One of my uncles had epilepsy. The story I knew growing up is that he had a bicycle accident when he was young. Traumatic brain injuries are known to cause epilepsy. As a young boy who lost his father, I was always looking for any male figure to pay attention to me. My uncle paid attention to me in an affectionate way. My uncle lived in Kansas, so I did not see him very often. My favorite memory of him as a young boy was him going to the zoo with us when we visited family in Kansas.

As I grew older, I learned that my uncle had challenges with his epilepsy that impacted his ability to function properly. It affected every aspect of his life. The cycle looked like this: He stopped taking his medication, his thinking got skewed, and he mistook social cues. His mind would bend to memories of things that never happened or an event that did happen but his truth was not of this world. He became offensive and combative to those around him, and he withdrew from everyone. His behavior was such that my family local to him was not able to help him. He would lose his job, then his apartment and all his belongings, and then he would end up homeless. Eventually, he would be picked up for various infractions. The two infractions that I am aware of were assault and battery and vagrancy. From what I know, he was arrested at least once for a fight and quite often for vagrancy. As he aged, the periods he would disappear became longer. One method my uncle would use to avoid being picked up for vagrancy was to keep a $20 bill in his wallet. Once he was picked up, he would end up in a mental health facility, and the cycle would repeat itself over and over again.

The first time I recall my Mom telling me about my uncle’s epilepsy, he had just recovered from a stint in a mental health facility. I may have been 10 or 12 years old. He had gotten a job at a food store pushing carts, and he had gotten himself an apartment. I was quite happy for him. I cared for him, and if my memory serves me correctly, I asked my Mom how we could help him. She told me I could write him letters to support him. So I wrote him letters. I only recall sending several letters, and then he disappeared again.

Most times when we visited family in Kansas, my uncle was not well, and we did not know where he was. As I aged and heard stories and began to understand his condition, I still wanted to help him. So did my Mom. On a couple of occasions, we would drive around Wichita looking for him. If we had an address, we would go to it in search of him. One time he was actually at an address we had. Somehow he had this little old house he was renting that he was able to secure with another man sharing the rent. He was quite delighted to see us and as per usual even wanting to give us something. My uncle loved his soda pop, as is the term in that part of the country. He had cases and cases of soda pop stacked in the house. Of course, even a young 15-year-old can’t resist a soda pop from his uncle. That is the visit that I truly saw my uncle’s illness. (I am crying as I write). My mom pleaded with him to get help, and my uncle went on rambling about family stories that were obviously not true. After that visit, it would be many years until I would see my uncle again.

The cycle repeated itself again, and this time he was of the age that he was accepted into a nursing home. Today we call them Skilled Nursing Facilities or more commonly Assisted Living Facilities. This change in wording is the hope I am writing about today.

As an adult, I was able to visit my uncle in that Assisted Living Facility four times. The first time was a brief visit with me and my Mom. He only met outside in the parking lot, and we sat on a bench. Per usual, my Mom would tell him he needed to stay on his medication, but this time she told him that he needed to stay at this facility. When we left, neither one of us had much hope that he would stay. I would call occasionally and talk to him, reminding him indirectly that he needed to stay.

The next time I would see my uncle at that facility, I was with my wife Grace. At the time, she was still my girlfriend. We had taken a trip to Kansas because family in that state is a common thread we share. We sat in the lobby and talked with my uncle for a while. I was now old enough to tell him myself. Stay here. You need to be here.

I landed a job that included plane travel. During that employment, I was able to see my uncle during my travel trips to Kansas two times. The first time I visited him, it was near lunchtime. They directed me to his room that he shared with another man. He was in bed fully clothed, napping. After he showed me what little belongings he still had left and some very old family pictures from his wallet, he invited me to eat lunch with him. Assisted Living Lunch. He checked with the nurses, and they helped arrange it. He was able to receive medical benefits, and some of his benefits were put in as credits towards his meals. He had extras because sometimes he did not eat. He was so happy to buy me lunch. I was so happy to let him do it. We were given a private space to eat lunch and talk. The space was probably a small conference room used for consultation. I can still see him beaming as we sat and ate lunch.

During my uncle’s final facility living arrangement, one of my close cousins from that side of the family was able to keep tabs on him. He would visit with him, and we collaborated to try to do whatever we could do to keep him at this facility.

My next and final visit was the most fun of all. I traveled there on business, and my cousin and I hatched a plan to take my uncle out to lunch. It wasn’t much, but we took him to Burger King. I had called the home and made arrangements to sign my uncle out, and we drove around a little bit so he could see some of his old stomping grounds. Then we met up with my cousin at Burger King. I don’t recall the conversation much, but the one thing I do recall was a whole lot of laughter. The best part? Right in the middle of all the laughter, my Uncle said, “You guys are crazy!” I am still laughing about that.

Probably less than a year later, he was back on his own. He had secured an apartment, probably with his social security benefits. We lost touch with him as per usual, and the last call came into my aunt that my uncle had passed away. The report we have is that the evidence points to facts that he passed away from massive seizures and convulsions based on how he was found. His landlord found him. The oddest thing was they found no money in his wallet and none in his apartment. RED FLAG. My best guess is he owed his landlord money, and they helped themselves before they called for assistance.

Yesterday I had Jury Duty. If you have ever served Jury Duty, the process for selecting a Jury is called Voir Dire, which means speak the truth. During this process, it is the Judges and Attorney’s goal to engage the potential jurors to find out enough information about them to determine if they want you on the jury. They tell you they don’t want to be invasive but yet they really do. While they do want as much information about you as possible, they also create an atmosphere that is safe. (This is a key point)

I was shocked at the level of honesty and forthrightness that many people had. Questions were asked in a manner that the attorneys dug out people’s own personal stories. Many of them were stories of trauma. The case we were about to hear was a criminal case that involved burglary and guns. One man shared being traumatized by being burglarized at gunpoint. He was brave enough to tell everyone that his husband was involved in this plot. Another woman shared that she was bipolar and these types of environments were not healthy for her. Another woman shared that she was sexually assaulted when she was younger and while this trial had nothing to do with her trauma directly, she was having anxiety that just popped up on her while we sat in the jurors’ box being quizzed.

Why do I tell you this? Mental health has developed in great magnitudes since the 1950s. But that’s not really what I want to talk about. What I want to talk about is how society has grown in acceptance of mental health disorders since the 1950s as well. Research, education, and quite frankly journalism have provided our country with a new view and a new understanding of the truth about mental health disorders. In my uncle’s day, while treatment was available, the social stigma associated with that was such that it wasn’t talked about openly. I describe that generation as carpet sweepers. They didn’t know what to do with it so they swept it under the carpet.

Here is the hope I saw yesterday. The world, as I know it here in the United States, while troubling in many ways, is growing for the better. Mental health disorders and other socially controversial topics are bubbling to the surface. In my view, they are becoming normalized. While we may not agree with certain positions on some topics, acceptance of the truth is the beginning of the solution. As I heard those stories during jury duty, I admit that it stirred my emotions. My best guess for the reason I was excused from the jurors’ box is not only because I met the defense attorney in the elevator and had to disclose such, but I wear my emotions on my sleeve. The tear in my eye was not only for the hurt that these people had, but for the hope for those people as they walk through life.

This hope I speak of is truly simple. A man or a woman can sit in a public space and feel comfortable to share their story in front of a large group of people.

I am officially in week one of the launch of this site. So far I am the primary author. I do intend to share more of my story as we continue the journey together. My stats are not anything I would write home to Mom about, but believe it or not I have some visitors that do not know me haha.

I have been closing out my posts with a question. Today’s question is simple.

WILL YOU SHARE YOUR STORY TO GIVE OTHERS HOPE?