by Toby Johnson
Author; Gay Perspective, Two Spirits, Secret Matter
tobyjohnson.com
Production Manager\/hi-tech guy,
Lethe Press
lethepressbooks.com<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Early one Saturday morning I was awakened by the ring of the telephone. It was 1980 and telephones had loud ringers in those days. The call was from Bob Benedict, a client I\u2019d seen at the mental health clinic in San Francisco I worked in a couple of years before. He lived in the Tenderloin and I\u2019d run into him on the street recently, so that he called wasn\u2019t a complete surprise, but the time and the reason for the call certainly were. He called me about two A.M. and was begging for help.
When I\u2019d run into him the week before, he\u2019d told me proudly that a prostitute who hadn\u2019t wanted her baby had given him the child to take care of. That had meant a lot to him. Shortly before I\u2019d seen him at the Clinic he\u2019d lost custody of his own child in a divorce. Because he\u2019d been hospitalized for a psychiatric disorder, his wife maintained he was an unfit parent and should have no parental rights to their daughter. This had been particularly traumatic for him. When he was a boy he\u2019d been left to baby-sit his infant sister. The baby died, apparently of unexplained crib death. Of course, his parents blamed him. That had been the start of his psychiatric problems. Losing rights to see his own child brought up again all the guilt and fear that had surrounded his sister\u2019s death.
He was still fighting for some custody of the child. Taking care of the prostitute\u2019s baby seemed a chance to prove he could be a fit parent. But apparently early that Saturday morning his dream had turned into a nightmare.
Something was wrong with the baby, he told me. I advised him to go to a hospital. He was afraid to do that; the court would find out, and he\u2019d lose his child forever. I talked with him a while, really just trying to get him to take care of the matter on his own. It was the middle of the night. I did not want to get involved beyond giving some advice on the phone.
Quite recently I\u2019d seen the Robert Redford, Academy Award-winning film Ordinary People. The memory of the psychiatrist\u2019s going down to meet his suicidal client in the middle of the night came back to me. They might do that in movies, I\u2019d thought, but in reality that\u2019s considered bad practice. But in the movie it had saved a life. Now Bob was begging me to save the baby and save him. I tried to put him off. <\/p>\n\n\n\n
Almost everything can wait till morning, I assured. But then, beginning to scream, he said the baby was turning blue.
I woke one of my housemates to explain what had happened and to borrow her car. As fast as I could, I drove down into the Tenderloin and found the address. Bob was waiting outside crying. We went up to his room. The place was a shambles. But there was no baby. Bob was hysterical; he could barely talk. He just kept saying, \u201cShe\u2019s not here, she\u2019s not here.\u201d
I got him calmed down and he said he\u2019d start at the beginning. His story moved quickly through how delighted he\u2019d been with the baby, but then how helpless he\u2019d felt when it cried. He wanted it to love him, but it was only concerned with its own wants. He\u2019d grown depressed and then angry.
He started sobbing and screaming. He then calmed down enough to say he\u2019d wrapped the baby in a brown paper bag and buried it in Golden Gate Park the day before. \u201cWhat can I do now?\u201d he begged me. He was afraid of going to the police because he\u2019d once been brutally beaten by a policeman.
I was stunned by that revelation. This was much more serious than I\u2019d expected. I told him he could go to the psychiatric hospital. He agreed, saying he wanted to be locked up. I told him to get his things together and we\u2019d go right away. He seemed dazed but obeyed me. He got some clothes out of a drawer and then went into the bathroom.
He came out with a sort of ornamental dagger. \u201cLook here,\u201d he said, sticking the point into the wall. \u201cThis is how the cuts were in the baby\u2014this same shape, only they were full of blood.\u201d
\u201cCome on, Bob, let\u2019s go.\u201d
\u201cNo,\u201d he screamed. I wondered when the building manager was going to come to the door to tell us to cut out the racket. \u201cI don\u2019t want to go to the hospital. I\u2019ll kill myself. I can jump out the window.\u201d It was a five-floor drop to a concrete slab.
\u201cBob, you don\u2019t have to die. We can go to the hospital and they\u2019ll help you.\u201d I had talked him out of suicide several times before, though that had been in the office and the suicidal ideation but another psychiatric symptom, not an imminent possibility. My office in the Clinic had had no windows\u2026
\u201cYou don\u2019t care about me,\u201d he suddenly shouted at me wildly. \u201cYou just want to take me there so you can watch them kill me. This whole thing was your idea. I know that. You made me kill the baby and now you want me to kill myself so you can write a book about it.\u201d From our friendly meeting on the street recently, he knew I was working on a book project. He\u2019d woven that fact into his delusion.
He started jabbing at me with the dagger. I grabbed hold of his wrists and held him. He was strong but I thought if I could just hold him a while without getting into a real fight he\u2019d calm down.
Now he was sobbing softly, talking about the voices in his head: his father, blaming him for the baby\u2019s death, calling him a shit over and over. He still clutched the dagger tight. He looked over at a paper bag lying half open on the floor and startled, saying he could see the baby all cut up in the bag.
Every so often he\u2019d get angry with me again, but most of the time he just cried or listened to the voices. But whenever I\u2019d relax my grip, he\u2019d start to thrash about and lunge at me. He was between me and the door. I knew I couldn\u2019t make it past him safely. The dagger wasn\u2019t that sharp, but in the back it could easily kill me.
I fought to keep down my own fear. I remembered the advice of the Tibetan Book of the Dead. It was all a dream, a deadly dream, but nothing to be afraid of. I was only fearful for my ego. That was all I could lose. And that wasn\u2019t worth much in the long run anyway.
And I remembered that I was, after all, Bob\u2019s therapist. That gave me some kind of power over him. If I stayed calm and showed that I believed he could pull himself together, he probably would. I kept up a slow patter of talk, urging him to stay in control. He told me how much he loved me, but how frightened he was.
We both fell silent for a while. He looked off into space to his left, listening to the voices, then grew very calm. He looked at me straight in the eye and said matter-of-factly, \u201cThere\u2019s nothing we can do. Let\u2019s just get this over with.\u201d
I felt a scream in my throat and heard a voice inside my own head begging him not to kill me. Not here. Not now. But I kept it inside. Dying like this in a sleazy Tenderloin hotel didn\u2019t fit any of my expectations, but, I told myself, it was okay. I\u2019d done what had seemed like the compassionate act in coming here. I did not want to spoil my death by regretting anything as insignificant as the circumstances.
For a moment I looked beyond the boundaries. For a moment I knew I could accept death; I didn\u2019t have to be afraid. And at the same time, I knew I didn\u2019t have to die. Bob started to pull away to get some leverage with the knife. I held his wrist tighter.
\u201cNo, Bob,\u201d I stated, firmly. \u201cGive me the knife,\u201d I ordered.
He looked dazed. I released the other wrist and took the knife from his hand. Only then did I begin to tremble. Before I was overwhelmed and while I still had command, I ordered him to get the things on the bed and come with me.
He followed obediently and I drove him to Mount Zion Hospital where I knew friends of mine would be on duty in the Psych Emergency Clinic. Once there, Bob started fighting again. This time it took four security guards to subdue him and put him in restraints. He wouldn\u2019t talk to the doctor beyond shouting obscenities. He was given an injection of an antipsychotic drug and fell asleep. I went home.
In the morning I called the psych facility. I was told that after the drug had worn off, he\u2019d seemed clear. He\u2019d been transferred to San Francisco General where he denied the story about the baby and said he really wouldn\u2019t have hurt me. They released him.
After a couple of days I\u2019d calmed down. Bob called me about that time and apologized. He said he just didn\u2019t know what had come over him. He said he thought the story about the baby had been a bad dream. I had the feeling it was me who\u2019d had the bad dream. I made a promise to myself to stay professional from then on; I saw why there were rules for professional practice that said not to go rescue clients in the night.
<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Excerpt From
Stories from the Crowd
Scott Ballew
This material may be protected by copyright.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
<\/p>\n\n\n\n
<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"
by Toby Johnson Author; Gay Perspective, Two Spirits, Secret Mattertobyjohnson.com Production Manager\/hi-tech guy,Lethe Presslethepressbooks.com Early one Saturday morning I was awakened by the ring of the telephone. It was 1980 and telephones had loud ringers in those days. The call was from Bob Benedict, a client I\u2019d seen at the mental health clinic in San Francisco I worked in a couple of years before. He lived in the Tenderloin and I\u2019d run into him on the street recently, so that he called wasn\u2019t a complete surprise, but the time and the reason for the call certainly were. He called me about two A.M. and was begging for help. When I\u2019d run into him the week before, he\u2019d told me proudly that a prostitute who hadn\u2019t wanted her baby had given him the child to take care of. That had meant a lot to him. Shortly before I\u2019d seen him at the Clinic he\u2019d lost custody of his own child in a divorce. Because he\u2019d been hospitalized for a psychiatric disorder, his wife maintained he was an unfit parent and should have no parental rights to their daughter. This had been particularly traumatic for him. When he was a boy he\u2019d been left to baby-sit his infant sister. The baby died, apparently of unexplained crib death. Of course, his parents blamed him. That had been the start of his psychiatric problems. Losing rights to see his own child brought up again all the guilt and fear that had surrounded his sister\u2019s death. He was still fighting for some custody of the child. Taking care of the prostitute\u2019s baby seemed a chance to prove he could be a fit parent. But apparently early that Saturday morning his dream had turned into a nightmare. Something was wrong with the baby, he told me. I advised him to go to a hospital. He was afraid to do that; the court would find out, and he\u2019d lose his child forever. I talked with him a while, really just trying to get him to take care of the matter on his own. It was the middle of the night. I did not want to get involved beyond giving some advice on the phone. Quite recently I\u2019d seen the Robert Redford, Academy Award-winning film Ordinary People. The memory of the psychiatrist\u2019s going down to meet his suicidal client in the middle of the night came back to me. They might do that in movies, I\u2019d thought, but in reality that\u2019s considered bad practice. But in the movie it had saved a life. Now Bob was begging me to save the baby and save him. I tried to put him off. Almost everything can wait till morning, I assured. But then, beginning to scream, he said the baby was turning blue. I woke one of my housemates to explain what had happened and to borrow her car. As fast as I could, I drove down into the Tenderloin and found the address. Bob was waiting outside crying. We went up to his room. The place was a shambles. But there was no baby. Bob was hysterical; he could barely talk. He just kept saying, \u201cShe\u2019s not here, she\u2019s not here.\u201d I got him calmed down and he said he\u2019d start at the beginning. His story moved quickly through how delighted he\u2019d been with the baby, but then how helpless he\u2019d felt when it cried. He wanted it to love him, but it was only concerned with its own wants. He\u2019d grown depressed and then angry.He started sobbing and screaming. He then calmed down enough to say he\u2019d wrapped the baby in a brown paper bag and buried it in Golden Gate Park the day before. \u201cWhat can I do now?\u201d he begged me. He was afraid of going to the police because he\u2019d once been brutally beaten by a policeman. I was stunned by that revelation. This was much more serious than I\u2019d expected. I told him he could go to the psychiatric hospital. He agreed, saying he wanted to be locked up. I told him to get his things together and we\u2019d go right away. He seemed dazed but obeyed me. He got some clothes out of a drawer and then went into the bathroom. He came out with a sort of ornamental dagger. \u201cLook here,\u201d he said, sticking the point into the wall. \u201cThis is how the cuts were in the baby\u2014this same shape, only they were full of blood.\u201d \u201cCome on, Bob, let\u2019s go.\u201d \u201cNo,\u201d he screamed. I wondered when the building manager was going to come to the door to tell us to cut out the racket. \u201cI don\u2019t want to go to the hospital. I\u2019ll kill myself. I can jump out the window.\u201d It was a five-floor drop to a concrete slab. \u201cBob, you don\u2019t have to die. We can go to the hospital and they\u2019ll help you.\u201d I had talked him out of suicide several times before, though that had been in the office and the suicidal ideation but another psychiatric symptom, not an imminent possibility. My office in the Clinic had had no windows\u2026 \u201cYou don\u2019t care about me,\u201d he suddenly shouted at me wildly. \u201cYou just want to take me there so you can watch them kill me. This whole thing was your idea. I know that. You made me kill the baby and now you want me to kill myself so you can write a book about it.\u201d From our friendly meeting on the street recently, he knew I was working on a book project. He\u2019d woven that fact into his delusion. He started jabbing at me with the dagger. I grabbed hold of his wrists and held him. He was strong but I thought if I could just hold him a while without getting into a real fight he\u2019d calm down. Now he was sobbing softly, talking about the voices in his head: his father, blaming him for the baby\u2019s death, calling him a shit over and over. He still clutched the dagger tight. He looked over at a paper bag lying half open on the floor and startled, saying he could see the baby all cut up in the bag. Every so often he\u2019d get angry with me again, but most of the time he just cried or listened to the voices. But whenever I\u2019d relax my grip, he\u2019d start to thrash about and lunge at me. He was between me and the door. I knew I couldn\u2019t make it past him safely. The dagger wasn\u2019t that sharp, but in the back it could easily kill me. I fought to keep down my own fear. I remembered the advice of the Tibetan Book of the Dead. It was all a dream, a deadly dream, but nothing to be afraid of. I was only fearful for my ego. That was all I could lose. And that wasn\u2019t worth much in the long run anyway. And I remembered that I was, after all, Bob\u2019s therapist. That gave me some kind of power over him. If I stayed calm and showed that I believed he could pull himself together, he probably would. I kept up a slow patter of talk, urging him to stay in control. He told me how much he loved me, but how frightened he was. We both fell silent for a while. He looked off into space to his left, listening to the voices, then grew very calm. He looked at me straight in the eye and said matter-of-factly, \u201cThere\u2019s nothing we can do. Let\u2019s just get this over with.\u201d I felt a scream in my throat and heard a voice inside my own head begging him not to kill me. Not here. Not now. But I kept it inside. Dying like this in a sleazy Tenderloin hotel didn\u2019t fit any of my expectations, but, I told myself, it was okay. I\u2019d done what had seemed like the compassionate act in coming here. I did not want to spoil my death by regretting anything as insignificant as the circumstances. For a moment I looked beyond the boundaries. For a moment I knew I could accept death; I didn\u2019t have to be afraid. And at the same time, I knew I didn\u2019t have to die. Bob started to pull away to get some leverage with the knife. I held his wrist tighter. \u201cNo, Bob,\u201d I stated, firmly. \u201cGive me the knife,\u201d I ordered. He looked dazed. I released the other wrist and took the knife from his hand. Only then did I begin to tremble. Before I was overwhelmed and while I still had command, I ordered him to get the things on the bed and come with me. He followed obediently and I drove him to Mount Zion Hospital where I knew friends of mine would be on duty in the Psych Emergency Clinic. Once there, Bob started fighting again. This time it took four security guards to subdue him and put him in restraints. He wouldn\u2019t talk to the doctor beyond shouting obscenities. He was given an injection of an antipsychotic drug and fell asleep. I went home. In the morning I called the psych facility. I was told that after the drug had worn off, he\u2019d seemed clear. He\u2019d been transferred to San Francisco General where he denied the story about the baby and said he really wouldn\u2019t have hurt me. They released him. After a couple of days I\u2019d calmed down. Bob called me about that time and apologized. He said he just didn\u2019t know what had come over him. He said he thought the story about the baby had been a bad dream. I had the feeling it was me who\u2019d had the bad dream. I made a promise to myself to stay professional from then on; I saw why there were rules for professional practice that said not to go rescue clients in the night. Excerpt FromStories from the CrowdScott BallewThis material may be protected by copyright.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":1,"featured_media":0,"comment_status":"closed","ping_status":"closed","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"footnotes":""},"categories":[40],"tags":[],"class_list":["post-3578","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","hentry","category-lifestyle"],"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.scottballew.me\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts\/3578","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.scottballew.me\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.scottballew.me\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.scottballew.me\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/users\/1"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.scottballew.me\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fcomments&post=3578"}],"version-history":[{"count":1,"href":"https:\/\/www.scottballew.me\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts\/3578\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":3580,"href":"https:\/\/www.scottballew.me\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts\/3578\/revisions\/3580"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.scottballew.me\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fmedia&parent=3578"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.scottballew.me\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fcategories&post=3578"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.scottballew.me\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Ftags&post=3578"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}