They alternated selections, choosing teammates in descending order of preference. Those who were taller, shot better, superior dribblers and passers, or higher jumpers were picked first. Those less desirable waited, feigning calmness to hide the fear that they might be picked last.
I knew the feeling of being selected last. The captain unlucky enough to pick last usually rolled his eyes, shrugged his shoulders and turned away without words. You would then shuffle off to join your smirking teammates.
I hated the feeling. So I practiced dribbling for hours in my garage. I searched out near-empty dumpy playgrounds and tilted hoops on which I could practice without embarrassing anyone. Eventually, I moved up in the selection process, but I never forgot the feeling of being picked last.
The whole process made me a little more sensitive to the “un-chosen” and “last-selected” in other realms of life.
On the morning of my 46th birthday, I got a call from someone asking if I could perform a funeral service for a 43 year old man from our neighbourhood. Talk about perspective!
Ronald Patrick Turner died on July 21, 2003 of natural causes at the Seven Oaks Hospital. As I prepared to lead the funeral service, I talked with family and friends.
Ron did lots of writing. I was privileged to read some of his poetry and articles in which he shared some of his struggles. Ron struggled with schizophrenia. He articulated the accompanying feelings of being among the “unchosen,” the awareness of being “left out.”
Living with mental illness means you live in a world at once the same but yet profoundly different from those around you.
I pondered the meaning of one of Ron’s poems entitled, “The Mentally Ill.”
“We are in every nation and land. We are every nationality, every race, every colour, and every religion. We come from good homes and families. We end up in hospitals, streets, and jails. We have been in despair and torment. We have experienced broken lives and extremely hard times as our families have suffered with us. We are the mentally ill. Sssh! Listen, we have something to say. We did not ask for our illness. Love us. We are people too.”
Ron spoke openly of both fear and faith. He wrote about loss and surrender of control. Knowing right and wrong. Inexplicably and illogically choosing wrong. It went beyond a question of fault. It just became a fact of life. Living with the resultant regrets and rejection – whether self-induced or inflicted by others – carried a pain beyond words.
Ron’s eight siblings watched him grow from a brother they understood to a man they sometimes feared. Ron was kindhearted. He was generous with his time and acceptance of people. But sometimes, Ron did and said some scary things. At the funeral this week, the family shared some of their anguish. Dealing with Ron’s limits brought them to experience their own in ways they had never anticipated.
Ron worked to understand the difference between what God allows and what God wants. To say God wants people sick is to mock heaven, the place which most clearly expresses God’s desires. Our present situation can make heaven seem a long ways away. But Ron would not wait idly until he reached that place of “no more tears, sickness or pain.” There was too much to do now.
He volunteered at “Clubhouse,” a community based rehab program for people recovering from mental illness. He helped develop the concept, and became a member of the board of directors. He volunteered with Habitat – working to make it easier for others to live better.
He composed poetry, wrote in community newsletters, worked for good causes, and advocated for improved housing and understanding for those with mental illness. His friends spoke of someone who was a determined advocate, a loyal friend and a willing worker. “Always ready with a smile,” said several.
There’s no romanticizing mental illness. No erasing the impact on relationships and employment. No minimizing the loneliness.
But Ron’s story – like each of ours – is a study in contrasts. There’s conflict and creativity, good and evil, hope and resignation.
The common frailties of our humanity transcend the distinctive labels assigned to our personal “issues.” Ron was no less of a person than me, and I’m no more of a person than he. Ron’s story is both instructive and humbling. I won’t forget.
Rev. Harry Lehotsky
514 Maryland Street
Winnipeg, Mb R3G 1M5
(204) 775-4929
lehotsky@escape.ca