Margie resumes her role as therapist

Margie was sharp and present today, with more memory than she’s had in a long time. I wasn’t feeling terrific (migraine, nothing unusual), so instead of taking a walk, we had our coffee date at the place across the street from Margie’s apartment. 

While we were sipping our cappuccinos, a man with serious mental illness came shuttling along the sidewalk from behind her, very close to us like the men in the photo. He was probably in his mid-thirties, barefooted and bare-chested, with matted hair and a blanket slung over his shoulders, and he was shouting “Fuck you!” at someone who was invisible to everyone but himself.

Margie said softly to me, “Don’t make eye contact,” as she stared intently into her coffee cup. “It’s not about us.” She had slipped right into her role as therapist, a job she held for many years.

The man stopped beside us and spun around in a complete circle, still shouting, stomping his bare feet. His blanket brushed against Margie’s arm and shoulder. We didn’t make eye contact. After a pause, he continued down the street.

“He’s so vulnerable,” Margie observed. “I hope he’ll be OK. I think it’s important to avoid eye contact so he can stay in his world. You don’t want to jar him out of it suddenly.” I nodded, and she went right on, “Are you still practicing piano every day?” I was astonished she remembered I’m studying piano, surprised she was so composed and unbothered by the man who was shouting. After we talked about piano for a few minutes, she mused, 

“We were so lucky with our children. We could have had a son like that young man. He probably has a mother who can’t sleep nights. Can you imagine, if you were his mother or grandmother? Or God forbid, if you had a mind like his?"

We talked for a while about our shared anger that our society provides no safe places for people like the man who passed us. No refuge. No treatment. How barbaric, a society that will not care for its most vulnerable people.