Tag Archives: mental illness

Fiddlesticks

A document was shared with me today that warmed my heart and then promptly shredded it into a thousand little pieces.  It was a high school term paper written more than 40 years ago by a man with a severe mental illness.  He had written it as an assignment for a high school class – long before his mental illness crept into and took up permanent residence in the dark recesses of his mind.  In it he talked about many aspects of his life – his family, his dating life, his athletic prowess, his shortcomings, his hope for the future.  This paper was so poignant and insightful, so funny and and honest – all I can say is that I loved it.  We would have all been lucky to be so wise at the age of 17.

There were so many things to love about this paper, but in the midst of the paper, there was a line that really caught my attention.  It read:

“I cannot satisfy my frustration with a term such as “Oh fiddlesticks.”

I read this and I literally laughed out loud.  I was in a roomful of co-workers, and I read it aloud to them – a couple of times.  And then I exclaimed, “Yes, yes….a thousand times, yes!”  Truer words have never been spoken, my friends.  Fiddlesticks is some serious bullshit.

There are a handful of words in the English language that I cannot tolerate.  I am not a big fan of the C-word and the N-word is so offensive to me I would never use it nor would I allow anyone in my presence to use it. But the F-word?  Please.  The F-word (and just to be clear, I don’t mean “fiddlesticks”) is sometimes the only word that fits.  There is something so lovely, so cathartic, so right about this word that there are moments it is actually not just preferred – it is downright necessary.  In moments of rage, frustration, disbelief or outright despair, a properly placed F-word has the capacity to relieve the pressure valve.  Really, I am telling you – it is more healing than a hug from Grandma. (No offense, Grandma.)

It’s been a long time since anyone has accused me of being a lady, and I doubt anyone is going to start soon. Lest there be any doubt, this girl is smart, capable and dignified.  But in the right set of circumstances I can have a mouth like a sailor.  Am I proud of that?  Not really.  Do I feel bad about it?  Fuck no.

It’s Never Too Late

It was an unfortunate set of circumstances that led to me doing some of the best social work I have ever done.  As the director of a large program serving adults with mental illness, I always carried a small caseload.  It gave me my “fix” of client contact (a key ingredient to my professional happiness) and kept my clinical skills sharp. No matter how busy my director duties kept me, it was something I insisted on doing.

“Nancy” was one of the clients on my caseload, but she was not our typical client.  She arrived precisely on time every Thursday morning at 10:00 a.m. and her punctuality was so sharp I am pretty sure you could set the atomic clock in Boulder, Colorado by her arrival.  She would wait for me in the waiting room, her hair perfectly coiffed, lipstick carefully applied, hands patiently folded in her lap.  When I would go to retrieve her, the look of recognition on her face offered only a distant warmth.

Nancy never really required much from me or from anyone, really.  She was remarkably self-reliant and only stayed in mental health services to ensure she never repeated the horrors of her distant past.  She would sit with me and independently set up her medication tray for the next week.  She would indulge me by reassuring me that she was happy with her housing, she had followed through on all of her necessary medical and dental appointments, and that she had swallowed every pill prescribed to her in the preceding week.  She would take a quick social detour to talk about movies with me – a common hobby we shared – and tell me what movie she planned to see that upcoming weekend.  Every Saturday afternoon, rain or shine, she saw a matinee.  This was part of the routine, a routine that never allowed for deviation.  After our quick and perfunctory visit, Nancy would leave and make her way to the local clubhouse – another thing she did each and every day.

It was a sad and shocking Wednesday when I got a call from the staff at Nancy’s clubhouse that Nancy had passed away.  She had not shown up there for a day, and then two, when they called her landlord to do a wellness check.  Sure enough, she had passed away peacefully in her sleep.  They were calling to give me the information for the medical examiner and to ask for my help with funeral plans.  It wasn’t the first time I ever had to do this, sadly, as for many of our clients we are the family making the arrangements.  I knew what to do.

In the days that followed, however, I learned that I had my work cut out for me.  I went straight to the funeral home I had used for years.  They were situated in a neighborhood familiar to many of the people we serve, and as a small, independent funeral home they had a lot of heart and compassion.  I worked with the staff to make the difficult decisions without any input – this was one of the many things Nancy and I had never thought to discuss.  The staff at the funeral home and I bonded, and on the way out the door the director gave me his business card.  It was a card that on the front had the funeral home logo, and on the back said “Thank You for Smoking.”  I needed that laugh.

The complicating factor was that Nancy had a fair amount of money saved up in her bank account.  Of course she did; I am telling you this woman had her life put together better than most people I know.  This money was going to be needed to proceed with the funeral arrangements, but the bank told me it could not be accessed without a signature from her next of kin.  This, I knew, was going to be no small feat.  And no small feat it was, indeed.

Nancy had been estranged from her family for decades.  She, of course, was far too guarded to share the details of the story.  But my guess is that like many of the people we serve, her symptoms and her illness got in the way of her relationships.  I had to do some digging, but I did find her brother’s name buried deep in some old records.  I took a deep breath and I picked up the phone.  When her brother answered, I stumbled through trying to explain who I was.  There was no remorse at the other end of the line, no sadness for the news of a loss.  There was, instead, anger.  Lots and lots of anger.  Anger that this person he once fiercely loved in his youth had not been in his family’s life for years upon years.  Anger about the things that had transpired and had led to the relationship’s demise.  Anger that now he was supposed to do something, however small, to help.

It took several hours of conversation over a couple of days to get the brother to come around.  He needed validation – the one thing that almost every angry person ever needs – and he got a lot of it.  He was validated that his experience, heart-breaking as it was, was not all that uncommon.  He was validated that mental illness is cruel and sometimes takes no prisoners.  He was validated that it was okay he was mad, for most people in his circumstance would be.  And slowly, ever so slowly, he came around.  He agreed to go to the bank, “but that’s all I’m doing.”  Fair enough.

It was really all I needed, because I had a funeral to plan and that had been the only thing holding me back.  The day of the funeral arrived, and the funeral home was packed with all of Nancy’s friends and colleagues from the clubhouse.  It was quite moving, actually, to juxtapose this scene with the images I had formed over the past few days of her family estrangement.  Shortly before the services started, I saw a man standing at the back of the room.  It’s funny how sometimes a face perfectly matches a voice, and I knew in an instant who it was – it was Nancy’s brother.  I gingerly approached and introduced myself to this curmudgeonly man who seemed to have found some love in that heart of his.  He thanked me for reaching out and quickly set his limits again.  “I’m not staying.”  I assured him it was beautiful that he showed up at all.  What I could see in his eyes was a little bit of mourning and a little bit of peace.  What he had lost over the years with his sister, clearly a lot of other people had found.

The service was lovely and included all kinds of funny stories that few people knew about our private, guarded Nancy.  I left that day and I thought I had finally been able to do something for Nancy – if nothing else, I gave her a good send off.  This was good enough for me.

A couple months later, I was at my desk when my phone rang.  I recognized the voice, but it took me a couple of minutes to orient to who it was.  It was Nancy’s brother, this time reaching out to me.  There was a warmth in his voice that I hadn’t heard before.  He told me that he wanted to call and thank me for doing what he would have not been able to do by planning Nancy’s funeral, and I assured him it was my privilege and honor.  But mostly, he said, he was calling to let me know that he had taken Nancy’s ashes a few days prior and placed them in his family’s mausoleum.  After decades of being on her own, Nancy was right back where she belonged – with her family.  I hung up the phone, and wiped away some tears.  It’s never too late, I thought, and the world felt a little more right in that moment.

The Wonderful Walt

For years my brother-in-law had spoken of his co-worker Walt with such high esteem that his very essence almost seemed implausible.  Walt, it seemed, was the kind of guy who naturally elicited phrases like “salt of the earth” and “a good egg” whenever spoken of.  I had heard about him so much and in such endearing terms I wasn’t even sure I’d be able to relate when I finally met him.  I remember the first time I met him, too, and to compensate for my own feelings of comparative inadequacy I think I made a few cracks about needing to roll out the red carpet for the famous Walt.  But then I spent a little time with him, and right away I got it. No one had been exaggerating about Walt.

Over the years, I got to know Walt a bit, here and there.  There were the occasional gatherings at one place or another.  A couple of the gatherings were even at Walt’s house, and it was fun to peel back the layers.  This was a guy who had some serious interests.  Baseball, Coca-Cola memorabilia, rockets, robots.  So cool, I thought.  I need some interests.  How does that even happen, getting some interests?  I have no idea. But Walt had a bunch of ’em.

So fast forward a good two or three years, and several of us were assembled for my brother-in-law’s birthday at the Mineshaft of all places.  My friend and I were playing some of the silly games and drinking beers.  We were chit-chatting and making cracks at one another and doing what people do in those scenarios.  Walt popped by to say a quick hello and we did our cordial thing.  As he walked away, I said to my friend, “That’s Walt.  He is such an interesting guy.  He’s all into rockets and robots and all these fun things that I don’t get.”

My friend stopped cold in her tracks.  “Wait a minute.  His name is Walt.  And he likes rockets.  Is that what you said?”  I confirmed that indeed I had, and my friend put it all together.  She told me she was pretty sure he had been coming to one of our agency’s group homes on a regular basis for years to take one of the residents with mental illness to the hobby shop to work on model rockets.

We quickly called Walt back and he confirmed that yes, he had a friend who lived at Jackson House and that for years he had been helping with model rocketry.  He had initially met this friend at the local rocket launches and had quickly realized he was “different” from everyone else – and sometimes, sadly, he was not so well received by others in the group.  Walt took it upon himself to take this man under his wing and lead by example.  He didn’t just decide to help him at the monthly rocket launches and protect him from the scrutiny of others, he decided to get involved in a bigger way.  Almost every week from that day forward, he picked up his friend, took him to the hobby shop and spent hours with him working on model rockets.  He even arranged for the hobby shop to let them use a special room that was quieter and less stimulating.  As time went on, Walt got to know his friend’s family and brought them Christmas gifts each year.  He took phone calls at odd times and sometimes repeatedly so.  Walt confessed that he was pretty sure that he got more benefit out of the friendship than the man he had befriended.

It takes a lot to blow me away, and in my line of work I sometimes think I have seen it all.  But I hadn’t seen it all, it turns out.  I had never seen anyone do this.  Deciding to befriend one of our clients, without expecting anything in return.  Getting involved, and staying involved for years on end.  Becoming not just a friend, but an extended family member.  And doing so, for all of these years, so quietly and unassuming, without any call for recognition.  This, I thought, is the kind of human spirit we are all surely capable of, yet few achieve.  This is love.

Years more have passed, and I still see Walt every now and and again.  I always ask, and he always confirms:  he is still going to the hobby shop every week with his friend.  I have to admit, I look at Walt differently than I did in those first few years I knew him.  I look at him with a warmth and a respect on a level I don’t often feel.  He reminds me of the good in the world and makes me want to do better.  And while that kind of good just doesn’t happen every day, Walt has reminded me it should.