Crazy! You talkin' to ME?
By
I wrote last week that my study team would visit a state mental institution during the ensuing week. We did it. The institutional staff gave us free reign. I talked with anyone I desired, but the staff told me NOT to use real names in public reporting. The team covered a lot of ground, most of which consisted of procedural matters that would bore normal people to death. However, I was lucky enough to witness two incidents, one of which moved me to tears: first from sheer sadness, then from hysterical laughter. The second one blew me away. I think you’ll enjoy hearing about them.
Before I begin, here is some sound advice. Never, and I mean NEVER, use the terms sane and insane in a hospital for the mentally ill. “Sane und insane are legal terms, sir! Vee don’t use dem around here,” she said. Her accent was heavy—in a Major Hochstetter sort of way—and her demeanor was profoundly serious. If stares could kill, you would have read my obituary the next day. I promised that I’d never do it again. Ever! She smiled; at least I think she did.
The first incident involved a 92-year-old petite, frail woman making her way in manual wheelchair. She used her arms and hands to turn the wheels in her intended direction, but she also had to use one of her legs to pull the chair, too. Her progress was steady, but painfully slow. As she moved forward, she would occasionally tilt her head back, looking up. She’d smile, say something, and proceed on her journey.
From a distance, I followed her about 20-feet down a hallway to a small common room, empty except for four card tables, each with five chairs. She positioned herself against one of the tables, smiled across the table and said, “I’m so glad to see you!” Again, she tilted her head back, looking up and said, “Sit here next to me, dear.” Alone in that room, she proceeded to have a 20-minute visit with her mother, father, daughter, and husband. I could tell what they were saying to one and other by the things she said aloud. An aide came up behind me and whispered, “They’re all dead. Her husband and daughter died 15-years ago in a car accident.” I could feel my eyes bubbling up with tears.
The visit ended with her thanking them for coming and saying that she’d see them on Monday. She pulled away from the table and began wheeling herself out of the room, back up the hall. About 6-minutes later, she stopped me as we passed in opposite directions. She raised her hand, motioning to me while saying, “Doctor, I have a problem. Every time I sneeze, I have an orgasm. Do you have any ground pepper with you?”
The same aide said, “She thinks you’re one of the doctors. She uses that joke on all of them, too. She feels comfortable with you. You should feel honored.” I would have except for the fact that I couldn’t at the time. Tears from laughter were pouring down my cheeks. My sides hurt and I was trying desperately to catch my breath.
All of us, at some point, have used or will use the term “weirdo” to describe another’s behavior. I’m going to be careful about using the term from now on. I am more convinced than ever before that each of us is somebody else’s weirdo. I’ve always believed that lucidity is a matter of mental standard. People are either lucid or they’re not. I still believe this. But, I’ve come to believe that, at least within this standard, it’s all relative as hell.
This poor soul was in full-throttled hallucination mode, but within the borders of that mode, she was perfectly lucid and happy. Somehow, she’s able to have meaningful and loving conversations with her deceased parents, husband, and child, AND derive a great deal of satisfaction from pulling spicy jokes on “perfectly” lucid strangers. In her world, she’s sane; I’m the weirdo.
The second incident involved physics, STRING THEORY no less! I spotted a television room. I wasn’t sure that I should go into the room, but I’ve always lived by the principle that it’s easier for me to say I’m sorry than it is to say please. So, I barged right on in, smack into the middle of a three-way discussion, a bit animated but nevertheless civil.
I know a thing or two about string theory. Even so, the Nobel Foundation is probably not going to award me a prize because—get this for an excuse—my conversational knowledge is not good enough. From the way that Harold, the most informed of the three, discussed the subject, I figured that he’d be a cinch for a Nobel. Of course, a fancy schmancy outfit like the Nobel Foundation won’t like the fact that he doesn’t have a physics degree. In fact, he never went to college. Um, I found out that he didn’t even finish high school. Maybe if we don’t tell the Nobel people…
With Stephen Hawking-like expertise and Carl Sagan-like clarity, Harold explained to me, “One of the major problems in contemporary physics, at least as far as physicists understand it, is that the theories of quantum mechanics and general relativity can’t both be right. String theory, at least for now, seems to reconcile this problem.” If I were on the Nobel Committee, I’d damn well vote for him.
Then, someone came into the room, turned the television off, and announced that it was time for some sort of group meeting. One of the three stood up, kicked his chair and stomped out of the room. The other two, most notably Harold, went into a temper tantrum that the average toddler, in the prime of the terrible twos, would have envied. Oh well, perhaps if we don’t tell the committee. There’s a Nobel Prize at stake here, for God’s sake.
I know that I promised not to use the word “sanity,” but I clearly meant inside the institution. I’m back outside now and perfectly safe from Major Hochstetter’s able assistant’s fury. So, let me tell you that sanity seems to be like a gymnastic balance beam, horrifyingly narrow and extremely conducive to lethal missteps. At a minimum, the line between being weirdly brilliant and being a hopeless nutcase is microscopically thin sometimes. But, I won’t blab to the Nobel Foundation if you don’t. Damn it, Harold’s going to get that Nobel if it’s the last thing I do!
I’ll be writing more concerning this, as well as
I receive email by the ton. Most of it is thoughtful and enjoyable to read. I can’t possibly answer all of them, but I try to answer as many as I can. Two readers, 75-year-old twin sisters Margaret and Susan sent me this one last Thursday.
“Joseph, we know you are not a believer in religion, but what do you think of Gospel music? Our favorite female gospel vocalist is Sandi Patty. If her songs and voice do not move you to believe, nothing will. Her vocal range is tremendous and she as close to perfect pitch as you can come.”
I love Gospel music. I’ve heard Sandi Patty perform on numerous occasions. I agree that she has a phenomenally beautiful voice. However, Gospel music has nothing to do with the dogmatic religious nonsense that I criticize. Sandi Patty’s voice makes me want to listen to her sing and purchase her CDs. It doesn’t move me in a religious direction.
I’m not a music expert. Beyond knowing when I like a singer’s voice, a song’s words, or that I enjoy the sounds of many musical instruments, in solo or combination, I’m just another paying customer. I’m at a loss when it comes to discussions related to voice ranges, etc. I wouldn’t know perfect pitch, even if I’ve heard it. As far as I’m concerned, perfect pitch is the sound you hear when someone heaves a banjo into a dumpster and it lands on top of an accordion.
As always, have a great week. Stay safe. It’s the Holiday Season. The traffic’s much heavier, the shoppers are like herds of cattle, and the drunks are out in force.
Joseph Walther is a freelance writer and publisher of The True Facts. Copyright laws apply to all material on this site. Send your comments. Just click here.
posted by The True Facts at 5:10 PM
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