“Call an ambulance for me now! I’m gonna have a seizure.”
He was
up in my face screaming his demand, a guest who once was a regular, but had not
been to Manna House for well over a year. I will call him “Mike.” From Mike’s
appearance, and because he used to be a regular at Manna House, I knew he had a
severe head injury in the past that led to seizures. But at this moment, Mike
seemed more agitated and aggressive than an immediate threat to have a seizure.
“I can’t
wait. She gave me something. I don’t know what it was. Call now!”
Was he
on some bad drugs? Would the drugs cause the seizure? We were already gathered
in a circle to pray. I got him to stand with us and made our prayer brief. Then
I called 911 and explained the situation. I was told the police would have to
come since he was being aggressive. “Fine, I said. A Crisis Intervention Team
would be best.” CIT officers are trained to work with people struggling with
mental illness.
Nearly
thirty minutes passed. Public Enemy’s old line, “911 is a joke” came to mind. The
guest shouted, cried, jumped in and out the street, just barely missing being
hit by a car several times. He raged at Ashley and at me, yelling, frothing and
wild-eyed.
“They
took my cell phone! They took my wallet!”
I called 911 again. I was told, “They are on
the way.” “Today?” I asked as the operator hung up. Nearly ten minutes later a
police car finally pulled up. Still no ambulance in sight. The officer was very
good, calm, conversational, and patient. Ashley and a friend of Mike’s who had
arrived on the scene had managed to calm him down some. He was no longer
screaming, just plaintively begging for help. I wondered for a moment if I had
overreacted in describing him as “aggressive.”
A
second police car pulled up. This officer was also non-threatening in his
approach. Mike got even calmer. A few minutes later an ambulance finally
arrived. The medic tried to work with Mike. But with every question and request
Mike got more and more agitated again. He was back to aggressive. Eventually Mike
vehemently refused medical treatment. He would not get into the ambulance. “You
all gonna take my stuff!” he shouted. And with that he walked up the street,
screaming sporadically, gesticulating wildly.
The
police, satisfied that he had broken no law, got in their cars and left. The
ambulance left shortly thereafter.
I am
not really sure what to do with this story. Why share it? As the morning
unfolded there were several more incidents, mostly minor, but all involving
guests with mental illness. Those episodes I call “minor” because they were so
ordinary and not quite so loud or threatening. A toilet stuffed with paper
towels; an outburst about clothes; a brief verbal blow up between two guests in
the shower room. Typical stuff. Meanwhile, the usual business of the morning
continued. Kirk doing haircuts. Guests drinking coffee ably served by Ann. Lots
of conversation about sports and politics and religion. Men signing up for
Thursday’s shower list. Socks being distributed. Questions about services for
people on the street being answered. Sorrows being shared. No jobs. No housing.
Sickness.
One new
element, Trump’s election, stirred fear and resignation, “The bad can’t get
much worse, I guess” said one guest. To which another replied, “O yes it can.”
What is
the meaning of this morning? What is the story line that holds all of this
together? Maybe there is no story line, no narrative that can make sense of a
nation that disdains the poor and those who struggle with mental illness. I had
started the day praying Psalm 82. It is a call for justice. The psalmist calls
out, “Give justice to the weak and the orphan; maintain the right of the
lowly and the destitute. Rescue the weak and the needy;
deliver them from the hand of the wicked.” And the psalmist
describes those who are in power, “They have neither knowledge nor
understanding, they walk around in darkness.” A call for justice. A cry of
lament. All the story I can find today.
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