His name was Tommy. Thomas Johnson, to be exact.
His hair was disheveled, but not overtly dirty. His skin was clear and he had good color. He had beautiful blue eyes. His clothes were old but had no rips or tears. He wore a winter coat, despite the fact that it was nearly 85 degrees out. And the most striking part of his appearance was...
the pure white hospital band on his right wrist.
That's how we learned his name, the three ladies who encountered him that spring day in a busy commercial plaza.
Tommy.
He was maybe 28-30 years old, and he was very thirsty. When I first noticed him, he was filling a large styrofoam cup at a fountain dispenser in a sidewalk cafe with Coke. He would fill the cup a bit, take a drink, then fill it again. He did this for several minutes before Lady #1 engaged him in conversation. At least from my vantage point, they were communicating.
After a few minutes, Tommy moved outside the cafe and took a seat at a high top table just outside the front window. There he sat, firmly clutching his styrofoam cup. It was then I noticed that Tommy was still talking. But to who?
I quickly realized that whoever he was deep in conversation with was not visible to my eyes. My mind conjured up images from, "A Beautiful Mind," where Russell Crowe brilliantly portrayed Nobel Laureate, John Nash. Nash was one of the finest economic minds of all time, but he lived in a tortuous world of voices, and commands, and fears of conspiracy. Nash was a schizophrenic - trapped inside a world of his brain's own making, but one he did not desire to create.
Tommy was trapped, too. At one moment he appeared to be talking to someone right across the table from him; at another, he visited with someone a bit lower - perhaps a child. Whoever they were, Tommy was completely caught up in multiple conversations, all the while he held his coveted drink in his hand.
Lady #1 was still standing by the fountain dispenser. She and I locked eyes, then she looked toward Tommy and said, "I'm really worried about him. I ordered him some food, but I think he may be needing to go somewhere. He has a hospital bracelet on." I said, "He is not well." Then I turned back to watching him hold his cup.
As he clutched the treasure closely, Tommy's thumb pushed through the styrofoam, spilling drink across the table and down the sides. Tommy kept talking. He never moved from his seat, even as Coke dripped onto his clothes. Then, he began to cry. He sobbed for a few minutes; we could only assume that he was reacting to the spilled drink.
Lady #1 went to the counter and purchased another drink from the not-so-happy proprietor who kept making furtive glances toward the window as though Tommy was going to jump through it suddenly and harm her. Then Lady #1 returned to her vigil awaiting Tommy's meal.
Lady #2, my companion, returned to the cafe after stepping out to take a phone call. She had not seen Tommy before she walked out but now noticed him crying over the broken cup. She sat down across from me and said, "Oh. He is so upset. His cup broke..." As she sat there watching Tommy cry, and talk, and cry some more, Lady #2 said, "I feel bad. He lost his drink." I said, "Lady #1 over there is taking care of him," but Lady #2 was already on her feet, grabbing the few dollars of change from our own order, and heading out the door toward Tommy.
I thought to myself, "It's nice of her to give him some pocket change, but I doubt he will even know that he received it." By then, Tommy had stopped crying and was continuing his non-stop banter with the voices he was hearing.
When Lady #2 returned, she said, "Someone should DO something for him. Someone should DO something! We talk and talk about caring for refugees and wanting them in our country, but we have homeless right here who need those funds. Why don't we DO something for our own?"
I remarked, "Unfortunately, we cannot do something for the vast majority of these individuals. People like Tommy need intensive support, and our mental health system just cannot meet all their needs at the level needed to be effective."
"Oh no!" Lady #2 said. "There is plenty we can do, but our government won't do anything. They won't provide the funds needed to help."
I knew that arguing was futile, but I did feel the need to describe the reality of living with schizophrenia or another severe and persistent mental disorder (SPMD). I said, "I know you wish we could help Tommy, but the reality is, keeping track of him would be a full-time, everyday job for a case manager. There are not enough social workers to meet the immense need. Persons with SPMDs have a difficult time staying medication compliant, holding jobs, living independently, maintaining relationships. It's very possible that Tommy has a family that is unable to find him, and may be looking for him right now. But in a city this large, Tommy can vanish in a matter of minutes, and it may be weeks before he is seen again."
"But the hospital bracelet...what kind of a hospital would let him out in such a condition! They should be punished!"
Ahh...there was the rub. Tommy was obviously in no shape to be alone, but his right to dignity and autonomy conflicted with his need for help. Leaving against medical advice (AMA) is never the desire of hospital or clinic staff, but try telling a determined patient that he has to stay when he desperately wants to leave, not to mention when his own mind is dictating to him that he MUST, at all costs, get away from his present situation. The reality was, we didn't know why Tommy was here; we didn't know why he had a clean hospital ID bracelet on, and we could not get close enough to him to allow us to read more than his name.
All we really knew was that his name was Tommy. Tommy Johnson, to be exact.
Lady #1 heard our conversation and approached us.
"I ordered him some food, but I wish there was more I could do. I tried to find out if he wanted us to contact anyone for him, but..." and her voice faded off.
"He doesn't know if he has anyone," I concluded. "Even if he did, he is very ill, and he would not know a phone number, or maybe even where he's been today. He probably did not even know you were talking to him."
Lady #2 said again, "Someone should DO something. Our government is too concerned with other problems, wanting to bring in other people to our country, and yet, we have a homeless problem right here."
I looked up at Lady #1, and she had tears streaming down her face. She turned her back on the window for a moment with a look of pain and deep hurt.
Lady #2 wiped a tear from her eyes, too, but the look on her face was anger and disgust with a system that she perceived to be inadequate.
Lady #1 turned back to us and said, "I am so hurt for Tommy. That's his name, you know. Tommy Johnson - it says so on that hospital bracelet. I tried to talk to him..."
"My daughter was in a mental institution for quite awhile," she continued. "She's doing ok now, thank God, but I can't help but think, 'What if she didn't have us?' That could be her out there right now. Maybe his family doesn't know where he is either."
We expressed our sympathies, and Lady #2 reached out and gave Lady #1 a side hug.
I felt helpless. I was glad Lady #1 had bought Tommy some food. I was glad someone was watching out for him, even for just a brief moment. But, I also knew that her gesture would make no lasting difference. And she did, too. Tommy was living in his own world, and he likely did not even see her when she spoke to him. As a former case manager for people with SPMDs, I knew I was the one with the experience to evaluate whether Tommy was able to give us any information about himself that would be helpful.
I got up from my seat and walked outside.
"Hi, Tommy!" I said, as I cautiously approached.
"Hi..." and the incessant banter began again. Those beautiful blue eyes looked toward me, but right through me. Tommy kept talking, looking ahead, then down, then to the side, carrying on at least three conversations as I stood there watching.
"Tommy, is there anything we can do for you? Can we help you today?"
More chatter. More looking through me.
"I see you have a band. Do you need us to help you go somewhere? Is there someone we can call for you? Do you have a case worker?"
"Yeah...we need to..." and the quiet gibberish continued.
I stood there, knowing there was nothing to do. Torn between two women with two very different approaches to Tommy's plight. Maybe it was cynicism. Maybe it was a lack of desire to get involved. Maybe it was just a feeling of hopelessness and helplessness. But, I turned around and went back into the cafe.
"What did he say? Did you get any information?" Lady #1 eagerly asked.
"No. He's not seeing us. He doesn't know where he's at, or what he's doing. I'm not sure we can do anything for him."
"I bet he's a veteran!" Lady #2 said. "He probably came back from deployment with PTSD, and now he's out here wandering. It makes me sick - he went to fight for us so that our government could open our borders to refugees, and then we do nothing for him now that he's back."
"He may be a veteran, " I said, "He is certainly young enough to be a recently deployed service person. But, many young men in their 20s develop schizophrenia, and it's not a sure thing that he would have to be a veteran. We just don't know, but we do know we don't have a way to help him significantly today."
We turned back to the window in time to see a police officer approach Tommy, who was still seated at the high top, new drink in hand, quietly talking to himself. The officer said a few words, and Tommy got up, and began walking away.
"Wait! I am waiting on food for him! I bought him a meal!" Lady #1 hurried outside and visited with the officer. When she returned, she said, "He was responding to a complaint. Someone felt that Tommy was being a nuisance, and called the officer to come have him removed. How can they do that? He wasn't hurting anyone!"
She grabbed his order that had just come up, and followed Tommy across the plaza to his new seat, gave him the food, then stepped away.
Lady #2 and I sat, each lost in our own thoughts. I said, "He wasn't hurting anyone. He wasn't disturbing the peace or causing a hardship for this business. It's too bad he could not have stayed to eat. It's sad how people view those they don't understand."
Lady #2 looked up and said, "This is what I mean. We have our own people to take care of right here. And we are not putting any money into helping them! Do you know what would happen if everyone gave something to help people like him? I mean, what if every single person pitched in $10? Everyone has $10!!"
We were quiet the rest of the meal. I struggled inside. Part of me wanted to take the rest of the day and make sure Tommy was safe; the other part knew that I might not be able to do anything for him.
He had a name. He had beautiful, blue, vacant eyes.
His name was Tommy. Tommy Johnson, to be exact. The name haunted me the rest of the day.
We climbed into my companion's brand new luxury car and drove away, leaving Tommy - and dozens of other homeless individuals - in the rear view mirror.
Three women - three different perspectives. One common moment.
He had a name, and that made all the difference.
