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The Hardest Investment
by Patti L. Auber, published August 2016
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Sometimes people just break your heart. Life can be hard for us all at times, but there are those among us who seem to have an especially hard road to travel. Among us are those who just can’t seem to get a break—or more likely, to give themselves a break. They seem to struggle from one bad judgment to another, never quite making it all work.
It’s tempting to think such a person should just “pull themselves together” or “rise above their circumstances.” I know I have been guilty of such judgments. Certainly there are countless examples all around us of folks who have done exactly that, and have become successful and contributing members of society. However, sometimes we come across a person who has been so damaged by the vicissitudes of life that they can no longer fit into our societal structure. They have become their own worst enemy.
I recently met such a person. I’ll call this man Joe, although that isn’t his name. Joe, who is in his early 50s, is the son of a friend—I’ll refer to her as Martha.
I’d heard about Joe from my friend—about how he struggled as a youth, and took to using drugs and alcohol, and about how he had been living rough on the streets of San Francisco for decades, unwilling or unable to get help for his mental and physical issues.
Eventually, as might be expected, living adrift and destitute, with only the next bottle or the next fix for comfort, began to wear hard on this aging man. Life on the streets is rough, and drugs and alcohol affect both body and mind. Although only in his early 50s, Joe looked decades older. He had already suffered a couple of small strokes, and had a bad bout with pneumonia that nearly took his life. Even in the depths of his addiction and mental illness, Joe realized that he needed to get off the streets.
Martha convinced him to come back to Ohio, and offered him a place to live in her house. We were so excited! Just the thought that Joe would now have a safe, comfortable, warm place to live made us both very happy and hopeful. Because Martha lived in Florida most of the year, we agreed that my housemate, a man about the same age as Joe, would be a point of contact for him here in Ohio. He would help him get acclimated to his new city. Joe would be okay at last!
We were so naïve.
The next few months we watched Joe struggle to come to terms with his new existence. None of us dreamed in our wildest imaginings how very difficult it would be for Joe to live “civilized.” We helped him get to the store to shop for groceries, although most of his money was spent on alcohol. We took him to get a library card so he could borrow videos and books. We tried to get him into a rehab center, but after about an hour of intake with a counselor, Joe took off like a startled rabbit.
The fact was, Joe missed his life on the streets. Such was his mental illness, that he was very suspicious of anyone in authority, including police, doctors, and counselors. While living here, Joe was arrested a couple of times for public intoxication and disturbing the peace. Once he was perceived to be resisting arrest and suffered some cuts and bruises and a broken rib by the police who were trying to subdue him.
When he needed a friendly face, Joe might show up on our doorstep. He was a gentle soul who could speak intelligently about literature and philosophy. He loved to play pool, and found a local center where he was welcomed. He could carve soapstone, and when his brother sent him some, Joe proudly brought his creation over to show us. He loved animals, especially cats, and had adopted a shelter cat that he cared for very lovingly. He also volunteered at a shelter, where he walked the dogs. He regaled us with stories of the dogs he met there.
But Joe was not adjusting—not at all. He talked about wanting to go back to San Francisco. He realized that he needed professional help, and he wanted it, but his illness prevented him from accepting it.
One night when he visited us, he saw one of our mountain dulcimers, and became intrigued. He asked if he could try it, and seemed to take to it quite well. The dulcimer, such a sweet and comforting instrument, appeared to provide a measure of solace and calm to Joe’s troubled mind. I had an old dulcimer, and I offered to lend it to him. His face lit up and he accepted with alacrity.
One day, Joe decided that he would take a bus to New York City so he could visit friends he had there. He told us he would be leaving in a couple of days, and expected to return in a week or two. He would spend some time with his mother who was due back from Florida for a visit. Then, he would return to California.
Only a few days after that conversation, the New York City police contacted Joe’s family with the news that Joe had died, and his body had been discovered sitting under a tree there in the City. There were no obvious signs of injury, no indication of drug overdose. Joe had spoken to me several times in his more lucid moments about his desire for “a clean death” and it seems that he achieved his wish. He just died.
I didn’t know Joe well—just for a few months, but his death hit me unexpectedly hard. I had such hopes that we could help Joe. I so very much wanted to see him live out his years in peace and security. I wanted my friend Martha to have less need to worry about her son. I invested so much of my time, energy, and resources into doing what I could to help that dream become a reality. Joe’s death put an end to that hope and in some way it broke my heart.
But for all of that, I’m glad I got to know Joe. I came to appreciate the little he was able to contribute to any friendship, driven as he was by his own demons. I caught occasional glimpses of the intelligent, kind, humorous man that lived inside the haunted prison of his mind.
Still now of an evening, I’ll glance out the front door and expect to see him coming up the steps with a cocky grin on his face. I’m surprised at how much I miss Joe.
The mountain dulcimer I loaned to Joe was not found in his house, so we suspect that he took it to New York with him. I don’t know for sure if this is what happened, dear reader, but I take some comfort in imagining that Joe was under that tree, with dulcimer in hand, strumming his way into eternity.
It’s tempting to think such a person should just “pull themselves together” or “rise above their circumstances.” I know I have been guilty of such judgments. Certainly there are countless examples all around us of folks who have done exactly that, and have become successful and contributing members of society. However, sometimes we come across a person who has been so damaged by the vicissitudes of life that they can no longer fit into our societal structure. They have become their own worst enemy.
I recently met such a person. I’ll call this man Joe, although that isn’t his name. Joe, who is in his early 50s, is the son of a friend—I’ll refer to her as Martha.
I’d heard about Joe from my friend—about how he struggled as a youth, and took to using drugs and alcohol, and about how he had been living rough on the streets of San Francisco for decades, unwilling or unable to get help for his mental and physical issues.
Eventually, as might be expected, living adrift and destitute, with only the next bottle or the next fix for comfort, began to wear hard on this aging man. Life on the streets is rough, and drugs and alcohol affect both body and mind. Although only in his early 50s, Joe looked decades older. He had already suffered a couple of small strokes, and had a bad bout with pneumonia that nearly took his life. Even in the depths of his addiction and mental illness, Joe realized that he needed to get off the streets.
Martha convinced him to come back to Ohio, and offered him a place to live in her house. We were so excited! Just the thought that Joe would now have a safe, comfortable, warm place to live made us both very happy and hopeful. Because Martha lived in Florida most of the year, we agreed that my housemate, a man about the same age as Joe, would be a point of contact for him here in Ohio. He would help him get acclimated to his new city. Joe would be okay at last!
We were so naïve.
The next few months we watched Joe struggle to come to terms with his new existence. None of us dreamed in our wildest imaginings how very difficult it would be for Joe to live “civilized.” We helped him get to the store to shop for groceries, although most of his money was spent on alcohol. We took him to get a library card so he could borrow videos and books. We tried to get him into a rehab center, but after about an hour of intake with a counselor, Joe took off like a startled rabbit.
The fact was, Joe missed his life on the streets. Such was his mental illness, that he was very suspicious of anyone in authority, including police, doctors, and counselors. While living here, Joe was arrested a couple of times for public intoxication and disturbing the peace. Once he was perceived to be resisting arrest and suffered some cuts and bruises and a broken rib by the police who were trying to subdue him.
When he needed a friendly face, Joe might show up on our doorstep. He was a gentle soul who could speak intelligently about literature and philosophy. He loved to play pool, and found a local center where he was welcomed. He could carve soapstone, and when his brother sent him some, Joe proudly brought his creation over to show us. He loved animals, especially cats, and had adopted a shelter cat that he cared for very lovingly. He also volunteered at a shelter, where he walked the dogs. He regaled us with stories of the dogs he met there.
But Joe was not adjusting—not at all. He talked about wanting to go back to San Francisco. He realized that he needed professional help, and he wanted it, but his illness prevented him from accepting it.
One night when he visited us, he saw one of our mountain dulcimers, and became intrigued. He asked if he could try it, and seemed to take to it quite well. The dulcimer, such a sweet and comforting instrument, appeared to provide a measure of solace and calm to Joe’s troubled mind. I had an old dulcimer, and I offered to lend it to him. His face lit up and he accepted with alacrity.
One day, Joe decided that he would take a bus to New York City so he could visit friends he had there. He told us he would be leaving in a couple of days, and expected to return in a week or two. He would spend some time with his mother who was due back from Florida for a visit. Then, he would return to California.
Only a few days after that conversation, the New York City police contacted Joe’s family with the news that Joe had died, and his body had been discovered sitting under a tree there in the City. There were no obvious signs of injury, no indication of drug overdose. Joe had spoken to me several times in his more lucid moments about his desire for “a clean death” and it seems that he achieved his wish. He just died.
I didn’t know Joe well—just for a few months, but his death hit me unexpectedly hard. I had such hopes that we could help Joe. I so very much wanted to see him live out his years in peace and security. I wanted my friend Martha to have less need to worry about her son. I invested so much of my time, energy, and resources into doing what I could to help that dream become a reality. Joe’s death put an end to that hope and in some way it broke my heart.
But for all of that, I’m glad I got to know Joe. I came to appreciate the little he was able to contribute to any friendship, driven as he was by his own demons. I caught occasional glimpses of the intelligent, kind, humorous man that lived inside the haunted prison of his mind.
Still now of an evening, I’ll glance out the front door and expect to see him coming up the steps with a cocky grin on his face. I’m surprised at how much I miss Joe.
The mountain dulcimer I loaned to Joe was not found in his house, so we suspect that he took it to New York with him. I don’t know for sure if this is what happened, dear reader, but I take some comfort in imagining that Joe was under that tree, with dulcimer in hand, strumming his way into eternity.