I haven't mentioned Gary in awhile. That doesn't mean he's not on the radar screen any more, however. Not by a long shot. Most days, we talk at least once and sometimes twice. On those late evenings when the iPhone screen hasn't lit up with his number, I still find that I must mentally work through an obstacle course of concerns, doubts, and conjectures. Retraining my brain. Rewiring my heart. Mainly, whether or not drugs outside of his meds have turned his head. On the rare occasion that two days go by, I breathe, remember that it's HIS life and there are choices that HE must make. By the third day, I call him. My worries are generally ungrounded. For whatever myriad garden-variety reasons, he either didn't feel like picking up the phone or he didn't think about dialing me up. Normal stuff. In his life, attaching 'normal' to specific behaviors is a very good thing.
And I realize this all goes with the territory -- this brave new world in which we both find ourselves in, by which daily communication is possible and anything on our minds can be hashed out within hours instead of weeks if need be. As the case might be with anybody in constant contact, some days are 'talk worthy' and some days . . . not so much. In the past two and a half months, he's battled a traveling cold virus that has visited almost every man in his 64-resident ward there in Napa; some more than once. Because his 'rode hard' immune system is more susceptible to an exacerbation of illness, Gary tends to experience a longer bout of down time when thus afflicted. He leans toward asthma, so we watch his lungs. (Picture me on the couch, staring at a screen ablaze with an enlarged image of my brother's expanding and contracting lungs, munching on popcorn, looking for signs of compromise, wondering if I should have grabbed a box of red vines for the extended feature.)
Sidebar, shall we? I was a tad irritated earlier in the fall when the administering of a pneumonia vaccine resulted in a severe reaction requiring medical attention; he couldn't remember an incident in prison several years back whereby the same scene was enacted and evidently his records were not accessed. However, in the space of an afternoon, I ferreted out the highlighted page from the medical records folder Gary had shipped to me right before his release from prison. Our lesson learned? Have big sister check before moving forward with certain procedures where a fuzzy recollection, AND lack of adequate state staffing for research, could result in possible death.
His November was one long weary viral fest of a month. Arriving on the heels of Nurse Donna's death, in the ongoing aftermath of administrative reaction and questions and tightening up there at the hospital, an encroaching dull depression wrapped itself around him like a scratchy wool blanket. He slept more, sometimes skipping mealtimes, many times feeling the need for an afternoon nap of several hours, often ready for sleep by 9 or 10 in the evening. Our conversations were often short and bland. Just a checking in for the day. I'd take his pulse and fill him in on the antics o' the day: children, hubby, neighbors, news, Fabio the cat. Others included updates on Sister Rebekah during the course of my Colorado trip over the Thanksgiving holiday. Reports on our mother's progress after her knee surgery.
Ironically, both my mother and Gary developed disturbing lower back pain around the same time. Sadly, while mom is experiencing some relief after wheeling her way via wheelchair and Rollator through a gauntlet of exams, appointments, and scans, Gary is yet trying to convince staff that he hopes for a diagnosis and possible treatment and NOT a new pill. Once a drug addict, always a drug addict in a hospital setting. Everything resembles drug-seeking behavior. He has to work doubly hard to advocate for himself and find a way to effectively communicate his needs without crushing toes in his frustration. That is hard work for him. I will report that he did manage to eke out an x-ray appointment for today; after that, he is scheduled for an MRI.
This particular pain issue stems from an incident whereby he was shoved down a flight of stairs by a prison guard while in handcuffs. I'm sure Gary was mouthing off, expressing his opinion, and otherwise creating a negative atmosphere over his anger at yet another surprise move. But I think we can all agree that his childish arrested-development behavior does not warrant such a tumble. (Picture my teenage son ignoring my admonitions to finish cleaning his bedroom; hear his sullen reply; note his defensive posture and his surprise when I state that per his disrespect he can count on remaining 'in house over the weekend'; and cover your ears for the ensuing yell of outrage at my perceived overreaction. Now . . . do you picture me
pushing him down our stairwell over this?!)
I sense that Gary is turning a corner in his attitude and overall mood. For the past week or so, he's deliberately tried to engage his thoughts and convey a bit more cheer, whether he's feeling it or not. I reminded him that is a skill. A skill every human being on the planet has to exercise at some point or another. Because of his social isolation, he's sometimes unclear on what is unique to his set of behaviors and what ties him to the general population at large. He needs to see ties in order to believe he is capable of adapting and integrating while still retaining the character and positive traits which make him uniquely Gary Wayne.
In this vein, there has been what we both consider to be an almost miraculous development in his treatment. During Gary's first months as a newbie at ye olde state psychiatric hospital, he met a spry elderly Asian woman who impressed him with her verve and her appreciation of his core humanity. She was a college professor and psychologist; his exposure to her came by way of a group she led in conjunction with a colleague. When I was in Napa back in June and July of 2010, we discussed her at length during my very first visit with Gary. After I left him that afternoon and arranged my lodging at the Married Nurses Dorm, I set out on a speed walk within the sprawling confines of the hospital property. At one point I crossed a small dirt parking lot off to the side of the main administration building. I noticed a petite well-dressed woman getting into her car who matched the description of the good doctor. Yes, I most certainly did approach her! And I put in a few good words regarding my brother and how she impressed him. She was most gracious. I remember her well.
Fast forward to a bleak first December for Gary at the hospital. He hasn't seen hide nor hair of this remarkable woman in months. And then there she is. In the hallway of his ward. It turns out she was there to put in a request to add a patient to her calendar. When Gary alerted her as to his availability, she agreed to become his one-to-one therapist beginning January of 2011. Meeting him once a week, every week, for as long as he wanted and/or needed. The best that Gary was hoping for was to procure the services of a social worker at some point in the not too distant future. The one-on-one therapy list is long in names and sluggish in movement. Instead, a series of chance circumstances led him to the 'cream of the crop' therapist. I'm cautiously optimistic. But ever hopeful. They've already had two sit-down sessions!
There's one story Gary told me about a patient there on his ward that encapsulates the entirety of his present experience. Being a high-functioning 'mental' patient on a floor bereft of any true order, rife with apathy on the sides of staff and residents alike, and overflowing with men who've given up on trying to stay connected with reality, makes for a daily battle to remain calm and sane. Quite literally. We were in the middle of a conversation during one of my chilly afternoon walks. Gary exclaims something unintelligible; he sounds disgusted. "This . . . " he exhales, and I imagine him running his hand through his carpet of thick hair, " . . . this is what I mean. You wouldn't believe some of these guys if I told you!" Of course, I want the skinny on what I won't believe.
"Well, this one dude here, he's drippin' piss. EVERYWHERE! Right now! I mean, he pees the bed all the time. Nighttime. Daytime. Anytime. He does it so often that they took out the floor beneath his bed and replaced it with this new stuff that has a waterproof lacquer or something over it. It's thick and grainy and shit. I don't know WHAT it is. But the guy, __________ (name here, can't mention), he always comes out here soaked. On one side or the other. Sometimes on the bottom. His clothes smell. Even in his hair! And he leaves this trail of urine on the floor, from his room to the nurses station or wherever." I want to know if floor fouler cleans himself or mops up his yellow dotted line. "No," Gary replies, "They do. Staff. They wipe the floor. Change his clothes. And he goes on. He knows what he's doing. He's aware. It's his thing. People pay him attention." We both mull over this man and his bladder manipulation, "That's the thing here. It's just so-o much. Really crazy fu@$!* shit.
I try to stay in my room as much as I can. But you have to come out. Come right out into someone else's piss and mess."
And isn't that how it can go for all of us every now and again? Until next time . . . be careful when you come out.
