Now For THIS I Went to College (#11 of 16)

As the end of the blog nears, I thought a sentimental story from my job would be the perfect post. I have a lot of funny stories about my job, none shared in disrespect. This one immediately came to mind. Counting down, this is #11 of  16. 

Preface.

I work with people diagnosed with Schizophrenia. An often misunderstood medical issue, tough cards to be dealt, endless judgement fueled by stigma. The disease can be cruel, but society is crueler. Personally, if I had to pick one population to work with for the rest of my professional career, I would pick men with Schizophrenia. 

Serving those with Schizophrenia affords me many an opportunity to do things that I would not have otherwise had the chance to do...
Serving as a coach during the birth of a baby--up close and personal, full sights, sounds and... well, smells...
Holding the hand of a person dying...
Holding the hand of that person after she's passed...
Standing in as surrogate family during for someone without family...
Suiting up in hospital scrubs as to provide words of comfort & encouragement as a client receives an angio-gram....
Sitting quietly next to someone receiving chemo...
Yelling as a pile of police officers are forcefully taking down a client in psychiatric crisis. 

And yes, it's true I've had to pull over on the tollway because a client dropped a lit cigarette down her top and caught her bra on fire (I kid you not). But, I think that could've happened to any of my friends in college, so I won't focus on that part of the story.

Let me be clear: I am humbled by these opportunities. I am honored to be with these amazing human beings. I am grateful for the chance be part of their journey. I'm one lucky bitch.

Blog.

I drove a client out of town so he could attend the visitation and funeral of his mom. I can't tell you many details but, I can tell you that this particular person with Schizophrenia asked many an interesting question during the long ride to the funeral home. Feeling safe with me--I've known him for a decade--he asked question after question. Questions about the coffin, the embalming process, the services. He spoke about his life, the abuse endured, the losses incurred. 

At times, he questioned what was and wasn't real, what was or wasn't true.

Two hours of questions. His brain had a lot of questions. He's a guy who faces his experiences in what appears to be a non-emotional, factual, logical, almost robotic fashion. Data, facts, figures, questions, questions, questions, seemingly incongruent to the situation. There's a weird, odd slant to life that is grounded in some other place than where the majority of the world lives. 

As fate my have it, those questions kept coming while he was standing in front of the casket. Understandably, he had a lot on his mind. This is his estranged mom. His mom is dead. It made no sense. He has lots of questions and lots to say. He wants data. He wants facts. He wants clarity. He wants the chance to say the things he never got to say. Unfortunately for those who perpetuate stigma and don't take time to understand this young man's mental illness, they glare or make fun or look uncomfortable. They don't take time to address the questions. They squirm as he steps to the microphone. This is a time to mourn, not ask questions. I see judgement dripping from them as he stands talking loudly. I hear him talking after being asked to serve as a last-minute pall bearer.

I stood in the foyer. He's an adult. He doesn't need me hovering over him. This is his time to grieve, to question, to say what he has to say. I am there to support him. So, I stood in the foyer, ready to provide support or do whatever he asked me to do. I listen to him talk loudly into the microphone. Statements. Facts. Questions. He went on and on and one. Ten minutes worth of statements, questions, facts.

I am not surprised or bothered or concerned about his questions and relative-to-the-situation judged-to-be-inappropriate behaviors. The others EXPECT me to intervene. I am the expert, present to ensure something of what I am not sure. The family knows who I am. They think they know why I am standing there:

I was there to keep the crazy guy in line.

As I settled in to my seat in the foyer, I heard something. It was loud and unmistakable. I stood up and went to the door. The questions, I anticipated. The judgement, I expected. But, I didn't anticipate this...

As the client stood at the front of the room, standing in front of the casket, he sobbed. He wailed openly and loudly and genuinely and completely....an incredibly appropriate and angst-filled response to seeing his mother for the first time in years. 

The funeral director looked at me in panic, as if to say, "what are you going to do?"

I wanted to say, "I'm going to do nothing. Nothing. He is a human being, expressing genuine grief." Instead, I just smiled and shrugged my shoulders. I then looked away and focused back on the client.

To be honest, I was momentarily taken aback. Here's a guy who shows little or no overt emotion on a daily basis and he's sobbing in front of the casket. I am ashamed to admit for a fleeting moment I "forgot" that a person with schizophrenia might react in a manner which is appropriate to the situation. I was just as judgmental and tainted with stigma as an a person uneducated about mental illness. Because he has schizophrenia and has a whole different take on the world doesn't make him less human, less capable of pain or feeling or angst or grief.

His grief was real. Raw. Anger seeping from his being. Appropriate anger. 

It was in that moment that I was completely and totally filled with emotion and reminded of why I am the luckiest person on earth to have a job as I do, to witness the realness of being completely human.

Another moment in life that I will never forget.  

(It also served as a reminder that I can be an arrogant, judgmental, condescending ass. Sometimes the Universe needs to slap the humility back into me.)

After he finished with the intense and genuine display of his most personal emotions, he settled back in to his "normal" self. It was if nothing had ever happened. He served as a pall bearer, greeted me with a smile and started talking about something not even remotely related to the situation. People avoided him. No one wandered up to give him condolences. He didn't seem to notice. I did.

After the service, I drove him to the grave site and watched from my car, giving him the space and dignity that he so much deserved. There was a line of people, waiting quietly to have a "turn" at tossing a small pile of dirt onto the now-lowered casket. One by one, tossing little piles of dirt. Shovel, pile, next. Shovel, pile, next. 

I watched as they handed him a shovel. I could see he was thinking about this. He tentatively threw a shovelful of dirt onto the casket, just like everyone else ahead of him had done. He then stood there. I could tell he was thinking. 

And then, quite to my utter delight, he took another scoop of dirt and tossed it onto the coffin. A pause... and then he continued to throw shovelful after shovelful of dirt into the hole. Others had thrown only one shovelful of dirt but he was gonna throw as many as he damn well pleased. 

AS MANY AS HE DAMNED WELL PLEASED. 

I wanted to cheer from the car.
I wanted to yell in support.
I wanted to scream obscenities at those who looked irritated, scared, hateful, confused.
I wiped a tear from my eye. It was hilarious and touching and defiant. 

It was PERFECT.

When done, he took one last look toward the casket, gave a nod, handed the shovel to the next person and then wiped his really dirty hands on his pants. 

He wiped his hands on his pants and smiled. 

He started walking toward my car, smiling, carrying a much lighter load. It's like he was waiting for a ride after visiting the library. Not a care in the world. Relief. On to new questions. New thoughts.

He came back to my car, dirt all over his pants, hopped in and wondered aloud where he and I were doing for dinner. I took one look at his pants and laughed. This was the guy I know and love and anticipated. Pizza. He thought pizza would be perfect for dinner. 

I thanked him for the opportunity to be present at such a moment in his life. 

His response? "No problem."

I silently thanked the Universe for the best job on the planet. 

Pizza. Shovels. Schizophrenia. No problem. I'm a better human being because of people like him.

*********************************************************

Prologue. 

He talked the entire way home. Not one moment of silence. I cherished every single word, although I'd be lying if I said it wasn't exhausting. Science fiction. Movies. Ideas for writing a story. As we drove home, I looked in the rear view mirror. Framed perfectly in the mirror was a rainbow. A beautiful, bright breathtaking rainbow, then a double rainbow. One of the brightest rainbows I've ever seen. I pointed it out to him but he was concerned with other things. 

Rainbows weren't on the list of topics. 

Pizza. Shovels. Rainbows. Schizophrenia. Even the Rainbow-Glowing Universe knows I've got the best job on the planet.