Mental Illness

I suffer because a stranger suffers
while those who know him
show no compassion
how can a stranger share with me
so much of humanity

Last week people began a new topic of gossip—something to laugh about. “Have you seen the crazy one?” “Oh Iking is mad. Did you see him in barrio X?”  I didn’t appreciate the jokes for the harm they were probably doing to the poor man. Then, after the dance Thursday night, we met him on the road. He asked for a ride and I guess the doctor was afraid to say no. He got in beside me. I didn’t know this was the “crazy one”. In fact, it was just a boy of 17. He talked sometimes with a booming nasal voice like I’d never heard before. It scared me and then I realized it was coming from him. If I can express it at all, it was a lot like the voice of the devil in The Exorcist. Later he pulled out a bolo (long knife) which frightened me, but still I just thought he was drunk. I should have noticed he didn’t smell of alcohol. In fact, I think I did notice something irregular. I was a little nervous but didn’t know why. At home they told me that he was the crazy guy. I nodded and no longer felt nervous. But the next day he came to the house and said he would go to the clinic Monday and marry a nurse. Perhaps he meant me. He was making quite a few scenes around town and I admit to being a bit scared.

He came back to our house Saturday night and was treated by the doctor for face wounds. They didn’t let him into the house proper, only the clinic below. Then Sunday morning he was back in front of our house. He was shouting and even took money from a jeep driver. In general he was drawing attention to himself. He left again.

At 10 a.m., I went to market. It was the weekly market day. Suddenly people were running and screaming and I was pulled to hide inside a shop. I refused to panic or be afraid like the others. Then the boy, Iking, was taken off by about 20 armed police and at least 100 spectators. I learned that the doctor had already treated three patients that morning whom Iking had wounded. Evidently he gets quite violent. So they took him to the jail in the municipal hall.

That afternoon I asked what had happened to Iking. They said he’d broken the iron bars at the jail and subsequently they tied him up. I was very doubtful that he was able to break the iron bars, though I realize mentally ill persons can be very strong.

Monday morning I went over to the jail to check on Iking.  He stood chained with arms flayed out to either side, bleeding from the chains, with wounds on his face from a mauling before he was apprehended. The chains around his wrists were nailed to the walls about 4 ft. to either side of him. His arms were raised and pulled out to each side with little slack, more so if he stood. His arms were bruised and bleeding from the chains. If he sleeps, he must do so sitting up with no wall to lean on. There is not enough slack in the chains to lie down. He is located in an open court. The sun shines directly on him for a few hours in the morning but he is under partial shelter if it rains. There were about 50 spectators; half were children. If Iking wanted to defecate or urinate he must do it in full view of spectators. He showed anger toward the crowds, toward their laughter directed at him as they ogled. He acted out, usually by throwing his food. It’s only rice. He would shout and the small children would imitate him. He still wore the clothes he was captured in. With a glass of water he attempted to wash his hair by contorting his body to tilt his head under the chained arm.  He used his shirt to cover his torn pants, as if he was ashamed. One minute he looked helpless and ashamed as if he’d cry. Then he’d be angry and kick and shout and throw things. It’s as if he gets angry at all staring faces for making him feel ashamed. He’s eating almost nothing. He’s wet when it rains.

The crowds seem governed by fear and ignorance rather than compassion. People talk about his supernatural powers related to witches. I heard no sympathy, only superstitions, fears, and jokes. All because he’s ill. His mental defenses have been too delicate to deal with life as it came to him. And yet no one has attempted to understand him or treat him like a human being. And so he made a game of it—shouting back to jeering spectators to hide his shame.

I felt frustration from daily attempts to better Iking’s situation. I persuaded the children to leave. Iking’s father thanked me. Then I went to the Police Chief and requested that he keep spectators away. I’ll have to check up on that. Progress was slow while he suffered. I felt like a visitor to the middle ages—helpless because no one could understand my 20^th century frame of reference. I advocated all week. Some smiled and nodded, others rationalized with typical excuses of ignorance, superstition, and fear. This has been one of the most difficult emotional situations for me. It makes staying here difficult.

After 8½ days, Iking remained chained, but with only one foot and one arm, perhaps because of my protests and advocacy.  His arm was quite swollen and blistered beneath the taut chain. Human beings remarkably adapt to suffering and he at least seemed less anguished. His smile was so warm; he reminded me of the 17 year old boy who worked with me in the vet clinic two years ago—a face that I’ll never forget now.

On the 13th day of Iking’s captivity, there was a farewell dance in the town hall near the police station and jail. Everyone was two or three hours late, except for me. I was on time. So I went downstairs to where Iking was chained up to say hello. He was trying to sew together the blanket he had torn in an early rage. He needed the blanket becasue it gets cold outside at night. He was having a difficult time and asked if I could sew. I could, of course, so I sat there beside him while he held the blanket and I sewed it. It took about 45 minutes. We had a good conversation. Most people are afraid to go near him because of the violence which is nonexistent when he’s treated humanely. He was fine as we sat. He asked me if I was myopic. He could see my contact lenses as we sat close together on the courtyard ground. I was surprised by his knowledge and sharp intelligence. He was so calm. Later that night his condition worsened with the raucous dance overhead. His environment was not exactly conducive to the wellbeing of a mentally ill person.

The situation kept dragging out. Iking didn’t eat well and he’s remained chained and outdoors. Supposedly the paper work had been stepped up. I was told there was once a campaign in the Philippines for the humane treatment of animals, but it failed due to lack of interest. One government official supposedly said “Oh but that’s the way we treat our people”. In this case, it rings true.

I finally exhausted my patience in town and traveled to San Jose, the provincial capital, to advocate for Iking.  I persuaded the Provincial Head Nurse and a doctor, the Assistant Provincial Health Officer, to travel to Bugasong to see Iking and help him. The doctor  arrived and looked at Iking briefly before diagnosing “manic-depression”. The visiting nurse and doctor asked to have Iking transferred to a cell. It came out that no iron bars had actually been destroyed, so he was fine in a cell.

The local doctora won’t go near Eking, but the provincial nurse went up to him, looked at his wounds, with very little persuasion, got him to take a tranquilizer. He easily responded to being treated humanely. The nurse was able to clean and treat his wounds as I helped. She nurse was compassionate and composed. She was scared, but did it. Iking thanked the nurse and gave me a smile that showed neither anger or shame.

But still he’s chained and needs to get professional help. It turns out he’s quite intelligent but has been disturbed for a long time, traveling around the province in a uniform with a fake machine gun. The provincial doctor and nurse were quite impressed with him. If only the rest of the town could treat him as a person. Townspeople admitted to treating Iking like a rabid dog, when I suggested that was the case.

Once Iking had been seen by the provincial doctor and had been unchained and placed in a cell, I advocated strongly for the private physician at my house to treat him for free. He gave Iking tranquilizers and then informed me that all Iking needs is about five electric shocks followed by oral treatment.

I think Iking was eventually released to his father and a priest. But for me the story had another ending many months later when I attended town fiesta. I was standing in a crowd and could hear people talking about me. They were a group of barefoot people who had come down from a remote barrio for fiesta. They clearly had few material advantages and likely very little education. A couldn’t hear well enough to discern what they were saying. I assumed that they were talking about my blue eyes or other physical characteristics. Then a woman in the group tapped me on the shoulder and asked me if I wanted to know what they were talking about. I said sure. She told me that they were talking about how I would be remembered by the local people. She asked if I wanted to know. Reluctantly, I said yes. She answered that they would remember me for treating one of their own as a human being when they could not. I knew immediately that it was about Iking. I also knew immediately that my time here had meaning. I have rarely been so satisfied.

Anguish, nausea, fear
nightmares overwhelm
self-ease evades me
I suffer because another suffers
as human beings make game
of a treacherous affair.

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Peace Corps Morale

Forty years ago, in July of 1975, after eight months in the Philippines, about one third of our group had quit. Additionally, there had been a complete changeover of upper personnel, and the Peace Corps offices had moved locations. Seventy-five percent of in-country volunteers were turning over in July and September, so everyone seemed to be on their way out, or brand new. The new country director was ex-press secretary for Spiro Agnew, the U.S. Vice President who had resigned in disgrace. Morale among volunteers was low. But I wasn’t burned out. I missed things back home, but was more committed than ever.

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Celebrations

June and July have been full of parades, baptisms, death anniversaryies, walk-a-thons, benefit dances, new building dedications, birthday parties, mother’s class graduations, and farewell parties. For everything, there is a reason to celebrate.

There was a week-night dance that until 1:30 a.m. It was exhausting, but I played my role with a smile.  The underboard nurse from Manila, was distressed. She said that she felt like “bait” as our supervisor kept insisting that we continue to dance.  I feel grateful to have another women who sees my point of view. I feel less alone.

I became Godmother for Cherrie Rivero. The priest spoke about how baptisms had become, to some people, mere social occasions and a means of acquiring material things and/or social standing. Indeed, there was a huge feast at our house afterwards. They’d killed a pig early in the morning and it squealed with an ear-piercing, gut-wrenching sound. It was cooked whole, with head and skin. The final party arrangement featured the pig with tongue hanging out at the center of the buffet table.

For the walk-a-thon, everyone walked 3 km. (about 2 miles) and complained about being exhausted. For someone who is accustomed to backpacking long distances in the Cascades, Olympics, and Sierras, I found it comical.

Some celebrations are informal, but more delightful. At six a.m. one Saturday, several of us went swimming. I’d planned it the day before. It was great to get exercise early and laugh. On another occasion, we were surveying in a rural barrio when the barrio captain brought us young coconuts and milk. I loved it. I’ll never be able to anticipate such little surprises of kindness. They are much rarer back home.

Friendship

Dawning realization
knowing and caring
unprepared unexpected
another human being
has made you smile
brought you close
to yourself

I went with Linda to Mrs. Nava’s  to hang out and have pizza before the birthday party for David. I seem to have friends here now.

Our underboard nurse just finished six months duty and returned to Manila. She’s been here since the week after I arrived. She lived with me at the Riveros. She’s my age. She has quite a streak of independence. This last couple of months we’ve gotten fairly close. She seemed to understand about the things that frustrated me. I’ll really miss her. One day last week I had a good cry in front of her, so we went for a long walk to the beach. It’s good to realize that I feel close to someone who’s not American. I already like a couple of the new nurses too. In general I’m feeling more comfortable around the people here; and vica versa I think.

Today I went surveying with Elen, another nurse. I like her. She’s not a delicate sweet little thing and loves walking fast with me; she smiles. The task was much more pleasant and we had an enjoyable walk home. Attitude can make or break a day.

On Health

Flat-my-back
away-from-home blues
sick abed and adult
without brother to play checkers
in the covers of contagion
bedroom loneliness
no mothers’ trays
no softened voices
no coloring books
that daddy bought
for me alone

There was a huge feast at our house. After the baptism I was hot and not feeling well and have had diarrhea ever since. By Sunday I was sick again with 103° temp and diarrhea, headache, joint aches, etc. It happens everytime I eat celebratory food or drink much of the water. It’s one way to lose weight. I gain weight and then lose it from the bacterial and parasitic infections. How I hate to be ill in this place. I feel so unsafe, so unprotected.

Stayed in bed just about all day. I really hate being sick with no one to ask “How are you?” I know it’s a cultural difference. Illness and even death is such an accepted part of life. Diarrhea is just a fact of life. Just now I’m on my 5^th day running (so to speak). The medicine isn’t doing any good. Think I must have more amoeba or worms because I’ve been getting diarrhea so much. I lost another 5 lbs. subsequently I’m  120 again.

At the end of the month I went to Cebu, headed for Mindanao on vacation. I stayed with Patty and we spent Saturday in the city rushing around. I didn’t want to admit how sick I was. On Sunday I woke up late and feeling pretty sick. I couldn’t eat and had no energy, but Patty wanted to go swimming so we went. I’m getting pretty mellow about being always sick. Eventually I started vommiting and had diarrhea. Later Patty and I walked a couple of blocks for ice cream. On peaceful tropical evenings, troubles melt away. But Monday I went to see the doctor in Cebu and was admitted to the hospital. I have confidence in Dr. Gozo. I was ready for the hospital and happy to lie in bed without moving a muscle. Flush toilets are also a luxury one appreciates with diarrhea.  Didn’t get much sleep last because of mosquitos in my hospital room. On Tuesday they let me out of the hospital for two hours to see a Marx Brothers movie with friends. It was too much for me and I got a massive headache. On Wednesday, Linny, Nancy, John, Cayenne, Ken, Angie, Patty, and Bertall came to my hospital room and rented a television. They watched Charlie and ate popcorn. Linny played guitar and sang. It was nice to have company, but I fell asleep. On Thursday I had barium enemas to look for colon damage because I’ve been diagnosed with chronic amoeba-positive stool. This is why I’ve been sick off and on since March. Bummer. The X-rays were okay and I was released from the hospital. Patty wanted me to go night clubbing but I couldn’t handle it. I crashed early.

      For Linny
you lightened my load
Relaxed the pain
breath of songs
from throaty voices
I hardly know you
your sore throat lessened
as I grew happy from your tunes
my pain left
when you opened up
your late night guitar song
to resting ears

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