The Story of Charles.................... 4/22/14

        It was baffling, encountering him the first time.

         He walked a-round with his right hand on the right corner of his head, where the edge of his forehead met his hair-line.  This hand pushed the side of his head against his left shoulder, cocking it to one side.  With his head in this position--his hand at all times pushing it against his body--he walked around the mental health center where I worked.

        He had been a resident for two years when I began working there. It is so many years ago, I will honor him by using his real name.  You will never meet Charles.

        Glasses rested on he triangular head.  His cheeks were wide, like a squirrel's mouth full of nuts. It formed the base of his head.
 
        The rest of it came to a point on top.  He breathed  out his soft chuckles in a re-strained way as if cotton filled his mouth.

       His gentle eyes matched his soft voice and quiet demeanor.  A patch of curly hair topped his head.  His father, whom he never met, was African American.

       His mother was Hispanic.  He was overweight.  And shy, there was a reason for that.

      His pants were too large.  Slipping down, they revealed his hairy butt.  You didn't want to see it, after having lunch.

      I would know.

      On rainy days, while out on the patio on the third floor, he stood alone.  The rain pouring on him, while not wearing a coat.  He did not own one.

      Many staff members doted on their pets, a resident receiving prefer-ential treatment.  Like Richard, who wasn't all there.  He had a round mark on his forehead, the size of a nickel.

      That part of his head was soft, missing the skull. This dip in his forehead was a gift from his mother, an RN.  She had Richard have a lobotomy as a teenager.

      This was to calm the once-raging temper of his adolescence.

      Richard always greeted me, calling me Ben.  When I reminded him of my real name, he would say my name, not pronouncing the "l".  "Pah bo."  Every time.

      Charles was not pet material.  Quiet.  Not cute, keeping to himself.

      Intrigued by his unique behavior, I pulled out his chart, he was part of my caseload of twenty-four residents.  The social worker's intake re-port revealed Charles's father left his mother when she became pregnant with him.  The report also detailed the most disturbing news in his case history.
     

       Tears filled the back of my eyes while reading it at the nursing station: his mother kept him in a closet for sever-al years while he was a child.

       Charles' pushing his head to his left shoulder comforted him, then, as a child---while in a closet---and now, as a young adult.  It was a habit kept though he no longer lived alone.  It was his unique contribution to his home, the locked sub-acute psychiatric facility, holding one hundred and twenty residents.

       Although working in the Rehab Department, I did nursing duties, when tending to Charles. I wasn't supposed to.  But the nursing staff didn't mind.

       It was one less person they had to worry about.  I got a special comb that worked well with his nappy hair, helping him with his grooming skills.  I encouraged him to routinely shave his scruffy beard.

       A bribe of a Kudos candy bar from Rehab canteen did the trick.
     

"Charles, you can't continue turning on women by showing your butt," I said after spend-ing two weeks with him and his droopy pants.

       He chuckled, his eyes sparkling, revealing a shy smile.  We visited the bou-tique on the first floor.  It had clothing donated by family members and local stores for the residents.

      Charles dug in the bins and found pants that fit, and a belt, too.  No longer was his hairy butt an unsightly moving billboard of self-neglect.  And he picked out a green jacket.

      Working with him, being his buddy, his eyes now lit up when they met mine---making my day.

      Residents start out with earning a red privilege card.  It allowed them to walk on the enclosed grounds.  It also let them scoot ahead of others during snack time.
   

      If they attended groups (which my Rehab Department colleagues and I taught), did their grooming and got along with staff and residents, they could move up to a green and eventually the coveted gold "P" card.  It was doled out, based on a staff conference that assessed the resident's compliance with their care plan.

      For Charles, I skipped the bureaucracy involved with outings.  Us in rehab were in charge of this activity.  It was a privilege for those who did their self-care, followed their activity program, and got along with staff and others.

      Charles did none of these, except the grooming because of our time together.  Nonetheless, I put him on the top of the outings list.  Within a week, he enjoyed his first outing.

      This happening after twenty-six months cooped up at the mental health center, overlooked and vegetating.

     He made the most of the freedom the evening excursion provided.  He combed his hair.  He shaved.  His new pants fit well around his waist.

     He was a new man, entering into a new social world, no longer standing alone on the third-floor patio. He was back in the community, hobnobbing with other citizens of Redwood City.  All this while sipping a hot chocolate drink topped with whipped cream at a Denny's Restaurant on Veterans Blvd.

      He delighted in his temporary but supervised liberty, wearing a slight smile. He sat at two long tables pushed together, length-wise. This expanded rectangle accommodated him, my co-worker, myself, and thirteen other residents.

     He deposited himself next to a window.  He gazed at the steady traffic and people passing by.  It was the first time he saw a new street and different faces in more than two years.
   

       While sipping his hot beverage, he looked sideways. Taking in others in the restaurant who were better dressed, definitely not fellow residents.  An older woman smiled back.

       Returning to the hospital, he stood in front of the vehicle while passengers filed out, returning home.  I filled out the trip log for the sixteen passenger extended Econoline van.

      When I finished locking up the vehicle, he and I walked to the front door of the hospital.

     "Thank you," Charles whispered.

      He was the only resident expressing gratitude for the outing.  Hear-ing him, my heart did a joyful backflip.  His appreciation made my efforts with him worthwhile, far beyond any paycheck could offer.

        That night, not once did he place his hand on his head.  He did not cock it sideways, resting it on his shoulder.  Learned behavior can be unlearned. 

         When someone validates and cares for a person, growth and healing can take place.  Getting more out of life is birthed when a person experiences supportive honesty from true friends.

"Faithful are the wounds of a friend but the kisses of an enemy are deceitful."        Proverbs 27:6 

        Progress also occurs when an individual loves themself enough to move beyond negative, self-defeating default modes that never served them.

       Thank you, Charles, for your example, inspiring me whenever I think of you.