Tag: family

Like Him or Hate Him, Elon Musk Is Right About Something

On By mikegaetaLeave a comment

“The essence of totalitarian government, and perhaps the nature of every bureaucracy, is to make functionaries and mere cogs in the administrative machinery out of men, and thus to dehumanize them.” – Philosopher, Hanna Arendt

Donald Trump and Elon Musk have captured headlines with their brazen attacks on various federal departments and programs. In the name of “cutting waste and targeting fraud and bureaucracy,” thousands of federal workers are being laid off, funding has been frozen and cut off to various programs, and the Department of Education has already been singled out for elimination altogether.

(Source: Getty Images)

Musk even recently boasted about all of this by swinging around a chainsaw at a recent CPAC meeting.

There are of course legitimate and persuasive legal, political and even ethical arguments in opposition to what President Trump and Musk are doing, but something important is being missed in the debate. Much, if not most, of the functioning and management of our government have been disgraceful. Albeit, from different vantage points, much of the public knows this too.

In a larger political sense, what President Trump and Musk are doing is bringing a reckoning to our government system. I, for one, think it’s long overdue. Can I have a chainsaw too?!

Cold, Impersonal Bureaucracies

Musk has been explicit about how tyrannical government bureaucracy is. I’d have to largely agree with him, in a particular sense anyways. Bureaucrats are often impersonal and demeaning as hell. This translates to agencies and services, that they are responsible for administering, that are inadequate and demeaning as hell. Two examples will suffice to help make the point.

The first one involves when I first moved my mom in with me in 2016. I desperately needed to enroll my mom into the county mental health program for seniors. Being on Medi-Cal at the time, we had to wait months for Medi-Cal to be transferred from Kern County, where she previously lived, to Stanislaus County, where we resided.

What was supposed to take thirty days took more than sixty. My mom was suffering from her untreated serious mental illness (SMI). I was stressed out. We were indigent, her being on her SSI and me from taking a leave from my job. When I called the county office for what was probably the third time, I sternly admonished the case worker, after she told me the transfer was done, but not active yet.

I indignantly said, “Why don’t you press some damn buttons and make it active or let me talk to your supervisor?” I heard her press some keys on her keyboard and moments later, she told me, “OK. It’s done.” I shouldn’t have had to make that call. We shouldn’t have had to wait so long.

The second one involves my frustration in trying to get adequate pay for being my mother’s caregiver. For the sake of brevity, just know that Medi-Cal, or what’s called In-Home-Support-Services (IHSS), doesn’t pay much for caregiving. A big reason for that is because they severely limit how many hours they pay for each “caregiving duty.”  

Me and my mom.

To be able “to live” off caregiving, to get paid for 40 hours of work in other words, one must be approved for “protective supervision” duties. Disability Rights California describes it the following way: “Protective supervision is an IHSS service for people who, due to a mental impairment or mental illness, need to be observed 24 hours per day to protect them from injuries, hazards, or accidents.”

My mom suffered from an untreated serious mental illness and would regularly jeopardize her safety and well-being unwittingly. The social worker who interviewed me, however, contorted everything I said, when I gave her examples of what I had to do for my mom, to fit what was clearly a predetermined, disqualifying narrative or script.

When I said I’d have to dissuade my mom from going outside to argue with and/or harass the neighbors, the social worker took that as my mom not needing protective supervision. To the social worker, that was proof “my mom listened to me.” To that, I said, “Well, if she doesn’t listen, then I have to physically try to stop her,” the social worker ignored that part entirely. And what did my mom possibly listening to me have to do with anything? My mom was severely impaired, regardless!

Whether it was that or me having to watch my mom and make sure she wouldn’t leave water running somewhere in the apartment or leave the stove on. Or whether it was having to watch and make sure my mom didn’t throw any of our belongings or her medications away, destroy property, or whether it was waking up multiple times during the night to check on my mom and keep her safe from what she believed were “spiritual attacks,” the conclusion the social worker drew was the same. “So cause your mom listens to you, she doesn’t need protective supervision.” To this, I stated, “Ummm…no. The way I see it. I’m already providing protective supervision and you aren’t paying me for it.”

Needless to say, the county ruled my mom didn’t qualify for protective supervision and I would have my modest savings depleted, as a result. Social worker? Yea right. To me, the woman lost her compassion and care for the people she was supposed to help a long time ago. Instead, she saw my mom as an expense to be avoided. Like an automaton, she advanced the priorities of an unresponsive bureaucracy and was carrying out tasks as if she was programmed.

Indifference and Negligence All Around

County programs and facilities weren’t the only places I experienced gross problems. Hospitals, in one case a private one, were plenty abusive towards and neglectful of my mom. They regularly would try to discharge her prematurely, when she wasn’t even medically stabilized, and would let her or help her leave, despite her being in an acute psychotic state.

Plenty of these times happened in front of me, when I was there acting as her caregiver and “next of kin.” This neglectful and abusive behavior was even more frequent when I wasn’t there, when she was living hundreds of miles away from me. Looking over years of her medical history records showed it being a regular pattern, actually.

President Trump and Elon Musk like to talk about “waste.” Literally, taxpayer money was “wasted,” since my mom would just end up returning after being released from leaving a hospital. She wasn’t stabilized, so her condition would just exacerbate again. It was like a revolving door and got to the point where she was being admitted to hospital emergency rooms, on average, one to two times a month.

Elon Musk (and President Trump by extension) is questioning the value and work ethic of federal workers. Well, I question the value and work ethic of many healthcare workers. I have witnessed firsthand many act unprofessionally and unethically, and many simply aren’t very good at their jobs.

Case in point; towards the end of her life, my mom was hospitalized, after she stopped going to dialysis. A hospital social worker came by the hospital to talk to us and, upon me mentioning I worked in San Francisco, the social worker started commenting on how much San Francisco, in her own words, “smells like pee and is so dirty.”  I’m trying to have a serious conversation about my mom’s fragile health and this is what she says?!  

Minutes into talking about my mom’s psychiatric history, my mom’s kidney doctor walks in and straight up asked the social worker, who had the authority to determine a patient’s mental capacity, if my mom could make decisions for herself. Without even talking to my mom, who happened to be sleeping just a few feet away from us, the social worker said, “No because she has a serious mental illness and is not competent enough.” At that point, I was put in charge of my mom’s medical care.

I was relieved and grateful for that, since my mom didn’t have capacity, but the social worker didn’t follow hospital protocol. In fact, when she brought me a document to sign, giving me decision-making authority, she said, “Your mom has the Right to reverse the decision to put her in hospice care.” I knew what she was saying was untrue and felt like she was just trying to “cover her ass” if need be. I looked at her straight in the face and said, “No she doesn’t. Her doctor was right there as a witness and heard what you determined.”

“Burn It All Down”

So let’s be real. It’s not just the federal agencies and departments that are the problem. State and county governments share the blame and private industry does as well. Given that, I propose 25% of mental health care workers, both government and nongovernment employees, be fired! (Why shouldn’t I be taken as serious as Musk?) And what’s the point of having mental health services and laws available if they aren’t even going to be used to actually help people? As my mom’s kidney doctor said, “Your mom needs psychiatric treatment.” “No shit, doctor!” I exclaimed.

Authorities and healthcare workers should have been more honest and just told me the system isn’t setup to help my mom, instead of trying to give me advice or pretending like there’s actual care. For example, I was explicitly told by a Behavioral Health administrator that they could do more for my mom if she became homeless. Well, she did become homeless, living in a car, and they still didn’t do shit! In fact, a government worker with the California Department of Health told me my mom “technically has a roof over her head” cause she was living in car. Fuck the system all to hell!!!!!  Who is with me?!!!!!

(My solutions are different than Trump’s and Musk’s. Stay tuned for part II…..maybe.)

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Dealing with Adversity: Aikido, On and Off the Mat (Part III)

On By mikegaeta1 Comment

(This is part three of a three part series. Here is Part I and Part II)

And this is to say nothing of how hard it was for me and my mom to find collaboration and harmony between us. She actually did not believe she was really ill. She thought satanic forces were responsible for her deteriorating health.

An image of Jesus my mom had in her bedroom

She, also, heard and conversed with voices around 80% of the time. Some of those voices she said were “evil voices” and some of those voices she said were biblical figures. One, she even believed was God’s. Between me and what she believed was “God’s voice”, who was she going to listen to when “the voice of God”was telling her one thing and I was telling her something different?

These conflicts could happen over mundane matters, like when shopping for clothes, or life and death matters like when she would stop taking her medications and put her life at risk. As her health deteriorated, my mom became more critical about living with me too. Sadly, I would come to consider a day of minimal talking between us to be a “good day.” This was no way for us to be living.

My Mom Was a Black Belt Before I Was

My mom would reach a point in 2015 where she would be hospitalized at least once a month, due to her declining health. Thankfully, the frequent hospitalizations would cease once she moved in with me in 2016. Somehow, in no small part due to persuasion and pressure from me, she would agree to adhere to enough of her treatments for her physical ailments to stabilize. Her kidney disease would still continue to worsen, however.

In February 2018, my mom would succumb to her kidney disease, sadly. As heart breaking as the entire ordeal was, it was a testament of her resiliency and fortitude that my mom did not take her own life. According to research, people with severe mental illness have a suicide rate 20 times higher than the general population. I dared not ask my mom, because it would have caused me more anguish and pain, but I am sure that the “evil voices” told my mom she should kill herself. She would tell me, at times, other denigrating and threatening things they would say to her, after all.

My mom suffered immensely, an unimaginable amount, but she was a warrior, through and through. She wanted nothing more than to reconcile with her family and, rather than be estranged from her family, to live with family, particularly me or my sister.  She fought every day against “the dark forces” that she believed were responsible for her situation and trying to harm her and even kill her.

When I received my black belt, a lot of people, including my first Sensei, Penny Sablove, told me how proud they were of me, since it showed a lot of resilience and fortitude on my part. My training was derailed and even put on hold for several years, due to my family situation, but I persevered. This paled in comparison with what my mom went though, though.

My black belt and hakama on my mom’s chair

Thus, since receiving my black belt, I regularly place my black belt and my folded aikido hakama on her chair, the one she bought shortly after moving in with me, in honor of her and to collect her ki. I told her when I first placed them there: “You were a black belt too, mama. You earned yours before I did.”

As I have explained, aikido is in essence about finding harmony, and I did that in trying to help and take care of my mom the best I could. The disappointments, traumas and real instances of discrimination, neglect and maltreatment did not allow for much “ai-ki”, however. In those instances, to just “accept” or “look for the positive in the negative”, as some simplistic adages go, would have been tantamount to accepting gross injustice and even oppression. No, in such situations, more assertive aikido is necessary and “incapacitating” an attacker might be the only option in them.

What remains the same, though, in this “style of aikido”, what was present in what I did for my mom was to lead with LOVE. That included the times when I had to make decisions in her “best interest”, the hardest one being when I had to decide to put her into hospice care.

That LOVE helps me live in the aftermath, as well, as I know it got me through what was an impossible situation in caretaking. Without those last two years of my mom, I honestly do not think I could live with myself. My mom would have died estranged from her family and in a hospital or in the streets alone. The grief from that would have been unbearable.

Aikido has shown me there is a better way to live and how to live with one’s principles and integrity intact. I can only hope others are finding it as transformative for them as it has been for me.

“The true meaning of the ‘samurai’ is one who serves and adheres to the power of love.” ― Morihei Ueshiba, The Founder of Aikido

Dealing with Adversity: Aikido, On and Off the Mat (Part II)

On By mikegaeta1 Comment

(This is Part II, to a three part article. You can find Part 1 here: Part 1)

In plain language, I was getting my ass kicked, as if three ukes during randori were successful in tackling me and taking me to the ground. It was an ugly feeling and I knew that something had to change. I decided to take a leave from my teaching job, in order to get a handle on my health…and to find my balance. I moved in with my dad, back to my hometown of Fresno, CA, and used the time off work to get ample rest and do things that I enjoyed.  

My dad and I dressed up to watch a show.

I went fishing as much as I could, exercised at the gym a few days a week, meditated, trained at the local Aikido dojo and made sure to take naps. I, also, enjoyed being around my family more. In fact, it was the first time, since I moved away from college, I was able to spend regular quality time with my dad. While I felt guilty about it at the time, I didn’t spend a lot of time with my mom, however. Being around her was just too stressful and sad.

After what would be a six-month break, I gained my weight back and my panic attacks even stopped. I had stopped taking the anti-depressant I was prescribed before I took my leave, since I didn’t think it was working well enough. I was hoping time off work and doing adequate self-care would be more effective in helping me and I was right! I promised myself I would never get as overwhelmed ever again.

2013 arrived and I was back working and living in the Bay Area. Fortunately, for my family, my mom would find regular housing, however temporary, starting that year. This would reduce my stress of course, but there would still be plenty of crises times and they would take a myriad of forms.

As I had been doing for years already, I talked to my mom almost every day to monitor her and express my love and support. My sister and I would drive hundreds of miles to visit her on special occasions, like her birthday, and holidays, like Thanksgiving and Christmas. And I would do my best to advocate for her at times of crises. Trying to get my mom adequate care and treatment at hospitals would become a regular occurrence, as her physical health steadily deteriorated.

In 2013, my mom was hospitalized after experiencing dizzy spells and a possible stroke. I took the four-hour drive to Bakersfield to be by her side. Fortunately, her attending doctor was responsive and assuring. The same can’t be said for the hospital administration, however.

My sister visiting our mom in the hospital.

The attending doctor wanted my mom to start taking insulin. There was one problem with that, though. My mom had recently developed cataracts. She needed assistance, since she was unable to administer insulin shots to herself. To my relief, the attending doctor referred my mom to an assisted living facility, as part of my mom’s treatment plan upon discharge.

The day after I returned to San Francisco, however, my mom told me they hospital was getting ready to discharge her back to her apartment. I was stunned and angered. I called the hospital and asked to speak to the main administrator.

Now, while my aikido training helps teach me stay “centered and relaxed” when dealing with stress and conflict, ultimately, we train in order to avoid conflict and create harmony with things around us. In fact, aikido translates to “the way of harmony with universal energy or spirit.” With aikido training, like in randori, we try to “harmonize” with the energy of the ukes and redirect them in order to minimize harm and produce a better outcome for all parties.

Applied to day-to-day life experiences, this means we should try and find compromise and mutually beneficial arrangements with people we experience conflict with. However, as I’d experience countless times, too many healthcare workers and authority figures were not only indifferent to my family’s plight, but too many were more than willing to jeopardize my mom’s life. They would do this even when it violated their own workplace policies and the law.

Given this, there was no “harmonizing” in these situations, since our interests were so diametrically opposed. I wanted and needed immediate help and support for my mom. Like all human beings, she deserved to be treated with dignity and respect. In contrast, too many healthcare and government workers treated her as an inconvenience, or worse, a drain on their time and society’s resources.

At times, I would assert myself strongly, from day one of a hospitalization, by letting hospital personnel know I wasn’t going to accept premature discharges of my mom. Hospitals had no qualms about doing so.. I’d even threaten hospital personnel, county workers and even the police with lawsuits or negative media attention when they’d refuse to give my mom, or take her in for, proper medical care (I just started filming and recording my interactions with healthcare and governments workers, I got so fed up.).

Sensei Jaime Calderon showing how to use an “atemi.”

Asserting myself in these ways could be seen as forms of escalation, which is not very “aikido like.” In a famous quote, the founder of aikido, Morihei Ueshiba, said, “To injure an opponent is to injure yourself. To control aggression without inflicting injury is the Art of Peace.” I considered things that I did or said as being consistent with aikido principles and values, though. In aikido, we use what are called “atemis.” They are strikes to knock an attacker off balance, in order to create space and the opportunity to execute a technique or throw. When it comes down to “life and death”, I think strong atemis are essential. I delivered strong atemis whenever I could to protect my mom and I didn’t, nor do I still, feel bad about it.

— To Be Continued —

Personal Post: My Aikido Journey

On By mikegaeta2 Comments

I am hardly posting on my blog, for different reasons. One, work keeps me plenty busy. But I, also, am having a hard time balancing my advocacy, work and personal hobbies. That said, I will be sharing some news about a recent public event I participated in in Modesto, CA. It was the first time my film, “Benevolent Neglect”, was shown in a theatre!

With this post, I’d like to share some important personal news. After an intense amount of training this past year, I was able to finally receive my Black Belt in Aikido. I started training 14 years ago, around the time I first started trying to get help and treatment for my mom. Needless to say, dealing with my mom’s longterm medical crisis and housing insecurity derailed and delayed my training. I started training regularly again in 2019, but then the Pandemic hit! Well, I finally persevered and I know my mom would be very proud of me!

Here’s a video I made of my personal journey in Aikido. I incorporate the personal journey with my mom a little bit.

Mom Is Gone Now and Politicians Are Still Unhelpful

On By mikegaetaLeave a comment

I’m doing what advocacy I can still, though it is very slow moving. Most recently, I contacted a couple of California State Representatives to let them know I’m available to provide testimony for legislation related to treating people with severe mental illness (SMI). Improving access to treatment and care for people with SMI is getting more attention these days, due to the homeless crisis here in CA. However, as was the case when my mom was alive and we’d try to get her help, politicians and their aides are showing little interest in helping or listening to me. One of the aides of State Representative Buffy Wicks (District 15) actually asked me what my credentials were, when talking to them on the phone! As a political scientist, that perplexed me. As a citizen and tax payer, that disgusted me. Politicians need to be more responsive to their constituents, regardless of status.

I’m “playing the game” for now. But I’m not above harassing them to get a meeting. Below is a copy of a letter I recently sent to Representative Miguel Santiago (District 53), as an example.

Dear Representative Santiago,

I am writing to you because I would like to give testimony for bills and proposals related to the treatment of people with severe mental illness (SMI). I understand that there is currently a bill, AB 1340, that you are sponsoring that is scheduled to be discussed in January. The bill, as I understand it, would amend/modify “Grave Disability” criteria that is a part of the 5150/LPS process. I am highly interested in providing testimony for that proposal, given that I have unique experience and invaluable knowledge in dealing with the 5150/LPS process.

A photo from 2009 of mom and I before we appeared in probate court. I was her conservator for a short time.

Professionally, I am a community college teacher and a Political Scientist. I have been teaching full-time at City College of San Francisco since 2005. I am, also, an advocate for people with SMI and a former caregiver of a family member with a SMI. My mother, a second generation Mexican-American, began exhibiting signs of a serious mental illness around 2002. I started to play a direct role in trying to get her help and treatment in 2007. By then, as a result of no treatment, she was having hallucinations and not taking care of her medical/physical needs, particularly her diabetes. Despite my family’s best efforts, my mother would spend the last 1/3rd of her life with an untreated SMI. In my experience with the mental healthcare system, as my mom’s advocate and caregiver, I largely blame the 5150/LPS process for her needless suffering and premature death.

I found out relatively quickly how difficult it was to get help for my mother, when I began advocating for her in 2007. Though my mother would be 5150ed various times, between 2007-2009, I was told by representatives in both San Francisco County’s and Fresno County’s Behavioral Health Department that it would be easier for them to take her in and treat her if she were homeless! “Really?!”, I thought. “How unconscionable!” I had to get both counties involved, since I was living in San Francisco and my mom was primarily in Fresno, at the time.

Starting in 2010, the unimaginable would happen. My mom would end up homeless, living in a car, due to multiple evictions from apartments. At times, when we could, my sister and I would try to have her 5150ed, out of desperation. She’d show up at our houses exhausted and sick from lack of sleep and rest, and failing to treat her diabetes. The police would show up and, each time, refuse to 5150 her. Though homeless and obviously ill, they would judge her to not be “gravely disabled.”  They would essentially tell us, “She has to be lying naked in urine and feces on a railroad track” for her to meet “gravely disabled” criteria. In these experiences and more, what became clear to me is that her living in a car was considered “adequate shelter.” My mom barely having any clothes to wear, even in Winter, was still viewed as “adequate clothing.” Though she was diabetic, eating primarily high fat and high carb food was viewed as her being able to “adequately feed herself.” My mom having an official diagnosis of schizoaffective disorder did not matter to them. Each time, they would conclude she was “competent” and able to make decisions for herself.

To me and my family, this was an outright neglect of duty by these police officers. Eventually, in 2018, she would develop stage 4 kidney failure. A Modesto police officer took this institutionalized neglect and, really, cruelty, to a new level when he refused to 5150 my mother in January of 2018, when she stopped taking her medications for various serious physical conditions. My mom was in the midst of an acute psychotic episode and stopped taking her medications because “God told her they were poison.” Going on day four, she was unable to eat or drink anything. She did not have an appetite and would puke up anything she tried to drink. She was demonstrating organ failure. Despite this, the police officer determined she did not meet 5150 criteria. My arguments to the contrary and pleas for help fell on deaf ears. The police officer, like many before him, ruled my mom was “competent” and able to decide for herself if she wanted to go to the hospital. My mom could have died at the house. The police were willing to let her die. Fortunately, however, from the urging of other family members, my mom would agree to go to a hospital later in the day and be medically/physically stabilized.

All of this is to say nothing of other times the 5150 process and various authority figures and officials failed my mother. I detail this some in a documentary film I made in 2020 titled “Benevolent Neglect.” It is available for viewing on YouTube. (A film trailer is available for viewing here: https://youtu.be/ta08Lo3ULqo ) With this letter, I have focused on the problems my family has faced with how “Grave Disability” is interpreted and applied. It is too NARROW. Dr. Julea McGhee, who is the emergency room psychiatrist in my film, told me this.  She said the problem is insurance companies determine what constitutes “Grave Disability” and that they intentionally define it narrowly. In her opinion, many more people should fit the criteria for “Grave Disability” than actually do. I understand that AB 1340 would amend “Grave Disability” to include “medical self-neglect.” I strongly support including “medical self-neglect,” as my mother’s frequent hospitalizations and deteriorating health were undoubtedly the result of her severe mental illness. As I think I demonstrated, I can speak on this with considerable knowledge and authority. I have much more I could say and contribute in this discussion and debate. Thank you.

I’m a Former Caretaker and The Joker Movie Is Pretty Right On About Society

On By mikegaeta2 Comments

As a former caretaker, The Joker movie hit me in a raw way. I think the movie accurately portrays how society mistreats the poor and people with serious mental illness (SMI). I saw this, firsthand, in trying to help and take care of my mom, who struggled with schizoaffective disorder.

My mom wasn’t able to take care of herself adequately. She, in fact, had been suffering mightily and deteriorating for years. I couldn’t take it anymore. She deserved to live with a semblance of dignity.

When I started taking care of her full-time, we didn’t have a lot of family around and I didn’t have a lot of money saved up from my teaching job. So, my mom and I were pretty isolated socially and very reliant on the government for her healthcare and welfare needs.

I was able to stabilize her medically (physically) enough and keep her safe for two years, but society made it exceedingly difficult, in every respect, for me to do so. As it was, it never provided us with sufficient help and respect, since the onset of her SMI. My mom needlessly suffered for more than a decade. She would never be treated for her SMI and stabilized. She was discarded. We were discarded.

“They don’t care about people like you, Arthur.”

Image result for the joker mental illness
Arthur Fleck doing his best to survive.

Those were the words spoken to Arthur Fleck by his government social worker (SW). She was referring to the policy makers (officials) who decided to close her office and, thus, cut Arthur off from his psychiatric meds. But as was clear in their interactions, even the SW didn’t seem to care all that much about Arthur’s struggle. As Arthur stated moments before she told him the news, “You never really listen to me.” He’s of course saying she doesn’t really care about him.

This was all too common an experience in trying to access MH services for my mom. For example, there was the time when an intake worker/clinician at a county Behavioral Health Department, in flagrant violation of county policy and state law, outright denied my mom MH services, because my mom, like many people with SMI, denied having a SMI!

The worker was cold and impersonal from the minute we met. I remember saying, angrily, on my way out of the interview/assessment, “I’m waiting outside, mama. All she’s doing at this point is filling out information so they can get their money for seeing you from Medi-Cal.”

There was the time when a hospital nurse and supervisor unsafely discharged my mom against my wishes. My mom was clearly in a psychotic state and unable to make a competent decision about her own care. My mom didn’t even believe she was in a hospital.

Despite this and her physical condition being fragile (She would be treated for sepsis and was just two days removed from a ventilator.), hospital staff would wheel her to a cab. They couldn’t even be bothered to do a psychiatric evaluation to see if she fit involuntary hold criteria.

IMG_1963
My mom didn’t like hospitals. I can’t blame her.

This incident was an extreme example, but our experiences with various hospitals taught me they don’t give a shit about people with SMI. Whenever my mom started to become non-compliant, due to her psychosis, staff would become less attentive and they’d begin preparing her for discharge, even if she wasn’t medically stable.

And this is what they were willing to do regularly in front of me. I can only imagine what they did all those times I wasn’t with her before she lived with me!

“Is it just me or is it getting crazier out there?”

That’s what Arthur asked his social worker during one of their sessions. She responded by saying, “It’s tough times. People are struggling with no work.”

Her comment is a reference to the larger political and economic situation the movie is based in. It’s a pretty subtle backdrop, but the movie itself starts with a radio report of a pitched labor battle, a garbage strike, to help make that very point.

It lasts weeks and leads to increasing piles of garbage on city and neighborhood streets. Tensions build and, eventually, protests breakout at what’s clearly deep frustration with economic inequality and uncertainty, and government mistreatment and negligence.

Arthur’s access to his meds and social worker getting cutoff epitomizes how poor people with disabilities are some of the biggest victims of these conditions. Social scientists actually have a name for such government practices. They’re called “austerity politics.”

In a basic sense, we have been living under an era of “austerity politics” for decades. Since the 70s, governments, at every level, have been cutting costs and services (i.e. downsizing), in the name of “fiscal responsibility” and in order to foster a better “business environment.” It’s a process, a project really, that started as a result of a sluggish economy, increased foreign competition and lower corporate profits. The movie is set in the early 80s, the decade when the process accelerates. (My mom would actually lose her job with the State of California in the late 90s, due to layoffs.)

Image result for psychiatric hospital abandoned
An abandoned psychiatric hospital

Mental health services have not gone untouched. People like to blame the Republicans and Ronald Reagan for the closing of state psychiatric hospitals. But today, even in “Liberal” San Francisco, we have a local government severely neglecting the needs of its own SMI population. So much so, we have local MH workers themselves speaking out against the inadequate conditions and publicly protesting. In fact, former Chief Psychiatrist of SF General Hospital, Robert Okin, describes the situation as a “war on the mentally ill.”

Arthur’s social worker’s full comment actually was “They don’t care about people like you, Arthur. They don’t care about people like me either.” I’ve had my issues with regular staff and frontline workers. In fact, a friend my mom and I made at her dialysis center even told me, in a private conversation, that her coworkers don’t care about the patients. They only care about the money.

This regime we are living under of austerity leaves me with no doubt, however, that high level administrators and public officials are the biggest culprits of all. They make it too difficult, if not impossible, for even the best and most empathetic workers to do their jobs.

“Society decides what’s fun-ny.” 

Arthur says this after embracing his homicidal, violent urges and becoming The Joker. It’s the beginning of a strident public criticism he makes, while appearing on a late-night talk show, to explain his rage and motives. His criticism really is the first time he says something so politically cohesive in the movie.

In a basic sense, he says society made the rules and the rules were made to keep him marginalized and an outcast. He worked hard and honestly, but he lost his job cause of a dishonest coworker and cold-hearted boss. He wanted to get better, but he was cut off from his meds. He cared for his ill mother the best he could, but in the end, she was his biggest betrayer and abuser.

My life experience hasn’t been so bleak. In fact, there were many people, workers, clinicians and strangers that were nice to me and my mom, and did try to help in some way. And my mama knew I loved her and I know she loved me, even though her SMI strained our relationship.

But I damn well know there are too many people who have it worse, like Arthur. And some of them, unfortunately, do lash out with violence. As it is, I’ll never forget what was done to me and my family. I don’t know if I’ll ever be able to forgive. Society will try to focus on individual motives or psychological reasons for behavior it doesn’t like, but the fact of the matter is society, is too often, the monster.

High Stress, Caretaking and Their Aftermath: PTSD Takes Root

On By mikegaeta2 Comments

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A selfie with mom, a few months before I moved her in with me.

My mom’s birthday just passed. She would have been a young 68 years old. Like last year, I went to the cemetery to take her flowers. Visiting her grave on special occasions is a kind of ritual for me now, and I don’t expect that to really ever change. It’s part of my healing, and my healing is going to be a long road, I’ve realized.

Sure, the grief is lessening, but other issues remain. Or I should say, have revealed themselves, like my Post Traumatic Stress Disorder (PTSD). Now, I knew I had anxiety. I’ve wrestled with that for some time. In fact, I mentioned that to my mom her last week with us, while she was in hospice, as a way to try and make some atonement for losing my temper with her at times. I apologized to her and said my anxiety can make me irritable.

Just weeks after my mom passed, though, I began to notice some persistent changes and problems with my mind and body. Things I hadn’t really noticed before. As I researched and learned through counseling, they were definite signs of PTSD. Before I explain my experience, here’s what the National Institute on Mental Health (NIMH) says about it:

“Post-traumatic stress disorder (PTSD) is a disorder that develops in some people who have experienced a shocking, scary, or dangerous event… Nearly everyone will experience a range of reactions after trauma, yet most people recover from initial symptoms naturally. Those who continue to experience problems may be diagnosed with PTSD.”

It’s well-known that PTSD is something experienced by many combat vets. Experiencing the death of a loved one, however, is also traumatic and can lead to PTSD in survivors, especially when the suffering is prolonged.

Mental health advocates have a name for this. It’s called “traumatic loss.” Two researchers define it the following way:

“A death is considered traumatic if it occurs without warning; if it is untimely; if it involves violence; if there is damage to the loved one’s body; if it was caused by a perpetrator with the intent to harm; if the survivor regards the death as preventable; if the survivor believes that the loved one suffered; or if the survivor regards the death, or manner of death, as unfair and unjust.”

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Restraints my mama was put in at a hospital.

My experience with my mom meets most of these “check boxes.” Over the course of many years, I lost my mom twice, once to her mental illness, the second time physically. In her last two years, the time she lived with me, her kidney disease would gradually take over. I witnessed her lose her physical strength and increasingly pre-age. And the violence? I saw, firsthand, how my mom was the victim of institutional discrimination, abuse and neglect. My heart broke over and over again, in many ways, in this whole ten year plus ordeal.

The sadness and guilt were as intense as I figured they would be, after my mom passed. But as I got better at navigating the murky waters of grief, I started to notice those other changes and problems.

For one, I was restless and uneasy. I would pace between rooms in the house at times. I didn’t recall ever doing that before, aside from the week my mom was in hospice. I liked to relax whenever possible. What was this about, I wondered?! I began noticing, too, that something was going on with my mind. Thoughts were racing and intrusive, and I would be a bit forgetful. I wasn’t able to “zone out” by just watching TV anymore. I had to, also, navigate and skim things on my computer, when watching a TV show. Memories and moments of despair played like songs on repeat in my mind, like the time my mom told me, about a month before she passed, that she didn’t have the strength in her hands to cut zucchinis for Albondingas soup. That was the last time she helped me in the kitchen.

I started to realize that it was like I was stuck. Stuck in my role as caretaker for my mom. Stuck trying to fight my hardest to keep her alive. Stuck dealing with, and often pushing back against, her doctors and hospital administrators, monitoring and assessing her condition every day, counseling her to take all her medicines, and then keeping her as comfortable as possible in hospice.

Yea, I was stuck. My body and mind didn’t know how to turn itself off or even how to lower the volume. Part of them, I’m sure, didn’t want to. I just wanted my mom back. How dare the system take her away from me, from us, so unjustly and prematurely! To accept my mom passing was to accept that we ultimately lost the “battle,” so to speak.

The restlessness, intrusive thoughts and hypervigilance I just described are classic symptoms of PTSD. I, thankfully, don’t have nightmares. But my sleep isn’t great. More than a year after mom passed, I still wake up a few times during the night, as if she’s still here. She’d wake me up, for different reasons, or I’d wake up to go check on her. And rare is the morning that I am able to sleep in past 7:00. I used to get up at that time, like clockwork, to give my mom her morning medicine. I can still be tired, but my racing thoughts won’t let me go back to sleep easily.

And irritability? Check. Anger? Check. While I experience these emotions at times, for what appears to be no logical reason at all, unrelenting intrusive thoughts summon them easily enough. As for flashbacks? Sure. When I see a homeless person or when I’m at a doctor’s office for a medical checkup, my blood pressure and anxiety easily rise. I’m back there, again, in some fashion.

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A tribute to mom: A rose, representing mom, going to heaven.

All this said, I am in counseling and doing my best to take care of myself. I was 8 months into my grief counseling when I started to see another counselor for more formal treatment. He would diagnose me with PTSD. I’m also experiencing low-level depression, which makes the self-care part of my healing hard sometimes (I have little motivation to cook), but my counselors say I’m doing very well, all things considered. Still, I know I need to find a meaningful purpose. I need to find peace. I need connection with others. I need understanding. It’s a long road and will probably always be a winding one. But I’ll persist and continue to heal because I know my mom would want me to.

Hospice: “Son, your mom passed away.”

On By mikegaetaLeave a comment

I did my best to write this past week, a year after mama passed away in hospice care. Between the intense emotions I was feeling, rituals I did for peace/tranquility and having to work, I only managed three posts. She would pass on the ninth day of hospice, only 24 hours after placing her in a hospice facility from home. I plan on writing on my experience with grief soon. For now, here’s something I wrote on February 27th, the anniversary of my mama passing, on Facebook. 

My mama passed away a year ago today. I wasn’t with her at the time. I had decided to go to work, thinking that she had at least one more day left, given the “near death symptoms” she was exhibiting.

fullsizeoutput_370As it was, I had to put her into a hospice facility, because I didn’t have enough support at the house to take care of her. She had become bed ridden and my extended family had to return home. I did make arrangements, of course, to have someone there with her, while I was gone. In the morning, the substitute caretaker and in the afternoon, my dad.

Fortunately, dad was with her when she passed, but not being there with her when she passed gets me down at times. Course, people have tried to assure me it was better that way and that it’s what mom would have wanted. I’ve even heard stories of people dying in hospice care the moment a loved one arrives or leaves the room. If mama got to “choose” when to pass/transition, then I know that is what she would have wanted. She wouldn’t want me to see her/be with her like that and she’d want to be with my father, whom she always cared for, even after their divorce.

This week was hard, but today has been OK. I took mama flowers this morning at the cemetery, lit candles this afternoon, through the time of her official death, and am going to eat one of my mom’s favorite meals for dinner. I’m getting better and, dang, in some areas of my life, I’m hella strong and people better watch out cause I don’t have the anxiety I’ve carried around with me all these years, since my mama got sick, anymore. Thanks for those of you who have supported me, since I first posted about my mama’s condition just three years go. I appreciate you.

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February Musing #3: Hallucinations or Visitations?

On By mikegaetaLeave a comment

A year ago, today, would be day 6 of hospice for mom. By then, she wasn’t eating and was physically very weak. She needed substantial assistance to get out of bed to go to the bathroom or another room.

At one point, I believe on day 5, she asked one of my cousins why she was getting weaker. My mama truly didn’t understand. Such was the state of her serious mental illness (SMI); She’d have little self-awareness about her true medical condition.

Indeed, since my mom first started exhibiting signs of a SMI, this had been a constant feature. Even as her physical health sharply declined over the years, her lack of self-awareness just became more elaborate.

“The machines (blood pressure and glucose monitors) work when they want to.” “The lab results are being tampered with.” “The medicine is what’s making me sick.” She’d say all these things and more on a regular basis.

In fact, to my mom, the beginning of hospice just confirmed her belief that she would start getting better, since she could stop taking her medicines (In hospice, a patient’s regular medicine is stopped and the focus becomes on keeping him/her comfortable. Yay for morphine.) This is what she was saying God wanted, before hospice even started, after all.

While we were careful with our words, in response to my mom’s question, my cousin could only tell her the truth, “It’s your kidneys.” Mama didn’t respond. It was taking a lot of effort for her to talk at that point. Perhaps she just decided to save her energy or just pray silently. But I’m sure that didn’t make any sense to her at all. My mama was expecting to get healthier and stronger, not sicker and weaker.

As if navigating the situation and counseling her weren’t challenging enough, given her delusions, she’d also experience intense hallucinations.

Now before hospice, as part of her SMI, mom had regular audio hallucinations. But aside from occasionally seeing things that weren’t there, like cameras on the walls (They were usually just spots of sunlight coming into her room.), she didn’t really have visual hallucinations. Visual hallucinations began appearing relatively early in hospice, though. Being new to her, this understandably confused and, at times, distressed and scared my mama.

They’d begin on day 3 and, curiously, would begin around the same time she’d start developing severe apnea. My girlfriend and I were talking to my mom by her bedside in the evening, when she seemingly started nodding off to sleep.  She closed her eyes mid-sentence and her head began to lower.

Around 30 seconds later, she raised her head, opened her eyes and asked us:

“Do you see them?”

“See who, mom? It’s just us. What’s there?”

“There’s some people standing over there. Shadowy figures. I can’t make out their faces.”

“Are they scary, mom?” I asked. To my great relief, she replied, “No.”

This continued around an hour that evening. Mom wouldn’t see things every waking minute, fortunately, before finally falling asleep. But she’d continue to see the shadowy figures and would begin to see flashes of light. She’d also say she saw a woman she didn’t recognize, sitting in the room with us. Thankfully, mom wasn’t frightened, but she was perplexed by these new experiences.

Disturbing and scary hallucinations first appeared in the form of several faces she would see. One appearing minutes after seeing a little girl. We had just convened in the living room with my aunt and cousins.

“Do you see the little girl?” she asked, as she pointed behind the couch.

“No mom.” “No Aunt Josie.”

The little girl disappeared and we continued talking and interacting with her, as normally and supportively as possible. My cousins, being older than me, had a lot of good memories to share with my mom and I about my mom’s younger days. They were reminiscing when my mama let out a sudden shriek and pointed towards one corner of the room. I don’t remember the exact words she used to describe the face, but she described a ghoulish or devilish morphing one.

Unfortunately, these scary visual hallucinations would continue when mom had acute psychotic episodes. I believe three altogether.  In the evening on day 6, for example, she started complaining that her feet were getting really hot. She pleaded with my girlfriend to take her socks off. “Hurry! Hurry!” she said frighteningly.

She then described seeing the earth opening up below her and became afraid she was going to fall down through. We did the best we could to keep her calm and assure her Jesus wouldn’t let anything happen to her. “Focus on Jesus, mama. Look for Jesus. Nothing sinister is welcome here.”

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A picture/illustration of Jesus mom had in her room. a caption

The hospice chaplain recommended we tell her to look for Jesus and the light, when she started seeing things. During another acute episode, I read her favorite verses from Psalms for close to an hour. My aunt and cousins prayed with her, recited the Rosary and had salt at the ready for the duration of their stay.

I saw my mama suffer tremendously throughout the years, physically, mentally and spiritually. It traumatized and saddened me, for sure. And seeing her scared during hospice was particularly heart wrenching and painful, since she was in her final days.

Not being especially spiritual or religious, I found myself asking my grandmother, my mom’s mom, to help me and mom, out of desperation. I think she visited us on day 7, in the early morning. I’m pretty sure I smelled her, after not smelling her in more than 20 years. I, also, think mom sent a humming bird to visit me this past Monday, what would be the first day of hospice last year. I’ll elaborate on that event in a subsequent blog post.

Hospice was life changing. I’ll never be the same again.

(To Be Continued)