Daryl and I sat on the number 7 Adams bus headed west to Cook County/Stroger Hospital.
I worried that once there we'd be treated dismissively, or written off as a nuisance.
Daryl did smell of alcohol but i was certain that it was not the cause of his problem, but an extension and aggravation of it.
He kept his arm around me, caressing my side-roll, and although no one likes to be reminded that they can "pinch an inch" (does anyone remember that long ago Special K slogan?)i just thought of a child who pats his mother's back or absent-mindedly strokes a parents hair. Daryl was not a child and it had been a while obviously since he had been one but he seemed as helpless as one. Perhaps I was being more maternal than was necessary.
He started to become restless, and started to get a bit more touchy than i would prefer so i had to constantly tell him no don't do that, yes we're almost there, no don't do that and yes, we are really almost there.
My patience was now beginning to thin. I committed to getting him to the hospital and i meant to do it.
The bus driver was very kind too. We finally arrived at Stroger and he held the passengers from boarding the bus until i could wrangle Daryl off the bus. This was a bit of an ordeal because he was pretty confused. Crossing the street, Daryl stumbled out of his shoes (they had no laces, recall) and so i had to step into traffic to keep an impatient driver from being rude. I held Daryls hand, held my other hand up to the driver to wait until Daryl could pull himself back together and drag him down the street to the emergency room admitting.
ER:
there was only one person in front of us at the registration desk. I asked Daryl if he had any I.D. as it would be needed and he pulled out a thick wallet. I was surprised by this because for one thing, i didn't imagine he had one and also i wondered what he could have in it.
He opened his wallet and i saw a library card, some id's and a State of Illinois i.d.
I'm not sure if it was a Drivers Licence or State ID but here was a man with an address, who was as decent and normal looking as you and i. My heart felt for him all over again. Mental illness ravaged this guy. The registrar asked him his name.
He was unable to answer, he mumbled, stumbled and made no sense. I handed her his I.D. and told her his name, Daryl T.
She asked what the trouble was. I told her he boarded the train upset, ranting that someone was trying to beat him, he was schizophrenic and needed help urgently.
She looked him up and down and replied "drunk, more like it." I said yes and schizophrenic on top of it. He needs help. She paid little more attention than she had to, put a bracelet on his wrist and sent us to a waiting room to await a blood pressure reading.
This bothered me. How exactly does a person having a mental illness breakdown get the help they need. Do we have to wait until they harm an innocent bystander or go mad and shoot up a classroom full of students? When exactly does a uninsured schizophrenic person get help?
I wasn't so worried about Daryl hurting others but i was worried that others would hurt him or worse, he hurt himself. This is why i made it my mission to get him to the hospital.
Sadly, i left DAryl in the waiting room with a hundred or so other uninsured Americans waiting for their turn and i imagine he probably wandered off and was thrown out before anyone could see him or bother to do anything for him.
I had to leave him because i was already two hours late for work and had no intention of sitting in a hospital waiting room for hours on end. I guess that is where i got selfish or unwilling to help. I don't know. I promised Daryl someone would call his name, to listen for it and to ask for help. If anyone bothered him he should talk to security. I tried to leave him calmed enough to get help. Did it work? I won't know unless we meet again on the red line. I keep my eyes peeled and hope for his sake that i don't find him again frantic and scared, drunk and out of his wits.
PostSCript:
I was on the CTA Red Line 2 days later and a man boarded and sat near me. In short order he started laughing madly and then mumbled to himself. I looked up from my book and thought, sorry brother....i'm not going through that again.
Saturday, February 23, 2008
Friday, February 22, 2008
The totally true adventures of a soft heart, a lost mind, & the random act of kindness.
This past Wednesday I had quite an interesting experience.
A man boarded the Red Line and he kept yelling out “They’re beating me, the police is beating me.” Mind you, no one was doing anything to the guy so we all chalked it up to just another nut and went back to our sleep, Sudoku, and mindless staring out the window.
The guy got up and started staggering towards the back of the train (naturally where I am sitting in one of the rear solo seats) and when he gets to the back door he looked at me and started crying out that “they’re going to beat me, don’t let them beat me”.
For some reason, I felt that he wasn’t your run of mill drunken nut, but that something was really wrong. So I asked him “who is bothering you?” “He kept repeating the police, the police is beating me, don’t let them beat me.” I put my book away and I tried to reassure him no one was going to bother him. He slid to the floor, looking as sad, scared as I’ve seen someone in years. He reminded me of my school-friend’s mother who long ago suffered schizophrenia before she took her own life. The fear, the panic, the paranoia of an unseen pursuer, the need to get to safety, all those scenes came rushing back.
I tried again to reassure him that he was ok and I offered to let him hold my hand if it would make him feel better. In an animal like way, he was hesitant to take my hand. He looked at me, shrank back and then coming a bit closer he finally took my hand. He told me then that he was schizophrenic. I asked if he’d like me to call an ambulance, take him to the hospital for help. He said he was trying to get to Cook County Hospital. I told him again that I would call an ambulance if he wanted but he seemed firm that he would continue on public transportation.
I don’t know why but I offered to take him. I said, if that’s where you need to go, I’ll see that you get there safely. He thanked me but then grew suspicious. “You’re playing with me, please don’t play with me. If you’re not going to do it, don’t say you will.” I promised him, “I will take you there.” Will you register me too? “Yes I said. I will register you as well.”
We finally reached Jackson where a woman stepped up and whispered to me which buses would most easily get me and my charge to the hospital. She then asked if I was a mental health professional. No, I’m not. She said that I had done a wonderful job of calming him and gaining his trust.
I learned that his name is Daryl T. He lives up north, Edgewater, Uptown or Rogers Park, I’m not sure. What a sight we must have been. Me, a 5 foot tall somewhat professional looking white woman walking down State Street holding hands with a disheveled, staggering black man with no laces in his shoes (recently in jail or hospitalized?) a half rolled (and poorly at that) cigarette for which no one would give him a light and dirty ragged jeans constantly falling down.
Daryl and I made it to Adams to wait for the number 7 bus. He asked a fellow passenger for a cigarette which the man gave him but Daryl panicked again, sank to the ground and starting crying out, pleading with the man not to beat him. I reassured Daryl he was ok, while whispering to the other man that Daryl was schizophrenic. The guy could pretty much tell we had a mentally unstable person here.
The bus ride to Cook County is where the fun started. I got Daryl seated, paid the fare and sat down next to him. He took my hand in his, buried his face in my shoulder and wiped snot all over my coat. Normally I would be gagging and heaving at the disgusting thought but it strangely didn’t bother me. It was like caring for a child, you don’t mind things so much. A lady sitting across from us took out a box of tissue and offered me some. I happily took a couple sheets and Daryl turned his face to me as a child would to it’s mother, allowing me to wipe the mucous from his face. Again, I should have been retching and disgusted but it was just all in the days work, I was unfazed.
After I cleaned off Daryls face he once again lay his head on my shoulder. He then put his arm around my waist.
Great – I thought “This is where now I get stabbed or assaulted for my trouble.” All he wanted was to hold on to someone, so as long as he refrained from getting grabby, I allowed him to hold onto me. I felt him pinching my waist, yeah, I have a roll and he was playing with it.
So here I am, now getting my flab-grabbed by a snot-nosed schizophrenic who calms down when I rub his bald head with my mittened hand. If we made an odd pairing on State Street, imagine what the people heading West on the number 7 must have been thinking.
to be continued...
A man boarded the Red Line and he kept yelling out “They’re beating me, the police is beating me.” Mind you, no one was doing anything to the guy so we all chalked it up to just another nut and went back to our sleep, Sudoku, and mindless staring out the window.
The guy got up and started staggering towards the back of the train (naturally where I am sitting in one of the rear solo seats) and when he gets to the back door he looked at me and started crying out that “they’re going to beat me, don’t let them beat me”.
For some reason, I felt that he wasn’t your run of mill drunken nut, but that something was really wrong. So I asked him “who is bothering you?” “He kept repeating the police, the police is beating me, don’t let them beat me.” I put my book away and I tried to reassure him no one was going to bother him. He slid to the floor, looking as sad, scared as I’ve seen someone in years. He reminded me of my school-friend’s mother who long ago suffered schizophrenia before she took her own life. The fear, the panic, the paranoia of an unseen pursuer, the need to get to safety, all those scenes came rushing back.
I tried again to reassure him that he was ok and I offered to let him hold my hand if it would make him feel better. In an animal like way, he was hesitant to take my hand. He looked at me, shrank back and then coming a bit closer he finally took my hand. He told me then that he was schizophrenic. I asked if he’d like me to call an ambulance, take him to the hospital for help. He said he was trying to get to Cook County Hospital. I told him again that I would call an ambulance if he wanted but he seemed firm that he would continue on public transportation.
I don’t know why but I offered to take him. I said, if that’s where you need to go, I’ll see that you get there safely. He thanked me but then grew suspicious. “You’re playing with me, please don’t play with me. If you’re not going to do it, don’t say you will.” I promised him, “I will take you there.” Will you register me too? “Yes I said. I will register you as well.”
We finally reached Jackson where a woman stepped up and whispered to me which buses would most easily get me and my charge to the hospital. She then asked if I was a mental health professional. No, I’m not. She said that I had done a wonderful job of calming him and gaining his trust.
I learned that his name is Daryl T. He lives up north, Edgewater, Uptown or Rogers Park, I’m not sure. What a sight we must have been. Me, a 5 foot tall somewhat professional looking white woman walking down State Street holding hands with a disheveled, staggering black man with no laces in his shoes (recently in jail or hospitalized?) a half rolled (and poorly at that) cigarette for which no one would give him a light and dirty ragged jeans constantly falling down.
Daryl and I made it to Adams to wait for the number 7 bus. He asked a fellow passenger for a cigarette which the man gave him but Daryl panicked again, sank to the ground and starting crying out, pleading with the man not to beat him. I reassured Daryl he was ok, while whispering to the other man that Daryl was schizophrenic. The guy could pretty much tell we had a mentally unstable person here.
The bus ride to Cook County is where the fun started. I got Daryl seated, paid the fare and sat down next to him. He took my hand in his, buried his face in my shoulder and wiped snot all over my coat. Normally I would be gagging and heaving at the disgusting thought but it strangely didn’t bother me. It was like caring for a child, you don’t mind things so much. A lady sitting across from us took out a box of tissue and offered me some. I happily took a couple sheets and Daryl turned his face to me as a child would to it’s mother, allowing me to wipe the mucous from his face. Again, I should have been retching and disgusted but it was just all in the days work, I was unfazed.
After I cleaned off Daryls face he once again lay his head on my shoulder. He then put his arm around my waist.
Great – I thought “This is where now I get stabbed or assaulted for my trouble.” All he wanted was to hold on to someone, so as long as he refrained from getting grabby, I allowed him to hold onto me. I felt him pinching my waist, yeah, I have a roll and he was playing with it.
So here I am, now getting my flab-grabbed by a snot-nosed schizophrenic who calms down when I rub his bald head with my mittened hand. If we made an odd pairing on State Street, imagine what the people heading West on the number 7 must have been thinking.
to be continued...
Tuesday, February 5, 2008
Inmates Running the Asylum
I got home at five minutes to seven this evening to find a note at my door.
"There is some question as to whether your ballot was properly marked and cast..."
What the HELLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLL. I thought back on it and couldn't think of anything that would have invalidated my ballot but the polls would be closed before i could go back and re cast a vote. I was fuming.
I now see that my polling place was giving some voters "Invisible-ink Pens" Phew. Mine had ink so i'm ok but until i found this out, i was feeling pretty disgruntled by our half-assed 3rd world corrupt so-called elections. Now i'm just sad at how ridiculous people can be. I can look at this from so many angles, who is gullible, who is stupid, who just gave up fighting a losing battle, who is corrupt, who should be ashamed....it can just go on and on.
Read the full 1st person account here
The Invisible Pen Caper of 2008
and the media story here
"There is some question as to whether your ballot was properly marked and cast..."
What the HELLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLL. I thought back on it and couldn't think of anything that would have invalidated my ballot but the polls would be closed before i could go back and re cast a vote. I was fuming.
I now see that my polling place was giving some voters "Invisible-ink Pens" Phew. Mine had ink so i'm ok but until i found this out, i was feeling pretty disgruntled by our half-assed 3rd world corrupt so-called elections. Now i'm just sad at how ridiculous people can be. I can look at this from so many angles, who is gullible, who is stupid, who just gave up fighting a losing battle, who is corrupt, who should be ashamed....it can just go on and on.
Read the full 1st person account here
The Invisible Pen Caper of 2008
and the media story here
Saturday, February 2, 2008
An Inconvenient Truth
I'm in the laundry room about to put my wash in the dryer when i see a kotex pad in the machine.
When i mentioned it to my friend Michelle, she said
"you know, i've been broke before but GODDAMN!"
When i mentioned it to my friend Michelle, she said
"you know, i've been broke before but GODDAMN!"
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