Window Seat

‘Sitting in the window seat, one seat between the Big Guy on the aisle and myself.  ’thinking, wow, maybe I’ll have a little space on this long flight halfway around the world. 

Instead I have a new friend.  Her name is Chasti, she’s a Filipina RN, working in the States, going ‘home’ for a month to visit her family.  We sat together and shared a bit of our lives with each other from the west coast of California to Taipei in the East.  Her husband is a Firefighter/Emergency Services guy, works alongside her.  They have a one year old son, who lives with her birth family when she and hubby are off working on the Carnival Cruise ship based out of Florida.  No, she wasn’t on the boat that broke down a few weeks ago.  Her husband went home a few weeks ago, and she’s following.  She told me her contracts are a written up differently with their dates on and off.

I asked her about her work on the Cruise Ship.  She told me there are three RNs who rotate around the clock, 2 always on, 1 off.  Two MDs on the ship.  I asked her the types of calls they get.  I wondered.  People with chronic conditions that flare up? 

In rare circumstances.  ‘Most of the patients she sees are fools.  Vacationers who look at all that food (that they already paid for), thinking now, “it’s free”.  Gluttony kicks in, they eat more than they can handle, get sick and “Help, help, I need help!” 

Or the couple at the bar, when the lady slips down the oak to flirt with some other guy.  Then HER GUY, drunk with madness, starts a fight! 

I suppose it should come as no surprise.  A few years in Isla Holbox, a tiny island off the tip of the Yucatan, I came across a little medical clinic.  Of course I went to check it out.  The Doctor there told me just about the same story.  Drunk tourists who fall down the stairs, break their leg.  Get in fights and fall down.  People, what are you doing out there??

Sharing is Caring - or an Invitation to a Fight

We’re on a full-to-the-brim 36-bed male unit for the severely Mentally Ill.  Three score of 22-57 year olds and the NA/AA (Narcotics Anonymous/Alcoholics Anonymous) meeting is in session.  Most of the ‘groups’ that take place here are staff-initiated.  This group is different.  One of our borderline, paranoid schizophrenic patients, JZ, initiated this meeting.  He’s totally delusional most of the time.  But he has his good days.  The stories he tells - we wonder, really??   Stories about 'the Haight', places we recognize.  We laugh a lot with him.

JZ asked to get NA started, even explained to us how to get the books and materials necessary for a real meeting.  He wanted to make sure ‘we can we have coffee & donuts, okay?’  We encouraged him to get other interested patients to sign up, and so he did.  It’s not anonymous, but that’s the way it is here.  Nothing is anonymous.  About a third of the guys on the unit put their name to paper.    

I’ve been to a few of these meetings now; I must say I’m learning more about these guys now than I did in years of ‘working’ with them.  They speak from their hearts, and sometimes I just want to cry.  Steven, who told of starting to drink when his “wife left me and took my kids, I was so damned lonely”.  Or Kelly, who spoke of when he was “two or three years old, my dad, he’d beat my mom all the time; I couldn’t do anything about it.  He’d come home and beat her and then one time he stabbed her over and over and over again and he went to prison.  He got out and came back and started beating her again.  I was just a kid, I couldn’t do anything”.   In my opinion, a lot of these guys are the remnants of a sick and apathetic society that didn't take care of them when they were so very, very small and innocent.

It’s 1030, military time, at the 24-hour locked state mental hospital where I work as a Registered Nurse.  My job is to pass medications, assess for physical illnesses, complete reams of paperwork, and at all times, assess for antecedent behavior that could erupt in violence.  It's dangerous here.  Danger strikes patients, staff and police officers alike.  People die here.  Not always from illness.  People are assaulted EVERY DAY here by severely mentally ill patients.  Patients, people that you don’t want living next door to you, or in the grocery store with your family.  Psychiatric treatment here is a difficult task.  Staffing cuts have left few professionals to provide barely minimal treatment to help some of the guys get out of here.  Some of them will never get out.

Saturday on the unit.  Weekends are the sweetest time, no appointments off unit, no escorts to clinics, no management folks visiting the units.  Everyone loves a weekend.  Most of the patients want to lay around and rest in their bedrooms; four patients to a room.  A few of them get up to watch TV or play chess or dominoes, listen to some music.  They come out for meals and ‘med-time’ - sometimes that’s the extent of their presence.  Many patients here are diagnosed with paranoid schizophrenia; they really do feel safer in their rooms, away from other people.  No surprise there.

At one of these meetings, JZ, our ‘facilitator’, is sitting quietly, intently listening to one of the participants read from the NA book.  He notices Jorge walk in and sit down across from him.  JZ opens up the NA/AA binder and gently passes over the Spanish speaking materials to Jorge, whose native language is Spanish.  WOW.  That was nice.  

We observe and attempt to interact with these guys - many of them forlorn, talking to themselves, yelling at noone, pacing nowhere, shadow-boxing with the air, or staring out the windows at the end of the hall.  Most of them are estranged from family, living off the kindness of strangers.  We ‘strangers’ slowly become their main contact with the outside world.  

We’re cursed and threatened, and sometimes, hit.  We’re also loved and respected once in a while.  The ‘kindnesses’ we show our patients is just part of our job.  The kindness seen as JZ handed those pamphlets to his peer, that’s what touches me.  A year ago, he couldn’t have done that.  He was so ill, violent, so full of voices and hatred, kindess was merely lurking somewhere deep in his heart.   The miracle drugs he takes every day, the caring and professional help given to him, have brought his own sleeping kindness to the surface.  Not all the time.  Some of the time.  That’s progress.

Outside the doors of the unit, out where I live, where you live, we encourage giving, sharing and caring.  Here we we see it in the NA/AA meetings.   Most often though, on the unit, it’s a no-no.  Patients aren’t allowed to share tangible items with others.  Too much of a setup for people.  The basic rule is, ‘if someone tries to share something with you, don’t do it’.  Don’t share food or ball-caps, or pants or shirts or headphones.  Sooner or later, as we’ve seen time after time, someone will be accused of stealing whatever it is, or ‘not paying for it’, or ‘didn’t give it back yesterday’, or ‘broke it’, or ‘gave it to someone else’. And the fighing begins.

Here, as in much of society, the weak and helpless are easily taken advantage of by the strong and mean.  Our borderline, anti-social guys easily intimidate the weaker ones.  Please, no sharing allowed.   Sometimes I want to look the other way at some of their sharing.  It seems so darn sincere, a fine act of kindness.  I also know that if I do, it will come back to bite me and everyone involved. 

All of life here is a work in progress.  The patients who are eventually released from this place are the ones who learn to be quiet and polite, store their belongings in their locker, keep to themselves, stay away from fights, take their meds and stop sharing.   All of us on the unit, patients who live here, and staff who come and go every shift, look for ways to keep out of harm’s way.  We keep in mind, most of the time, that help and kindness really are just around the corner.

The guys learn to be kind to themselves.  They learn some sort of kindness to others.  They learn how to get what they want without fighting.  And then we say good-bye to them.

Remember the Roller Coaster?

.
When I was a little girl, oh, about 7, 9 years old, my parents were both 'practicing' alcoholics. Many evenings would end with a frying pan flying through the air. From my mom's hand to my dad's head. Then, for some reason, Daddy would grab me, take me out to the car and drive down to the Boardwalk. We'd go to the roller coaster and ride it over and over and over again. When the Boardwalk closed up for the night, we'd go home and all would be quiet until the very next time.

I know Daddy suffered years and years of PTSD, depression, various physical ailments all as a result of his years as a POW, captured on Wake Island, early in WWII. Years of fear and loathing, afraid to be alone working through it, years of hard work and many successes. Can you imagine? As a POW, after his group had completed loading train cars full of lumber, they ran out of lumber. So their captors then forced these POWs to dig holes in the ground and throw the dirt up onto the train. Then they had to push the train several hundred yards and unload the dirt. To build a dirt mountain. 300 feet high. To keep 'em busy. And that's just one short story of his years in Chinese and Japanese camps.

Now he's 93 years old, has outlived most of his peers, his POW buddies, his friends, including my mom and his brothers. He's fairly healthy, doesn't really want to complain much about his body full of aches and pains. His mind is certainly deteriorating. He's alienated the few friends he had close to home because of his paranoid dementia and false accusations. Even though his peers and friends know it's a confused mind, they can't forgive him.

So he's more or less alone in his town of 45 years. Too confused to live alone there any longer. A few years of angst has brought us to this point, and now he's moving here to be close to family who will look in on him every day, grandkids and great grandkids who will get to spend some time with Grandpa Russ.

It feels like we're on the roller coaster all over again. Crawling up the hill, Daddy's argumentative and resistant, (fearful, I'm sure) then we coast down and around the corner and he's excited to move, looking forward and shedding tears of joy to be with his family. My gut is screaming about doing all this, how to do it, when to do it, how to do it.

We've got his apartment, beautiful place with lots of amenities, across the street and near the Napa River. He can walk down the street and throw a line in. Independent Senior Living. Meals, special events, happy hour every night, new friends, transportation, cable TV all included. He WILL enjoy it, once he settles in. I can't wait.

But right now, my life is not my own and I don't like it. It's my control thing. And his. Two steps forward, one step back.

I really do feel as if I'm back on that train again, taking a deep breath, speeding around that corner, hands reaching up to the sky, mouth wide open, screaming and screeching to a hard stop.

Flashing Red Light

.
.
.
Jimmy woke with a start, breathing heavily, holding back the tears. Oh my gosh, it was a dream.

He lay there propped on one elbow, sighing at the blue sky, the light fog over the distant hills, the trees tapping at the window.

"Thank goodness, it's a new day, I'll call her today, see if she's still alive."

It was a month since 'the elusive one' told Jimmy why she believes she's dying. It'd been a while since they'd last seen each other. To Jimmy, each time was a little treasure.

"I'm not happy any more. I'm NOT going to change how I live, and I HATE doctors! I can hardly get around and one of these days, I'm going to not be able to catch my breath that one last time."

She spoke about all the negative stuff involved in staying alive, and as they talked, she started talking more positively, just a tiny bit, as if all the weariness finally found a place to steam off, a heart open to her vent. She never did have many friends, two of the three loves in her life died long ago. Family was gone.

Jimmy thought over this all morning long, as he did almost every day. He finished some work he had at home, took a shower, had a smoke, a deep breath, and a good strong drink. Slowly, slowly, he finally dialed that number.

"Oh, good you're still alive. It's the one of your third loves you haven't outlived yet." He told her his experience a few hours earlier. "I was taking a shower, listening to some tunes, feeling good, and all of a sudden - - I felt this terrible pin-prick in my finger - I thought maybe you'd just died."

"Oh, no," she laughed, "I have a few good months, maybe a few good years left. 'just taking it easy, that's all, trying not to wear myself out."

They talked, paused, listened, a little give, a little take, one foot forward, two steps back.

"Can I come visit one day?"
"Well, you know I don't like company. And I guess if I say no, I'll hurt your feelings."
"No, you won't, I know you, I know how you live, it's okay if you don't want company."
"Well, I guess a short visit sometime would be okay."
"Short visit's good, a little talk, some time to see each other. How about one of these next Fridays, in a couple weeks?"
"Oh, oh, well, now you're making plans. I suppose if it's going to be any day, Friday's good. Happy Hour for me - Monday, Wednesday, Friday, my Happy Hour, anytime after 3 o'clock. Red wine time. The only time I'm happy."
"Okay, if I'm coming up, I'll give you a call and let you know."

And that was it. A simple short phone call. Jimmy hung up the phone, smiled, breathed out a heavy long sigh, feeling good for the first time since waking up. He got on his bike, rode that seven miles to the gym and back, had a nice long swim, dinner with the boys.

It was a good day. One more day of life. And another night of biting his lip and holding back the tears.

Sunrise, Sunset

*
*
At the end of my day, a little link caught my eye as I quickly scanned those pesky little emails. I calmly sat back, in awe as I viewed this short film. An amazing post courtesy of a fellow couch-surfer. It caught me and wouldn't let go. Here it is. Come back when you're done.
.
Watch this...
.
.
.
.
When I finished that sweet movie, a creepy thought skittered through my mind. I was disturbed that it came up at all, because I really enjoyed that beautiful true-in-life vignette and was feeling the warmth of it all. Was my wandering mind the result of the nasty politics playing out around the world? I don't know.

But I couldn't help but think of all the many wars waged, so many 'killings' so many, many reasons, seasons after seasons, sunrise, sunset, battlefields ablaze. Before the Quiet.

And then, sometimes, not all the time, sometimes, the one left standing, 'the victor' turns around to support and bring up those they just tore down.

Why must we create havoc in the first place? Is it truly all about survival?

It's insanity at its best. We fuss and fight about who's best, who's strongest, who has the most money and who dies with the most toys.

Is it really worth it? Can't we just stumble upon something, someone, somewhere, love them, help them? Be happy in it? Let's do THAT.

Or was that what the video is all about, after all??