My wife and I decided to use one of our Christmas gift cards at ‘Red Lobster’ today. As we were escorted to our booth, we walked past an older lady with the most shocking blue hair imaginable, sitting with two people whom I assumed to be her husband and adult daughter.
After we were seated for a few minutes, and the waitress had taken our order, we heard a retching sound coming from the general area of the ‘blue lady’s’ table. However, a partition separated us from them, and I could not be sure who or what was emitting the noise.
Suddenly, I heard a female voice saying, “No, no, no, no, no.” (And “no, no, no, no, no”). And after the ‘no’s’ continued, off and on, (mostly on) for the next 6-8 minutes, I was just about ready to tear my hair out. (If I had possessed any that I might have torn out).
Of course, I wondered about the status of the ‘blue lady,’ and the two who sat with her, and I surmised that one of the two women was mentally ill, and the other was her care giver, and involved in some semblance of correction.
In years gone by I would have immediately asked the waitress for my bill, and a box for my uneaten food, and made my way out the front door of the eating establishment. And it occurs to me that the two variables which have offered me some degree of patience and understanding in such a case are my decades of work as a family counselor, and (on a slightly more personal basis) my experiences with, and empathy for my mentally-ill daughter.
Speaking of experiences, following are a couple of poignant stories to which I have been exposed during my tenure on the good earth.
Pt. 2
It was during the mid-90’s that my daughter, Mary, was placed in the G. Pierce Woods mental facility in Arcadia, Florida. The background is far too long and tedious to enumerate here, but suffice it to say that Mary had been exhibiting some bizarre symptoms and behavior, and had previously been diagnosed with Schizophrenia.
My wife and I would drive the hundred miles to Arcadia once a month, and spend time with her. We’d sometimes drive off campus, as Mary would get a day pass, and we’d frequent a particular restaurant there. Curiously enough, in this town which “boasted” a large mental facility, every painting was askew; hanging crooked on the restaurant wall.
One weekend as we drove up Mary was standing on the parking lot curb. But she was not alone, as she normally was. No, alongside her was this great hulk of a fellow, obviously another mental patient, well over six feet, and rather overweight.
My first inclination was, “Oh, no. I didn’t come here to entertain, nor spend any time with this guy,” and the anger seethed within me. My wife and I dismounted the car, and walked the few steps towards Mary and “Bob,” (as in “What About Bob”)? You would have to know the movie.
Mary introduced me to Bob and he immediately proceeded to share the most heart-rending little story.
“No one ever comes to see me. Not my daddy, not my mother, not my friends… Would you hug me?”
Uh!!! Never in my life had I heard such a sad plea. And as the result of that poignant plea… everything changed. My entire mindset metamorphosed.
And right there before God and everybody, as the phrase goes,
… I wrapped that big lug of a fella in my arms.
And I think for that one moment in time, Bob realized that someone took time to care, to love and empathize with his plight, and for that one moment of time I think that Bob must have experienced the smallest measure of peace and contentment.
Pt. 3
The year was 1975 and I worked as a manager for a nationally known shoe corporation. The State was Alabama and I managed a lease unit in a large department store.
My shoe department happened to be in the back of the store, and I usually found myself either waiting on customers or putting out stock. One day a middle-aged man, and his almost grown son walked up as I was walking towards the front of the store. And the father asked where he could find a bathroom. I motioned towards the back wall, and said something innocuous, and went about my business.
If I had conjured up a thousand possibilities, I would have never dreamed up what happened next. I finished my chore, whatever it was, and headed back to my shoe department. I remembered something I had to do in the stockroom, and entered through an open doorway.
Suddenly before me, in all his glory, was that same retarded young man…urinating on the floor of my stockroom. Well, it didn’t take me long to scream at him… “Stop, what are you doing? This isn’t the bathroom!”
Apparently, the boy’s father had directed his son towards the back of the store, and the young fella headed towards a door he thought was the bathroom.
I scared the young lad badly. Of that I’m quite sure. He lost no time “zipping up,” and getting out of there. And I was left to clean up the yellow, liquid mess.
I’ve thought of that incident many times since then. I’m afraid I wasn’t very charitable to the boy. And I’m a little ashamed of my words, and actions that day.
That young man is bound to be pushing fifty now, and I think of him sometimes. If I could speak to him again, I’d apologize for my sharp admonition. He was just “doing what comes naturally,” and, considering his mental challenges, he had made an honest mistake.
In an age in which a controversy exists about where one should properly "do their business" this particular story adds an historic personal twist to the matter. At least this young fella didn't know any better.
There are those among us who don’t function, who don’t operate as we do. It pays to be charitable. We have so much of which to be thankful.
Pt. 4
Several years ago, when I served as staff counselor of a large church in an adjacent town, I was seated near the back of the sanctuary during the Sunday morning worship service. The congregation was singing “Crown Him With Many Crowns” or “Great is Thy Faithfulness,” or a similar hymn, when suddenly a middle-aged woman, a couple rows in front of me, stood up from her pew, laid down on the aisle carpet, and began rolling sideways.
Left and right. Left and right. After a full minute or more, she got up and proceeded to run in circles around the inside perimeter of the sanctuary. As I recall, a couple of deacons caught up with her, and escorted her out the door. The pastor missed the entire scenario, as he hadn’t yet walked in.
A week later, ‘Sally’ began bringing a baby to church with her. She would sit on the right hand section of pews, center and on the aisle. She was a very attentive mother. Sally would occasionally look down at the infant, rearrange the small cover, and smile. Strangely enough, the baby never moved, nor emitted the slightest sound during the worship service.
After perhaps three weeks, and near the end of the service, our pastor invited anyone with a need for prayer to come forward. Sally was quickly on her feet, and carrying her baby towards the front of the sanctuary. I watched with interest, as the pastor, and an accompanying deacon, made their way down the line of people stretched across the altar area. They stopped in front of each individual; extending their hands and praying. They finally reached Sally.
I noticed the lady mouthing something to the pastor, and dropping her eyes to look at her precious child. The pastor reached out and took the baby from her, and then… he grinned a broad, almost quizzical grin, but quickly suppressed it.
Even from where I sat, I could see the baby was a
… doll.
It was obvious that the minister didn’t want to unnecessarily embarrass Sally, (if indeed she was capable of being embarrassed). And with this, he breathed a short “baby healing prayer,” and quickly moved to the next supplicant.
Having done her maternal duty, the attentive mother appeared relieved, covered her ‘daughter’s’ face with a pink baby blanket, walked back up the aisle, and out the door.
I never saw her again.
William McDonald, PhD. Excerpt from (Mc)Donald's Daily Diary, Vol. 15. Copyright 2015.
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