A Personal Sharing

This coming week will mark 49 years since I almost died. 

In January of 1975, when I was 20 years old, somehow the blood supply to my appendix got cut off.  As a result, my appendix ‘died’ inside me and in no time my body went into septic shock.  The doctors told my parents that they were not sure if I would survive surgery.

Sure enough, my blood pressure fell to zero during surgery.  And then, post surgery, I developed ARDS (Adult Respiratory Distress Syndrome), a condition in 1975 that 80% died from.

But, thank G-d, I was given the blessing of life, and now it is 49 years later.  Obviously, there is much to write about all this, the details and miracles that happened during those days in 1975, but I will leave that for a different day.

The gratitude that I have for the doctors, for my parents, my siblings, my friends, during this time has never been forgotten.

When one comes close to death and survives, the question to ask is: what am I needed for?

I believe this is a question we need to ask ourselves every day, and then put the answer into action.

The Smelly Home

They are the forgotten of the world.

They are the ones who live in old smelly homes with twenty others, four people squeezed into each room. Everyone smokes cigarettes.

They watch TV all day.

They reek.

They are Schizophrenic. And they are beautiful. 

Having been afflicted with this devastating illness, usually starting in their early 20s, these delicate souls have become the outcasts of our world. They hear voices, sometimes with haunting themes; they are convinced that a strange someone is coming after them; they neglect their hygiene; they don’t pick up on normal social graces;  they are not able to multitask; their families often have little interaction with them. 

We see them often, sitting on the sidewalk, asking for a quarter, and most of us pass them by.

As a rookie psychiatrist in training, I was assigned to one of these schizophrenic homes - and, admittedly, not knowing much at that time about the condition, I was quite freaked out.

But as I got to know them more and more, I found myself absolutely delighted. Yes, they invaded my personal space.  And yes, they would ask me intrusive and inappropriate questions.  And yes, they gave off quite an unpleasant odor. 

But through their innocence, they were precious. They had such a childlike joy about them.  There was a pure goodness. Their brains were without filter: a raw brain, with eyes wide open and hungry for spirituality.  All these lonely people, so unaware on the one hand, yet living with shining souls.

(Now, please know that not all Schizophrenics are shining light.  There are those, tragically, who have done horrendous things in society and who need to be forever in a state mental hospital.  But fortunately, they are few and far between.)

So…as you’re walking down the block or heading to a big sports event, you may well see the homeless, the disheveled.

Try saying hello.   Maybe bring them some food or hand them a quarter or dollars.  Know that they have a soul, that they have their unique reason for being here in this world - and know that perhaps it is for YOUR benefit to do a kindness to them.

Don’t forget them, the forgotten of the world.

A Christmas Carol

When I first met thirty nine year old Roger on Christmas Day in the psychiatric hospital, he was crying.

Roger told me how much he hated Christmas. As our conversation went on, he shared that his mother had died when he was very young and his father was always distant.  Roger recalled being left alone at boarding school while his friends went home for the Christmas holiday.

Determined to make something of his life, Roger decided to put all his energies into being rich. And indeed, he was wildly successful. But ultimately his obsession with wealth prevented him from close friendships or ever getting married.  As the years went on, Roger preferred the ‘security’ of his money rather than the unpredictability of human relationships.

Now he was grieving, and utterly all alone. And suicidal.  

The next morning, I took a bit of a risk and told him that his journey made me think of Scrooge in “A Christmas Carol.”

Wrong thing to say - or maybe it was the right thing…?

Roger erupted: “Who the hell do you think you are, calling me Scrooge?”

I decided to not let up.  I told him that this is his moment, his watershed moment, and his anger toward me was not going to deflect the reality of his suffering.

Roger then started swearing at me. He raised his voice and threatened me.  I responded that he can choose to threaten all he wants but I’m not going anywhere;  I’m right here, every day, and I care.   I told him he could leave the hospital if he wishes and continue to ruin his life if he wants to…….

Now if I was a literary romantic, I’d like to say that Roger had a dream that night of “The Ghost of Christmas Yet to Come.”  And that the ghost showed him how relationships and giving are the key to happiness, and that in the end all his wealth would mean nothing.

But of course life doesn’t always go the way of novels and movies.  Unfortunately, Roger chose to sign himself out of the hospital.  Before he left, I told him that trying to make up for his past pain and neglect by beingself-contained will not bring him joy.  But Roger would hear none of that and told me to get lost.

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One of the beauties of life is that we humans have free will; we can make our life what we wish it to be.  And we have the blessing of repentance, that we can turn our past around.

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Two years later I was walking down the street and suddenly, there was Roger.  He appeared amazingly like a different person,  greeting me warmly and then introduced me to his wife and newborn daughter!  I must say it was all quite surprising and delightful.As we departed, Roger looked straight at me and, with a smile and a wink, he said quietly, “Call me Scrooge!”