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The day began as the day before it and the day before that one. A black hole, so deep he wondered if he could climb out of bed. ‘I’m only a shadow of myself,’ he thought. Was this just an evil trick of his brain or had he changed so much? When did his present struggles begin? His mind raced upon awakening. No stopping the noise. Now he was afraid of himself.
But this day would be different, he reminded himself. He had plans. He knew there was a way out.
Dressing for the day, he chose a blue suit with white shirt and a favorite red tie. It was too obvious that he had lost weight. He didn’t dare stare too hard in the mirror. The reflection suggested worry and weariness.
His financial problems began when he left the family law firm. It appeared to be a positive move, founding another firm with two of his friends. But something snapped. His life was a whirlwind of activity and creative ideas. He was empowered and moved mountains, spreading joy to those he met. Or so he thought.
But then there was the fall into a dark chasm of depression. No choice but to go to the hospital for psychiatric care. Six long weeks. People shuffling around like zombies most of the day. Sleepless nights. Gray days. Too dark to move.
His doctor prescribed medication that would bring him back to reality. That’s what the doctor had said. Only he had to be patient. “It takes time for medication to work,” the psychiatrist told him. “It takes time for the medication to be effective. But it will be better…someday.”
And so he waited in darkness for three months. Despair became his word as his thoughts drifted to “what-ifs.” What if he could return to his family’s law firm? What if he did not have such deep financial problems? What if the State Road was not tearing down his beloved camp of 20 years, using eminent domain to take a slice of his heart? What if his new law partners would allow him to come back to the firm now instead of waiting for a complete recovery? What if the FDA had not taken so long to approve the drug of choice for his illness, a common salt? No, No. No…This is madness.
Breakfast was simple, a bowl of shredded wheat, milk and oj. He had little appetite of late. Nor interest in conversation. He said nothing to his wife and his three children had already left for school. He sat and remembered. He cried within. No one understood his pain. No one understood his behavior. There were snickers and hushed talk on the rare occasions he left his safe house.
He kissed his wife goodbye that Monday morning. The signs of spring were in the air as he drove his Chevrolet up the avenue. Instead of turning left as was his routine of late, he turned right. The car knew the way. While he might be missed at the bank where he did routine legal work for half a day, people would know: it’s another bleak day.
There was no flash of better times, no signs of new life that he saw out his window. There was irony. Springtime is a time of new beginnings, of hope, of desire. In his depressed state of mind spring reminded him of the what ifs. So he continued driving towards his goal.
His gloomy view was triggered by many factors, but he began to deteriorate rapidly as he fought, as best he could in his crippled mental state, to save his Camp. Camp was not only home to him; it was respite from ills he experienced daily, the imbalance in the legal system he had so proudly represented. He wept at the injustice done to many and rejoiced in the success of a few. Camp was his piece of heaven, where he miraculously was healed with each visit and restored.
Justice was on his mind that Monday morning. He was obsessed with visiting the Camp one last time before it was torn down for the new interstate. Justice? There had been a last minute maneuvering, a change in routes for the planned Interstate. The second option would destroy his camp. He no longer had the energy to fight, but he had plans.
It was around 11:00 a.m. when he drove off the country road onto his private property. The house appeared sad and naked. Everything had been removed the day before except for a few items. He felt empty as he opened his trunk. Justice in the guise of a stop sign. He slowly pulled out the sign and some tools and impaled the sign in the ground in a futile attempt to stop people from trespassing. Or was it a futile attempt? Maybe it was an act of defiance by a deeply troubled but just man.
He proceeded into the now empty house and walked with purpose to the closet. A “what if” came to his mind. What if the family had not left the guns yesterday when they cleaned out the Camp? Sick in mind, body and spirit, he slowly walked up the steps to the attic. With no more thought he aimed the gun at his head and pulled the trigger. He found his way out. He quit.
On a dreary Monday in March 1965, he left a legacy. A rich legacy. One that continues as his spirit rises from ashes and guides others today. It’s quite simple. Stop: it’s time for all of this to change. It matters what we leave behind. Justice is attainable. Our lives do make the difference.
Alarming Fact:
This (E.R.I.S.A.) is the dirty little secret that lets HMOs walk away from responsibility for denying or interfering with medically appropriate treatment. Corporate health providers that administer employer paid health benefits are above the law...Fully 125 million Americans with employer paid health coverage in the private sector are unable to sue their HMPs or insurers for damages - no matter how egregious the HMO conduct or serious the consequences of the treatment denial. HMOs can operate with virtual impunity.
~HMOs and the Threat to Your Life, Chapter 5
