Where is God in the Mental Hospital?

      The taxi drops me off, and I go into the lobby to sign in and stick my visitor’s tag on my shirt. The desk person unlocks the glass door to let me go into the first floor. I look down and see a gentleman lying on his back, sleeping on the floor next to my feet, and I walk on past him. I look quickly at his face, even though I know it won’t be my son. There are a few folks I recognize now that just lie down, wherever they decide.

I say hello to a few people and take the elevator to the third floor to find my son. I brought lunch and birthday presents. He is 42 now and has been diagnosed with Schizophrenia from late teens. He was only 14 years and 8 months when I watched the son I knew from birth change before my eyes. I have asked myself, “Where is God in the Mental Hospital?” My son still has Schizophrenia and is talking less and less (because, I am told, he has the “negative symptoms” of the illness, along with his being a quiet person naturally). I am missing so much, all the impromptu ideas and theories he used to talk about. I used to tell him that I should write a book on his jokes and ideas. I no longer hear them.

I stand at the desk on the third floor while the aides look around for him. They check the narrow outdoor “terrace” across the room. Several chairs face a TV in this large area with the main desk. The terrace looks over a beautiful yard and a mountain covered with trees. Yes, you have to look through wire, but the songs of the birds are very lively, and chickadees make nests on the windowsills. Residents sit around talking to each other.

Someone looks on the “deck” through a hallway and across another large room that has a TV. Another walks down the hall to my son’s room. Finally I see him coming. He smiles and says Hi. I hug him and say “Happy Birthday!” We walk outside onto the large cement deck that is surrounded with 20-foot high wire fencing. It’s a beautiful sunny day, without a cloud in the sky. This 130-bed facility nestles in a small tree-filled canyon. When you come off the freeway you are immediately above it and looking down onto its rooftop set among the trees and greenery.

We sit at a picnic table under an umbrella, facing each other. Two people sit at the table, and I am asked if I brought magazines this time.

The lunch hour is approaching and will be served on the first floor, but several people stand around my son and me, which has become quite typical. Plus, they know it’s his birthday, and I brought gifts. They also like the looks of the hamburgers and fries and know there are new cigarettes to ask for. My son doesn’t talk unless he’s asked a direct question, then he may answer either yes or no. He talked more on the other medication, which was changed several months ago to see if he would be bothered less by “his voices.” The social worker said he seems calmer now and the voices are less. But I notice he is different. Less expression and deeper into himself.

He dives into his cheeseburger, then opens it up again to put the long pickle inside. The girl at our table sees that he is having trouble opening the Snapple drink I brought. His fingers are slipping on the lid. When she reaches for it, I think she wants to drink it, and I mistakenly say, “No, no.” She looks hurt and says that she was just going to open it for him. I am immediately sorry. I know that I have to make it up to her. I apologize and give her all my French Fries and tell her that her new haircut looks great. I am relieved to see her smile return. I feel bad for jumping to conclusions. Besides, everyone seems to share here. My son saves the last inch of his Snapple for the man that is keeping up a steady stream of conversation at the table. He tells me that he and my son have been friends since they were kids and went to the same school, which of course is not reality.

I am full of my burger and have only eaten half. Then my son takes his and puts it across the table for the young woman to finish. The gentleman asks me if I am done, and I tell him he is welcome to it! That takes care of the burgers and heaps of golden fries. They were good quality, from a nice restaurant. So they hit the jackpot!

Each time my son is asked if he can spare a cigarette, he says “Sure” and hands one over. That is why I bring two packs with me now. I bring out each gift of new clothing. One shirt has the American flag, an eagle, and Lady Liberty on the front (proceeds of my purchases going to the Red Cross). He really doesn’t comment, but everyone else does. An aide stands nearby and smiles. She likes the way I sew labels, with his name, on his clothes. He opens his cards, but doesn’t read them or laugh. But when I ask him if he got the card and the ten dollars from his aunt, he immediately says “Yes!” and plucks the folded bill from his pocket! Then he puts his cards back into the envelopes very carefully. A few months ago he read the one I brought for him to sign for his Step dad, and he caught the joke and laughed. He doesn’t laugh at his funny cards today. I feel disappointed for him and for me too.

I notice that my son’s face is thinner. He had been a touch on the heavy side. A man comes up with a lit cigarette and says, “Want a light?” I think he says that he personally wants a light, and I notice that it is lit. I comment, ”It’s lit already.” Then my son laughs and my spirits pick up.

I try to remember that he has to process for a minute anything I say or ask if he wants to answer me. Perhaps it’s like being in a crowded room, and he has to push through the crowd to get back to me. Sometimes I say something twice. If I press for it, he will answer yes or no. If I think of another way to put it, he may answer in a sentence. Then I cheer inside!

I ask him if he wants to see if his bench pass is available. That means he has been given permission to go out the front door of the building and take a stroll or sit on the bench out on the grass. This is a big thing. The social worker seems more than agreeable that he go out this special day. It will be a first for us. A celebration. And with the idea for more outings to come! We take the elevator downstairs and stand at the glass doors and knock. I notice again the clients’ artwork on bulletin boards.

The lady at the desk comes over and unlocks the door. She only lets me out, saying she has to check by phone with the desk upstairs about my son. The door closes between us. She soon returns and opens the door for him. We go outside and I look up at him. He is looking up at the sky, and I notice he breathes in deeply and flexes his shoulders. The American flag is over our heads, but it is looped over itself. I wish to myself that I had a long pole so I could flip it and unfurl it in the soft breeze.

Then we begin strolling around. We walk to one side of the building, and I see a tiny pumpkin patch and a man sweeping a sidewalk. I notice a hundred cigarette butts on the ground. I smile and comment. He says with a toothless grin, “Someone’s got to do it!”

Then my son and I walk completely around the building and large fenced yard.

It’s kind of a nature walk under the trees, and many birds are flitting around. We see one squirrel. Logs are scattered along the path. He is looking up at the trees and not saying a word. I limp behind him with a recently injured little toe, and it’s hard to walk straight. It is hurting a lot! But I casually comment on how pretty it is out. Our walk must be one-eighth of a mile, and when we come around to the front again, he looks back and says, “What’s wrong with your leg?”

We go back upstairs. He has already taken his gifts to his room. He hadn’t commented on the slice of chocolate cake I brought in the plastic container, but he took it plus the two puddings I had made him to his room also. We sit out on the deck for a little while, and the gentleman that ate the other half of my hamburger is now stretched out on one of the benches singing “The Star Spangled Banner” and “Silent Night.”

Then I say, “I will be getting along now.” He doesn’t comment. We stand in front of the elevator, and he presses the button for the main floor. He says, “I’ll go down to the front with you.” This is nice. A few times he has made the first move to say good-bye, saying he was off to the showers!

At the front door, I compliment my son on his mustache and small beard. To myself I think how handsome he is and that I don’t want this illness to get any worse. I know that my heart will be forever in this suspended animation, as I live entwined in his circumstance. I view him as a mighty warrior; caught, but persevering in this dilemma every minute of his life.

At the front door I say, “What shall I bring for lunch next time?” He answers, “Pizza! Vegetarian Pizza!” He leans down from his six-foot-two height, and I hug him and kiss his neck and say, “I love you.” He says, “Love you too.” I look back before the door closes between us, and he is looking at me. Always, I search his face. He is not smiling this time. His expression finds its way to others stored away in my heart. When I look back a second time, he is gone.

Yes, I say to myself as I walk slowly to my car, God is in Mental Hospitals. He’s in this one with my son, my warrior, walking beside him every moment.

By Joy,

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Copyright 2005 National Alliance for the Mentally Ill Santa Cruz County, All Rights Reserved.

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