of solving unsolvable problems, soothing wounded egos, calming the grumpy and agitated. Excellent job choices on my part.

Now why is it again that I have such resistance to interacting with other humans? I'm sure Pattycakes will be a substantive part of this week's therapy.

Requisite up side? I'm wearing new black suede, high heeled ankle boots. Never underestimate the emotional comfort of new boots.