Light, Song, and Living Single

She wears pumpkin earrings on Halloween and trees for Christmas. During group she dumps out a Mickey Mouse bag with objects like torn napkins, old bottle caps, and candy wrappers—her private collection. She makes many trips to the bathroom; leaving the door ajar especially when the topic gets heated. Whenever she drinks, she fills her cup exactly 5 times, splashing in the sink. The group leader tells her to sit down. When asked to give her report of the week, she pulls out a ragged calendar and tells you everything she’s done like taking a shower. She lifts up her shirt and giggles. She chews taffy, and a strand hangs from her lip like a mammoth tooth. She grimaces and hums like playful nibbling on a baby’s hand. Passing around marshmallows, she reminds us they’re low fat. With all her disarray, she’ll cleanse and bandage your wounds; by asking “what’s wrong?” and when you finally smile she’ll beam at you with delight.

Today, down in Old Saybrook, cruising on “The Lady Kate,” with the Phoenix Social Club, she notices the faded orange life vests overhead, “Will we need those old preservers?” “Don’t worry, I’m here with you,” her mom says. She curls up in her seat, rests her head in her mother’s lap, and cries, “I’m schizophrenic.” Her mom strokes her neck, as a way to pacify the turmoil. She asks, “What do nerves look like?” Her mom answers, “leaves fading across the river.”

She would interrupt the group members when they spoke. And giggle at the most inopportune times. At her group home, she was known to slam doors and yell. Hard to take, she acted like everyone was out to get her. She hid her singing talent from all. I heard her croon when she was waiting for her medical taxi at the clinic. A Cinderella of song, I asked her if she took lessons. She meekly nodded. She sang, “Hey, hey,” like a refrain or mantra when someone said something right, or “Chain of fools,” when a person disclosed too much. With all her shenanigans, I found her to be one of the most honest people I’ve met, an adorable woman-child. She would quickly chant, “Toot, Toot, Hey Beep-Beeps,” like Donna Summer’s song “Bad Girls,” but she acted kindly, not at all like a bad person. In our occupational therapy group, she would sing, “Michael rows the boat ashore,” out of affection to me, with a little jest mixed in. The leader emphasized the “Mad,” part of her first name and I thought it was unprofessional. Her stepbrother beat her up in fits of rage and was sent to prison for the malicious acts. She went through enough and could use a healthy dose of respect. Psychiatric workers are known for their indifference.

After seeing a movie set in the Adirondacks mountains, two lovers paddling a slow canoe with the life-affirming calls of wildlife all around them: were denied their relationship like the Montague’s and the Capulet’s, and I knew because of my illness and obesity I would be denied any lifelong romance like the estranged lovers. No one in our therapy group would be capable of any intimate, romantic relationship, though one bore a son (from a dismal marriage) who in adulthood got in trouble with the law.

I cried and cried when the movies let out. All the social club members passed me without a care. She was the only person, who asked, “Are you alright?” and stood by me. There’s a Yiddish saying, when you laugh the whole world laughs with you, and when you cry no one sees you. I’ve known that patients showing depression often receive poor care.

One of her peers sat on my coat folded on a chair, in the center of the social room, like a deserted island, and greedily ate candies, one by one, from my pocket, leaving the wrappers on the floor. She would never do that.

Her childhood home collapsed in a fire. Her mom and dad died soon after. She was removed from “Misfit Manor” and put away somewhere because she lacked family and she continued to regress.

Because of my disability and vulnerability, I don’t know where to be with people. I don’t wear an asbestos suit. The social clubs were cruel; no one actively cared about anyone. It was always, “give me, give me, me first, me first.”

In an uncomfortable, crowded van, the patients would taunt,” do you ever use the weight room, do you ever swim in the pool?” The driver would change the station when I said I liked the song that was playing. I saw 2 women steal from the country store soon after we arrived, comparing their loot in secret, gloating. For my safety, I couldn’t turn them in. My friend witnessed everything too.

I’d be shamed and shunned or attacked at a bar. The phone lines disappoint major. You pay big bucks to connect with weird, dangerous people. And forms a habit like a drug to lonely, horny people—But that would describe the world at large. Even the hard ass confined to a cell needs people. My friend was a sexual, social being too. With survival instinct, she suppressed her yearning.

A shrink said, “you choose to associate with impaired people who don’t know how to give, and you downplay your intelligence.” My dad said I side with the underdog and live in the past. I’ve known people to love me up, patronize, and then reject me. She showed real kindness to me.

Another man saw the light in her too. Holding hands they would stand and watch the Veterans Day parade. A heavy smoker, he died of lung and testicular cancer. The loss really hurt her.

I recall her walking across the green with waterlogged shoes and socks she removed to dry out. She wiggled her toes in defiance and put her sopping wet umbrella on the seat next to her, and of course, the other patients complained. She only sought a little attention. Her antics lightened my mood. I miss my friend. Besides, no one knew where she lived. She was sent to an anonymous institution because she couldn’t handle the halfway house. At Christmas time, I wanted to send her a hat with a toy that pops up and squeaks when you pull it. I imagined she’d let out a silly laugh. But perhaps she’d act more mature than that.

I wanted to know about her hidden history. She appeared a multidimensional person, yet never talked about her past. I learned today that she, my friend, died alone, in intensive care, from COVID-19, in the prime of her life. I’m told the mentally ill have a significantly higher chance of dying from the disease. All my therapist could say was “Wear a mask.” Don’t we all?