Ffolkes,
It’s been a long time since I’ve been down like this physically; I guess I’ve been lucky without being aware of it. I suppose that’s normal, to take for granted our times of peace, because they are so easy and pleasant that we tend to just coast along, never realizing how different it can be when things aren’t as well aligned, or working better. It’s an easy state of mind to fall into, until one doesn’t feel well, and realizes how much it is missed….

My physical conditions are of the type that don’t put me in agony, per se, but are just always there, preventing me from feeling very good, and sort of dragging me down into a morass of fatigue and discomfort. It’s not life-threatening, at least not yet, and it’s not particularly bad, when considered in the light of things like cancer, or lupis, or such conditions. It’s just not very comfortable, and makes me want to hole up in my cave and growl at anyone who comes to the door. Fortunately, nobody does….

Writing is hard when this happens…. It does keep me at home, pretty much, but it makes it hard to sit for long at the computer, so anything I write tends to peter out before I can get far into it. Around here, writing is always an adventure anyway, so that isn’t so much of a handicap, since I can’t sit long anyway, because of the need to move my back almost constantly to find a comfortable position. It just tends to make it hard to rant for any length of time, and as is known, I love to rant. It’s what keeps me so calm the rest of the time, and able to look at things dispassionately; I take all that out in what I write about priests, preachers, politicians, and human stupidity, my four horsemen of the apocalypse……

Today, though, we’ll be presenting part III of Repercussions, which is the hardest piece for me; it was hard to write, and it is very hard to read it again, as it deals with perhaps the most destructive moments of my entire life. The first section pearl will be old school, in that I won’t be writing as much as pointing…. and a poem, of course, will ease our spirits in section two, as is now the rule….. We should get on with it, eh?…..

“Writing is an adventure. To begin with, it is a toy and an amusement. Then it becomes a mistress, then it becomes a master, then it becomes a tyrant. The last phase is that just as you are about to be reconciled to your servitude, you kill the monster and fling him to the public.” — Winston Churchill

Well, now, if that isn’t an apt description of what goes on around here pretty much every day now, I don’t know what is, or would be…. Actually, in thinking about it, the process Winnie outlines happens in a flash of time for some, and each step is individual to the author doing the writing…. Hell, you know, I don’t think he knows any more than I do in this instance, and, since I’ve always passed on the experience of having a mistress,  have never acknowledged a master, and never lived under a tyrant (Well, other than my ex-wife…. Sorry, too easy, just kidding…..) , it rather breaks down for me, anyway. It’s really the last part I like, about killing the damn thing and flinging it to the public…. that feels quite right….. So, here, allow me to fling you along the path to the end of today’s adventure through my head… Shall we Pearl?…..
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For humans, the truth is a slippery concept to hold on to; it seems to change form on us if we do not clutch it tightly enough. Everyone feels that what they believe is the basic truth, and what others may hold to be true do not count in their world. Yet actual truth has nothing to do with our belief; the universe itself defines what is truth, and we can only change its labels to suit our own prejudices. I can, and no doubt have, supplied any number of examples of how humans can twist the truth to suit their own purposes, but today, I give you instead some of the thoughts others have had on the subject (with one random quote thrown in to challenge the Gentle Reader, one that speaks to part of the reason why truth is so slippery for us…. you have to figure out which one it is yourself…..)…. all of which combined gives a good idea of my own take on the matter…..

“It is hard to believe that a man is telling the truth when you know that you would lie if you were in his place.” — H. L. Mencken

“I have never been hurt by anything I didn’t say.” — Calvin Coolidge

“Humanity has been searching for an all knowing intelligence for as long as there has been a question it could not answer.  Until it learns to use its own mind it will continue to chase it’s tail.” — R. Thomas

“By means of shrewd lies, unremittingly repeated, it is possible to make people believe that heaven is hell — and hell heaven.  The greater the lie, the more readily it will be believed.” — Adolph Hitler, Mein Kampf

“A half-truth is usually less than half of that.” — Smart Bee

“Everyone, I think, remembers Voltaire’s famous line about freedom of speech. The version of it that you are familiar with is actually based on a faulty translation. What Voltaire actually said was this: “I do not agree with what you say, sir, though I will defend to the death your right to say it. But for now … shut up!” — Steve Allen

It would have been nice to have one more, but, that last one says it pretty well….. I hope you found your way to the point of the exercise, as it, too, says it pretty well…. and, in many fewer words than I COULD use, to be sure….     🙂
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Fragment

I WALK’D along a stream, for pureness rare,
Brighter than sun-shine; for it did acquaint
The dullest sight with all the glorious prey
That in the pebble-paved channel lay.

No molten crystal, but a richer mine,
Even Nature’s rarest alchymy ran there,–
Diamonds resolv’d, and substance more divine,
Through whose bright-gliding current might appear
A thousand naked nymphs, whose ivory shine,
Enamelling the banks, made them more dear
Than ever was that glorious palace’ gate
Where the day-shining Sun in triumph sate.

Upon this brim the eglantine and rose,
The tamarisk, olive, and the almond tree,
As kind companions, in one union grows,
Folding their twining arms, as oft we see
Turtle-taught lovers either other close,
Lending to dulness feeling sympathy;
And as a costly valance o’er a bed,
So did their garland-tops the brook o’erspread.

Their leaves, that differ’d both in shape and show,
Though all were green, yet difference such in green,
Like to the checker’d bent of Iris’ bow,
Prided the running main, as it had been–

Christopher Marlowe
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Repercussions, Part III

On a day in mid-August of 1984, I was working once again at Napa State Hospital (NSH) as a Psychiatric Technician. Since the adolescent program where I previously worked had closed, I was assigned to a unit designated T8, in the T-building, a two-story edifice which encompassed enough space for 10 units housing up to 45 individuals each, an industrial kitchen with two separate dining rooms, serving meals in both rooms in rotation, for eight units, and several program offices for the Program managers and support staff.

The population was all male, in a program whose purpose was to treat a variety of different diagnoses. The residents of the program, who were diagnosed with Schizophrenia, Bi-Polar Disorders, Personality Disorders, along with a wide variety of other psychiatric conditions, were housed together on eight units with dormitories where they slept at night. On this particular late summer’s day, the men on T8 were relatively quiet, as everyone tried to cope with the stifling heat common to the area at this time of the year. The buildings at NSH were built in the 1950’s, all of concrete, and could be very uncomfortable.
A couple of hours into the shift, we escorted our charges out the door, downstairs to the hallway leading to the dining room for dinner. It is always the most dangerous part of the shift; the residents are hungry, and the walk to the dining room necessarily leaves the staff spread apart in order to keep an eye on everyone. The team I worked with was a good one, and with all of us staying alert, we got to the dining room and supervised the clients, who were conversant with the routine, until all were seated and eating, except a couple of stragglers still in line.

The phone on the wall rang, and one of the kitchen employees picked up to answer. She listened a moment, then turned to quickly address us nursing staff, saying in a strained voice, “T-6 needs help, stat!” “Stat” is the medical code word for an emergency situation, requiring staff to respond as fast as possible to lend assistance. Two of us, myself and Hoi-sing Lee, another PT, immediately broke into a run, out of the door to the left down the hallway to the stairway door leading up to T-6. We hit the open hall door at a full run and bounded up the stairs, slowing as we came to the doorway to scan the situation before entering into the main day hall of the unit.

To the left was the medication room door, bottom half closed, top open to the room. A female staff member in the open upper half pointed across the day hall at a resident there, saying only, “that’s him” In the middle of the room, near the chairs grouped in front of the TV, lay another of the residents, curled into a ball and shivering violently. A female staff member could be seen in the nursing office, still calling for help. No one was in the TV area to the left of the door; most of the clients were on the way to the dining room, as were most of the staff, so my teammate, Lee, and I were the first responders at the scene. I looked straight ahead from the door as I moved into the room, and saw a sight I will see in dreams for the rest of my days, burned indelibly on my memory in an instant that lasted forever.

I saw the body of a male staff member, obviously unconscious; he lay on his back straight in front of me about 10 feet away. I recognized him as the T-6 shift lead, a friend named Al, who had oriented me to the program when I first came on board. I observed that he was breathing, but his complexion had a very bad looking chalky grey cast to it, eyes closed, and obviously insensate. Another 15 feet beyond where he lay paced the apparent perpetrator, who immediately began yelling at me in a threatening voice, shouting, ” Yeah I did that, come and get me!.” He was about 6’1″, approximately 190 lbs., appeared to be in good shape, and very obviously was in an agitated psychotic state, just coming down after an explosion of rage, and still pumped up to fight.

As I approached him, I had to step over the body of my friend, and very carefully moved toward the agitated individual, on full alert and fully adrenalized. Time had slowed to a crawl, and I could hear the harsh breathing from the aggressor as he paced in a tight circle, mumbling to himself between yells in my direction. Hoi-sing, an experienced PT, and like me, a veteran of many such situations, silently crossed behind me to the left, quickly circling around to his opposite side, so we could approach from both directions. As I stepped up to him, I casually took his left arm, just as Lee did the same on the other side. Both of us had been trained to use a special hold which allows control of the arm without stressing it by putting it in unnatural positions, allowing you to use your weight to control the arm, quickly tiring the subject. He began to try rip his arms from our grasp, yelling obscenities at us, and flailing about.

Hoi-sing was experienced, but only weighed about 110 lbs. dripping wet, and I could tell he wasn’t going to be able to hold the right arm much longer, and I would then be the unhappy recipient of an attempted blow to the head. I had to think fast, so I dropped my weight while holding his arm, then lifted him upward until his weight went onto his toes, just enough that I was able to control the direction of our movement. I quickly directed all three of us right into the chairs a few feet away, knowing that I could direct him hard enough to cause his legs to run into the arm of the heavy chair, causing him to imbalance and fall over to the floor, with me still on top grimly keeping a death-grip on his arm. This unfortunately left Lee underneath him, but as I knew he would, he wriggled free, still holding the right arm, and we were then able to use our combined weight to hold him securely on the floor until more help arrived.

Very soon after we got control of the still wildly struggling individual, more people arrived, and helped us to restrain him, then per procedure, move him to a secure room, where he could be restrained with leather straps on a bed until he regained control, as the psychotic rage passed. Once he was secure, Lee and I returned to the day hall where Al still lay, being examined by the on-duty physician, surrounded by silent and worried looking staff. A paramedic team arrived with a gurney stretcher, Al was lifted onto it gently, and rushed to the emergency room at the nearest hospital a few miles away. The doctor was only able to stand there shaking his head sadly, with a grave expression, saying over and over, “it’s bad, it’s bad”. After writing up the incident reports, Lee and I finished our shift on our unit, quietly raging inside but still outwardly under control.

After our shift ended, we went to the hospital to see if Al had been stabilized and/or had regained consciousness; before we left work, we had heard only periodic updates that told us he was still in surgery. When we arrived, we were told he was in a coma, in critical condition, and being monitored for fluid pressure on the brain. His prognosis was serious and guarded, meaning the doctors didn’t know whether he would recover or not, only time would tell.

Four days later, Al died without ever waking up. The doctors explained that he had apparently been struck full in the face, a massive blow to the nose. The doctors explained he had received in essence two blows, one to the face and nose, and one to the back of the head when he fell to the floor. In reality, he never stood much chance of a full recovery; even if he had lived, the likelihood of a severe loss of brain function would almost certainly have made him a full-time bed patient, requiring full nursing care to survive. He would never have been able to speak, or walk, or hold his family again. He was survived by his wife and four children.

At the funeral a day after his death all of us who had worked with Al stood by his casket at the memorial service as we and his family bid him a tearful farewell. We could but stare in shock, and wonder at the terrible waste of a good man’s life, silent as the sadness filled us.

And I, I was filled with a such a sense of rage and sorrow, such waves of pain and anguish that I could barely speak for the clenching of my jaw. For the first time in my life and career, I had been unable to protect someone I had cared for, and I was filled with an immensely deep sense of regret for having arrived on the scene too late to save my friend…..My equilibrium was completely shattered, and I could not find my center, nor even momentary peace, despite recognizing that we had done as much as we could, and held no personal responsibility for his death. That knowledge gave me no comfort, and I entered the realm of the “walking dead”, gripped by madness and and soul-deep pain….
To be continued…..
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Whew…. I managed to get down here to finish this off without stopping to read the third section, which for now is a good thing. I’ll have to do so at least once more, to do the final edit and spell check by eye that I always do, so I don’t need the angst right now….. Once again, I don’t know how this one came out, as I don’t have the wherewithal just now to decide…. It looks okay, and it’s done, so…. it flies….  So be it…..   Y’all take care out there, and May the Metaphorse be with you…..

—
Sometimes I sits and thinks,
and sometimes
I just sits.

gigoid

Kowabunga!