geoff40
Member
A long time ago, back when I was just 19 and 20, I worked my first of 2 stints as an aid at a State Hospital in New England. My job as an aid was hands on, working directly with the patients on an elderly resident unit, not a very glamorous place to be, but really at a State -run psych facility there isn't much glamour to be found anywhere. Especially back then. The unit had 35 or so patients on it, took up an entire floor of an old brick, mid 1800s asylum type of building, and in those days the patients were all long term patients who had been locked up for many years. 5 or more decades wasn't uncommon. Built in 4 stories of bricks like a mid 1800s mill building, it was hot in the summer, windows open and big floor fans blowing. No a/c in those days. In the winter, the steam radiators hissing steam from the nearby steam plant would heat the entire building up to about the mid 80s.
On a given day there would typically be 4 or 5 of us aids and 1 nurse working an entire floor for an 8 hour shift. Taking care of the patients, be it feeding, dressing, getting them cleaned up, and more. A mix of patients with varying levels of functional ability, a lot of them obviously crazy. Others, maybe not so obvious, for back when these patients were locked up, society often locked up those with severe physical defects along with the insane. Many of the patients would never know their own name, but some of them were sharp as a tack. We were assigned certain patients as "contacts", patients we were told to spend one on one time with, when we had time to spare. It wasn't easy, but we did manage to make it happen.
There was this man on the unit, and his first name was Wilbur. That's not his actual name
but it is close enough to be it. Medical confidentiality extends infinitely and I can't tell you his name even today.
Wilbur's evident main issue, when I first met him, was that he was mute. He could walk around and pretty much care for himself in most ways, and he could follow directions to a T. He just never spoke. Wilbur was around my height probably, but it's hard to tell because he always walked a bit hunched over forward. He was a good sized man, well built and not slender or a lightweight. Stocky, broad shouldered, strong. Bald on top, not so on the sides. His eyelids had a bit of a droop to them, bloodhound eyes, with the red inner lids exposed along the bottom. Wilbur would walk and pace the unit for hours at a time. He was, by a long shot, the one man in the best overall physical condition on the entire unit. Sadly there was nothing else for him to do really, so I guess he paced out of boredom. Sometimes, I could get him to sit down in front of a TV for a minute or so if I asked him to, but he would soon get up and go off pacing. I remember I used to wonder and comment out loud to other aids, wondering how far he walked a day. How many miles? The other patients there needed a lot more help than Wilbur, and so getting any time to deal with him was often difficult. Most often, when there wasn't much to do it was because the patients were all sleeping, including Wilbur. In my memory, I can see him clearly right now, I remember his face very well, and the way he would look right in to my eyes while I spoke to him. I remember like it was last week.
At first, I didn't really know how to talk to him, as he never said anything back, but soon enough I just rolled with it and spoke normally to him. He of course never said a word back, but he would stare at me intently, and if I'd suggest he do something, or outright ask him to, usually he would comply, while watching me, in his silence.
There was this child's plastic bowling set with colored pins and a couple of 3 holed balls, and though he was way too old and large to be playing with this kid toy he loved to bowl with it. So when I had even 10 minutes to give him, I would get out the pins and let him bowl while having a one-sided conversation with him. And he would bowl and listen. He also liked cards, although trying to get him to actually play a game with cards was impossible. He would just hold them, and apparently make a game of trying to hold on to them no matter how hard I was pulling on them, trying to get them out of his hand. On his forearms, each had a good sized tattoo, old, indistinct. Wilbur never smiled, he never laughed. He always had the same expression on his face, looking empty and sad. Only his drooping eyes changed. He always looked right in to my eyes, intently, and there was obviously a lot going on behind them. His eyes in general watered up a often, he often looked on the verge of tears. His hands shook slightly, but I don't know if with a palsy, a side effect of medication, or simply his nerves. And he liked to arm wrestle. I could easily beat him arm wrestling, but I would usually let him win. He had a surprisingly strong grip. He stared in to my eyes when we arm wrestled. As I've grown older, it has occurred to me to wonder if he was letting me win. Though there were 34 other patients on that unit, it is Wilbur I remember best of all.
One evening while arm wrestling, I remarked about his tattoos on his forearms, asking him for probably the 50th time what they were. His answer of course, was more silence. I was able to hold his arm in my hands and turn back and forth, looking carefully at the ink, while he just stared at me. The blue colored ink was along the outside edge of his forearm, the ink old and starting to fade, blurring out in his skin. Once or twice I had looked at these tattoos, but on this day I had one on one time with him on my side, and I was able to really get a good long look. And after a little time, the first thing I made out was some sort of battleship, something like 6 inches long. Underneath the ship, some lettering. I bent over, looking intently, studying the blurred letters, and after a couple of more minutes or so, I finally made out the slightly smaller, blurry line of letters underneath the ship:
USS INDIANAPOLIS
My shock was complete, taking over my body and my mind for a moment. I remember my own hands beginning to shake a little while holding his. Here I sat, holding the hands and arms of a WW2 Navy Vet, and a survivor of an event that words don't exist to describe. Suddenly a lot of things became obvious and clear to me. I was speechless, and didn't know what to say to him. Not that he would have offered any answer.
A little later on during that shift, during my lunch break, I ate in the chart room while looking through the personal history section of Wilbur's several inch thick patient record. The records were all on paper, contained in a loose leaf binder something like 4 inches thick. The pages were old, the typed ink a bit faded and sometimes hard to see, but there was enough there to see he was indeed on that ship when it was attacked and sunk, and that he was one of the survivors of a very famous and horrifying true story. I stayed in the chart room after my shift ended, reading his life story carefully, and later that night I laid in my bed a long time, unable to sleep.
What a ****ty thing to do to a Navy Vet who survived one of the worst Naval disasters in history. Lock him up on a psych ward for the rest of his life. But that's how things were done in those days. That's how they dealt with things they couldn't fix. It wouldn't surprise me a bit to find out that other survivors of the sinking of the Cruiser USS Indianapolis were also locked up for life in a similar asylum, in other States.
There wasn't anything wrong with Wilbur before the Indianapolis sunk, and it seemed he had been a pretty normal guy. But during the entire time I knew him, he didn't speak, ever. I can tell you however, if you spend enough time around someone who never talks to you, you can start to learn things about that person, and start getting to know them, at least a little bit. That's how it was with Wilbur. By today's standards, he would for sure be diagnosed with severe PTSD, and treatment would likely be far better for him. He would have had a better life.
This happened 35 years ago as I type. And the Indianapolis sinking happened about 35 years before that. Wilbur is no doubt long resting, hopefully in the eternal peace he so deserved. I think of Wilbur often, a man likely long forgotten by any relatives he might have had, unknown to any descendants he might have around today. A man who never had anyone visit him during the time I knew him. I think of Wilbur every Veteran's Day, every Memorial Day, along with other Combat Vets I have known. In the years that have passed by since I knew Wilbur, much has changed, including the oncoming of the web. With it, the information super highway. There is a website all about the USS Indianapolis, complete with a list of every crew member on board when she was torpedoed and sunk. The survivors each have an asterisk next to their names. Wilbur's name is there, I have seen it, and I am glad that somebody somewhere remembered his name when this tribute web site was created. A lot of years have passed by since July 30th of 1945.
I feel honored to have known this man, as best as I could, even if he never said a single word to me. I wonder what his voice was like.
On a given day there would typically be 4 or 5 of us aids and 1 nurse working an entire floor for an 8 hour shift. Taking care of the patients, be it feeding, dressing, getting them cleaned up, and more. A mix of patients with varying levels of functional ability, a lot of them obviously crazy. Others, maybe not so obvious, for back when these patients were locked up, society often locked up those with severe physical defects along with the insane. Many of the patients would never know their own name, but some of them were sharp as a tack. We were assigned certain patients as "contacts", patients we were told to spend one on one time with, when we had time to spare. It wasn't easy, but we did manage to make it happen.
There was this man on the unit, and his first name was Wilbur. That's not his actual name
but it is close enough to be it. Medical confidentiality extends infinitely and I can't tell you his name even today.
Wilbur's evident main issue, when I first met him, was that he was mute. He could walk around and pretty much care for himself in most ways, and he could follow directions to a T. He just never spoke. Wilbur was around my height probably, but it's hard to tell because he always walked a bit hunched over forward. He was a good sized man, well built and not slender or a lightweight. Stocky, broad shouldered, strong. Bald on top, not so on the sides. His eyelids had a bit of a droop to them, bloodhound eyes, with the red inner lids exposed along the bottom. Wilbur would walk and pace the unit for hours at a time. He was, by a long shot, the one man in the best overall physical condition on the entire unit. Sadly there was nothing else for him to do really, so I guess he paced out of boredom. Sometimes, I could get him to sit down in front of a TV for a minute or so if I asked him to, but he would soon get up and go off pacing. I remember I used to wonder and comment out loud to other aids, wondering how far he walked a day. How many miles? The other patients there needed a lot more help than Wilbur, and so getting any time to deal with him was often difficult. Most often, when there wasn't much to do it was because the patients were all sleeping, including Wilbur. In my memory, I can see him clearly right now, I remember his face very well, and the way he would look right in to my eyes while I spoke to him. I remember like it was last week.
At first, I didn't really know how to talk to him, as he never said anything back, but soon enough I just rolled with it and spoke normally to him. He of course never said a word back, but he would stare at me intently, and if I'd suggest he do something, or outright ask him to, usually he would comply, while watching me, in his silence.
There was this child's plastic bowling set with colored pins and a couple of 3 holed balls, and though he was way too old and large to be playing with this kid toy he loved to bowl with it. So when I had even 10 minutes to give him, I would get out the pins and let him bowl while having a one-sided conversation with him. And he would bowl and listen. He also liked cards, although trying to get him to actually play a game with cards was impossible. He would just hold them, and apparently make a game of trying to hold on to them no matter how hard I was pulling on them, trying to get them out of his hand. On his forearms, each had a good sized tattoo, old, indistinct. Wilbur never smiled, he never laughed. He always had the same expression on his face, looking empty and sad. Only his drooping eyes changed. He always looked right in to my eyes, intently, and there was obviously a lot going on behind them. His eyes in general watered up a often, he often looked on the verge of tears. His hands shook slightly, but I don't know if with a palsy, a side effect of medication, or simply his nerves. And he liked to arm wrestle. I could easily beat him arm wrestling, but I would usually let him win. He had a surprisingly strong grip. He stared in to my eyes when we arm wrestled. As I've grown older, it has occurred to me to wonder if he was letting me win. Though there were 34 other patients on that unit, it is Wilbur I remember best of all.
One evening while arm wrestling, I remarked about his tattoos on his forearms, asking him for probably the 50th time what they were. His answer of course, was more silence. I was able to hold his arm in my hands and turn back and forth, looking carefully at the ink, while he just stared at me. The blue colored ink was along the outside edge of his forearm, the ink old and starting to fade, blurring out in his skin. Once or twice I had looked at these tattoos, but on this day I had one on one time with him on my side, and I was able to really get a good long look. And after a little time, the first thing I made out was some sort of battleship, something like 6 inches long. Underneath the ship, some lettering. I bent over, looking intently, studying the blurred letters, and after a couple of more minutes or so, I finally made out the slightly smaller, blurry line of letters underneath the ship:
USS INDIANAPOLIS
My shock was complete, taking over my body and my mind for a moment. I remember my own hands beginning to shake a little while holding his. Here I sat, holding the hands and arms of a WW2 Navy Vet, and a survivor of an event that words don't exist to describe. Suddenly a lot of things became obvious and clear to me. I was speechless, and didn't know what to say to him. Not that he would have offered any answer.
A little later on during that shift, during my lunch break, I ate in the chart room while looking through the personal history section of Wilbur's several inch thick patient record. The records were all on paper, contained in a loose leaf binder something like 4 inches thick. The pages were old, the typed ink a bit faded and sometimes hard to see, but there was enough there to see he was indeed on that ship when it was attacked and sunk, and that he was one of the survivors of a very famous and horrifying true story. I stayed in the chart room after my shift ended, reading his life story carefully, and later that night I laid in my bed a long time, unable to sleep.
What a ****ty thing to do to a Navy Vet who survived one of the worst Naval disasters in history. Lock him up on a psych ward for the rest of his life. But that's how things were done in those days. That's how they dealt with things they couldn't fix. It wouldn't surprise me a bit to find out that other survivors of the sinking of the Cruiser USS Indianapolis were also locked up for life in a similar asylum, in other States.
There wasn't anything wrong with Wilbur before the Indianapolis sunk, and it seemed he had been a pretty normal guy. But during the entire time I knew him, he didn't speak, ever. I can tell you however, if you spend enough time around someone who never talks to you, you can start to learn things about that person, and start getting to know them, at least a little bit. That's how it was with Wilbur. By today's standards, he would for sure be diagnosed with severe PTSD, and treatment would likely be far better for him. He would have had a better life.
This happened 35 years ago as I type. And the Indianapolis sinking happened about 35 years before that. Wilbur is no doubt long resting, hopefully in the eternal peace he so deserved. I think of Wilbur often, a man likely long forgotten by any relatives he might have had, unknown to any descendants he might have around today. A man who never had anyone visit him during the time I knew him. I think of Wilbur every Veteran's Day, every Memorial Day, along with other Combat Vets I have known. In the years that have passed by since I knew Wilbur, much has changed, including the oncoming of the web. With it, the information super highway. There is a website all about the USS Indianapolis, complete with a list of every crew member on board when she was torpedoed and sunk. The survivors each have an asterisk next to their names. Wilbur's name is there, I have seen it, and I am glad that somebody somewhere remembered his name when this tribute web site was created. A lot of years have passed by since July 30th of 1945.
I feel honored to have known this man, as best as I could, even if he never said a single word to me. I wonder what his voice was like.
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