How Are You? He's Fine.

A gentleman approached me the other afternoon with a question. That most standard of all questions. "Well, Gloria, how are you?" Now, we were at a tailgate party for the middle school football team. He was the president of the booster club. We had spoken casually several times over the course of setting out watermelon, cooked meats, cold pasta salads, packaged cookies, and those rather large orange Thermos beverage dispensers full of lemonade. I figured since we had covered the everyday greetings in those earlier chats, he must intend for me to answer honestly as opposed to politely: one being how life really is treating me; the other being the locked-in "I'm good, real good, and you?" that falls so easily, so inanely from the lips of so many.

Before I progress, I must tell you I often trip over this popular greeting phrased as a question. When I find myself giving the standard reply, I internally administer a good swift kick! My close friends know this about me. It is a mindless social pleasantry -- I truly, really, wholly detest thoughtless, executed-by-rote social pleasantries as a practice. I don't, however, detest being pleasant. Nor do I dislike the sparing art of being social. But this one question sticks in my craw -- so ubiquitous, empty and bland. It's like me eating one of my rye crisp crackers without almond butter and grape preserves; not worth opening my mouth over. No one truly expects a mindful answer. In fact, a mindful answer produces looks of dismay and discomfort in the one doing the querying. They are conditioned to speak it; others' ears are conditioned to receive it and regurgitate the common reply. Period. End of exchange. Though I realize this is the expected modus operandi, I don't subscribe to it. Maybe this speaks more to the rebel in me, mellow though it may be, who chafes at the expected. But, it seems to me if such words as to one's true state are put out there, one ought to feel the freedom to answer and actually see the listener's ears visibly perk up.

But enough soapbox expounding.

The gentleman with the seemingly earnest question? Remember him? Well, I fixed my eyes upon his ears and gave him my answer. "You know, I'm about as good as can be expected. I have my ups and my downs. But, I'm plugging along, doing the work, expecting things to get better as they usually do." As he knows about my brother, Gary, following the story by e-mail somewhat along since early fall of 2008, he threw in the follow-up, "Is that because of your brother in jail?" And, being socially adept enough to realize I could not possibly hope to, nor did I want to, relay the full import of this past year's developments to this man I barely knew, with skirted cheerleaders running around us, Oreo cookies in hand and their breathless stories about the boys in helmets and uniforms falling from their lips, I said, "Yes."

Because he continued to stand there, in front of me, positioned to receive more news, I went on. I updated him on Gary's upcoming transfer out of the prison system and into the state hospital system. I explained why that was good news. I touched upon mental illness and treatment. I mentioned the rebirth of my brother's faith in Christ and his yearnings to remain in the fold. As I spoke, I discerned a subtle shift in my fellow booster club member's features. I noted his eyes wandered past me, taking in the clouds and the football players as they marched across the field into the stadium, though he continued to nod and comment in the affirmative. When he reengaged, he opined as to the wonderful fact that now, with Gary's faith restored, he could clean up his act and work on those things in himself that needed fixing. He could be strong and emerge from his brain fog and make better choices and live out the rest of his life with purpose. There was a bit more. It was all peevishly positive, much like the encouraging speeches he intones at the beginning of football season to all of the parents; much like the group prayers he leads before we eat our common meals during our months together as parents to middle school athletes. What he lacked, however, was true understanding. And, any ability to see that he should try and understand beyond the accepted stance that being active in Christ will make us all happy and healthy. He left no opening for a mental illness diagnosis to exist. Gary's difficulties were rooted in weakness and an inability to function under God's grace.

What I say is this. It is that very attitude, so heartfelt and righteous, probably without vanity but also without discernment, which allowed Gary's intolerable situation in this life to go for so long without being recognized for what it was. Mental illness was not a thing said aloud or given any space upon which to walk or room in which to spread its wings. Whatever was wrong was all in his control to change. Totally and completely. His unwillingness to surrender to what God had for him was his downfall. Everyone tried to help and he pushed them aside. Everyone was blameless. Their role in aiding Gary was over because he did not accept their plans and ideas on who he was and what he was to become. Yet, no one took the time to try and know him and understand his pain. He was a boy in severe crisis. The general answer was to drag him to church. (Not that I downplay the significance of the body gathering.) Get him rededicated to the Lord. Show him the error of his ways. Put him in a program and get the scripture pumped into his head and heart. Convert him from the way of the black sheep of the family and enclose him within the ranks of the accepted and the expected.

If it had been discovered that a tumor resided in his brain and was to blame for his behavior, that would have been all right. There would have been prayer for healing. Trips to the surgeon. Books on how-to-cope. An actual surgery to excise the invader. Physical therapy to recuperate him, to make him whole, to reconnect the synaptic connections within his gray matter.

As it turns out, there WAS, and is, a tumor in Gary's brain. Insidious and invisible to the naked eye, thus allowing it free reign and room to develop for hundreds upon thousands of days: bipolar disorder, compounded by Post Traumatic Stress Disorder from his childhood. It has been detected and traitor! we know your name! My brother can learn about the differences in his behavioral and thought processes which cause him to stand out from average folks. No longer must he agonize over what is wrong with him and wonder why he does the crazy things he does. He won't need to rely upon street drugs or alcohol to self-medicate. And, all on his own, by his lonesome, even with a relationship with Christ, he could not simply will his way through the complex chemical processes which are active and present in his physiological being any more than he could have willed away a brain tumor.

Whether or not modern-day healing takes place, which I believe it does, it is ignorant to hold the mentally ill responsible for an illness they did not choose, when they have not the knowledge or treatment to corral it and correct it, just as it would be ignorant to put blame on a person born with cerebral palsy or an individual who contracts a serious illness later in life. This is an imperfect and fallen world. Biblically, the Lord did not state that the sick need healing but the mentally ill can pray away their dementia or throw memorized verses at it and receive deliverance. I think a case can be made for differences between mental illness and demonic possession if there are those who wish to take that stand. Infirm is infirm. All who suffer and bear the weight deserve our empathy and our understanding. If one is not in the know, either get in the know or hold your tongue lest it inflict permanent or long-lasting damage. And, think as to whether you would desert your spouse or child or good friend in the midst of a protracted battle with a physical affliction. As tough as it can be to hang with them in the down moments, should we then cut our emotionally ill loved ones from our lives? I, for one, say no, we should not.