Almost a Lifetime as a Prisoner of Schizophrenia, then a Divine Miracle of a Mind Alive with Freedom for My Brother (part 3 pf 3 parts )

 

Part 3 of 3 parts  

Dying to One's Self...

"In my 20 years as chaplain ,   

I've only seen this twice ."

                                   The mother is the trustee of God to

                                    her baby.   ( Caryll  Houselander

                                    noted author )

                                    Though I sleep, my heart is

                                    awake. ( Song of Solomon 5:2 )

A Memoir by Robert R. Schwarz

                        Lester did his five years in prison,  and  for the next six years  was either  a resident or patient in  two  Veteran Administration hospitals and four of their  nursing homes . My brother  was forced out of two of these homes for unacceptable behavior ; the two other shelters   I found unacceptable after my two visits to each of them. One of the  hospitals discharged  Lester when   his mental and physical health "improved" , particularly  his  emphysema which twice required emergency  treatment. ( Lester dreaded to have his throat  sucked out,  but still did not quit  daily smoking two to three packs of  cigarettes .  ) Then there were two hernia  operations  and a fall on ice that broker an arm , which  never regained   full mobility.            

       Though nowadays  I believe that all things work together for  good to   those who love God (Romans 8:28 ) ,  back then I felt nothing good could  come from my brother's  unceasing suffering.  I often  fretted over not seeing  any redemptive consequence to it. But when Lester later became bed-ridden , I began  to discern something wonderful was happening during the interactions between Lester and  his visitors, who numbered perhaps  25 and  who  took the one-hour or mor  drives from their homes to the V.A. hospital in North Chicago , near Waukegan.  Some I  suspect had never been at the bedside of a psychotic  person, let alone  an ex-felon ,  nor had said a prayer in "public", as several of them did for Lester. I was also pleased to see at least one busy nurse and two physicians take time to engage my brother in casual conversation.  Two  V.A. nurses, Kim   and Kali ,  were  Christians , causing me to hope that the challenge of helping Lester would   uniquely  benefit them  and other veterans in their care. As for Lester's other visitors, there were:

            Spencer… Lester's   son, a handsome , unassuming family man who played football, as a tackle, for his college  and later  did missionary  work for a  year in Taiwan.  Spencer flew in from Dallas to see his father ,  whom he had refrained from seeing for 14 years. 

            We were standing outside Lester's intensive care unit room when Spencer told me, "I'd like to be with my father alone . "  I closed the door and , looking through   the room's glass window,  I saw my nephew kneel at his father's bedside and pray.  He then  rose , pulled a nail clipper from his pocket and  began trimming his father's  finger nails.  I knew it was a relationship reborn.

            Lisa and Tim…my brother's daughter and her husband. They  flew in from Montreal. Lester hadn't seen Lisa in 20 years, and she had come to reconcile with her father . At dinner that night  with my wife, Mary Alice, and me,  Lisa disclosed why she had refrained from all communication with her father for two decades . With tears , she said ,   " I was afraid that I might have inherited my father's illness."

            I asked her if she still held any ill feelings about her father, who had divorced her mother  when the first symptoms of his  illness appeared, causing years of hardship for the  mother,   "No," Lisa said. "And "I'm grateful for what Lester's father did to get that Social Security check to us every month  and for my grandparents  faithfully  sending me $100  each month from my father's VA disability pay." 

     Lisa  and Tim visited  Lester twice more before departing after our  much needed family reconciliation.

My two "coffee" friends , the Rev. Richter (left) and Karl

           Karl…my 55-year-old  morning coffee buddy , a gentle , people-loving man who  often gushed forth  so much cheer to my brother that Lester once  had to tell him, " Shut up, Karl."   Karl , whose many health issues  disabled him from any employment,  was a walking miracle  whose diagnosis by any physician would likely be,  "death in a year." 

      Several months after his first visit with Lester, Karl's life was transformed  . He began  volunteering  alongside a  pastor , helping  physically and mentally  handicapped adults. Soon after that,  Karl became successfully active with Alcoholics Anonymous.

                                                                                                                                             

         

Aji with my brother

   Aji…a 38-year-old Iranian immigrant  taking English lessons from me  to elevate  himself  from the  tedious work of   cleaning grease traps at a Burger King.  In Iran,  he had been  educated up to the sixth grade. I never heard  Aji  express discontent. " I like to work," he would tell you. "No prejudice  here. I stay if it what God wants. "

            During each of his visits with Lester,  he'd go to the window   and , with arms raised, he'd pray  for Lester in Farsi.   The occasional nurse who entered the room took a moment to stare quizzically at Aji ,  but never asking  a   question that  obviously  nagged her and other  nurses.    

            Philip…a boyhood friend of Lester and mine who never married—nor, likely,  dated anyone—and whose only passion was selling clothes at a large  department store.   Philip's  meekness, he once told me, made him too uncomfortable  to ever worship in the midst of a church congregation ; but   for years he had kept a portrait of Jesus on his night table. "It reminds me to pray for people with problems who need cheering up," he told  me. 

            Susan…was a devout , middle-age Catholic  wife and mother from the school of street-corner  evangelism .  She once flew to California,  then hitchhiked a pilgrimage  to a remote Mexican village ; there she appeared unannounced one day at a church rectory, asking  the priest if she could help maintain his small, run-down church .

            On  her first  visit  with  Lester, she went immediately to Lester's bed, took his hand and leaned over and kissed   him on the cheek. Lester glowed and, with some struggle, rose from his pillow and returned the kiss.  ( I personally  loved it ! ) Susan  remained a prayer warrior for my brother.

            Patricia…a cheerful, steady-minded African-American nurse in the hospitals' mental health unit who became Lester's " girl friend". Lester  wanted to marry her  but instead was persuaded to give her a friendship ring .  She was to become a frequent visitor, sometimes staying an hour, holding Lester's  hand . She, like  most of my brother's visitors,  became a nurturing  person in Lester's room.  At dinner one night, Mary Alice and I told Patricia of our gratitude  

            Don…my good church friend and early mentor in the faith who  had  given Lester a  crucifix to hang on his room wall. Don remains  an indefatigable , on-fire prayer warrior and a leader in the international Opus Dei  prelature.   

***

                          The dragon waits at the side of  the road,

                          waiting to devour us. We go to the father

                          of souls, but first it is necessary  to pass 

                         by the dragon.  (St. Cyril of Jerusalem ) 

            Upon recollecting  these visits,  I fretted no more about my brother's suffering  not bearing good fruit.  My new fretting was about that invisible and relentless    enemy so patiently waiting for my brother to drop his guard  and cave in .  

                         

                          

  
    The wooden crucifix which now was nailed to the wall facing my brother's hospital bed showed Jesus , not crucified but with arms raised in victory or, as some might see Him, in freedom. When two years ago in a veteran's retirement home in Kenosha, Wisconsin, I had asked Lester  where in his room he wanted me to fasten this same crucifix.    "  Put it where I  can see it when I wake up in the morning." , he said. I saw that he was  as pleased with the presence of the sacramental as I was.

            But, a week later, when  I walked into his room,  the crucifix was missing. I was alarmed. I went  to the wall where it had been screwed in . "Oh, no ," I mumbled , feeling sick. Obviously , the crucifix had been crudely yanked away.

            Though I expected no good explanation from Lester, my tone pleaded for one. I looked down at my brother and said,  "Lester, Where is it?!  What happened to it  ? "

             " I don't know. Maybe somebody stole it,"   Lester replied. Neither his voice nor face  had emotion.

            I was too agitated to deal with his lie and left the room . 

            I sensed a full-court press by the enemy and   took   the elevator down to consult with one of the chaplains,  Fr.  VanderHey .  We talked for  an hour . " I've seen your brother only twice,  " he said.   " I prayed once over him and asked if he wanted me to turn his  television channel to the in-house chapel services.  He said no."

            "You told me you were to  ask him if he wanted to join the church ? " I said.

            " I didn't No. Like you, I  want him to make a decision that is one-hundred per cent his.  But I did explain a few things about the faith."

            " Did he have any questions?"

            " I'm afraid not," the priest said. "He just kept saying  ' I see what you mean . '  "

            I brought up the topic of Satanic influence.  I  recall him quoting from the Bible, two quotes, one from Bible the chaplain made , Your adversary the devil, prowls about like a roaring lion, seeking someone to devour.  He smiled knowingly  when I then quoted  from Milton's poem ,   "Paradise Lost"—Lucifer's words of rebellious hatred when God  cast him from heaven:  Better to reign in hell than serve   in heaven.    

                                   

            I charged back into my brother's  room, grabbed his hand,  and in a loud  but pleading tone,  asked him, " Les, is there anything  you  feel sorry about?  ANYTHING ?

            My brother replied  amazingly quick , as if  prepared for my question.

            " You asked me that once before. Like I told you, Robert: I'm sorry f

or all the bad stuff  I've done."  But then he laughed as if he had suddenly changed his mind. 

 

***

  

            At my  home  that same day  (May 27, 2011 ) came  a  hospital call reporting that  Lester's blood pressure was dangerously low and that he had been returned to an intensive care unit.  Mary Alice and I  rushed back to the hospital  , me driving and  praying very hard.   I took  Fr. VanderHey away from a conference,  and  the three of us a  few seconds later  were at Lester's  bed .  I called in a nurse and  asked if my brother's oxygen mask could be removed for ten minutes. She said " for five minutes" and asked me why. When I told her, she said " no more than ten. "

            I leaned over my brother and said, " Les, do you , right now,  want to become   a Christian Catholic ? It's  hundred per cent up to you, kid .  "

He nodded yes.

            The   scene turned  melodramatic. With the nurse keeping an eye on Lester's monitors for pulse rate and oxygen level, Fr. VanderHey  read my  brother's  solemn profession of faith,  and Lester in a gurgling, soft but audible voice, repeated it.   Next came  the Nicene Creed. Whatever lung strength remained in Lester he now was using to  blast out words as if  coming from an  exhaust pipe.

Lester, now in this moment,  victorious--and free-- after  53 years of  an intense spiritual battle and what was thought to be an  intractable  mental   illness . Fr. VanderHey , a V.A. hospital chaplain ,   is on right, flanked by Lester's brother,  Bob Schwarz and  his wife Mary Alice.  

            My brother  affirmed the professions  with  an  " I  do "  , remaining wide-eyed and attentive  with a new face  suggesting  sanity, something I hadn't seen in decades.  For a moment I was startled, then choked out a few words I can't remember today.   A glance at Lester from the nurse  told me that she too knew that this event was sacred and the most important  event in this patient's   life.

            Fr. VanderHey remained silent before asking us , " Can your brother swallow."

            " Barely," the nurse said.

             " Please  do it NOW,  " I urged the chaplain. 

            " Give him half a host," Mary Alice advised.  The priest placed the Eucharist ( a wafer-like  piece) on my brother's tongue.   

            Fr. VanderHey then   pressed  his thumb into a small compact of holy ashes and made the sign of the cross on Lester's forehead.  Then he   sprinkled holy water over my brother to administer  the Anointing of the Sick and the Apostolic Pardon.  Looking  at all of us , Fr. VanderHey said: " Lester Schwarz  gets a clean slate, receives forgiveness of all his sins up to this point in his life." 

            Lester  looked  serene.  So did the nurse as she quickly fitted my brother's oxygen mask back on.  I placed on Lester's chest the blue-colored   rosary  which had been  hand-made by my  friend Don Knorr. My brother grasped it.

            In the hallway, Fr. VanderHey  reflected out loud  on my brother's background ,  his spiritual combat and the intractability of paranoid  schizophrenia . "In my twenty years as chaplain, I've  only seen  this  twice !"  

***

            Lester lived  several months more !  I had him  moved to a hospice  when his lungs began filling with fluid , giving him the  pain of  drowning.  Morphine was administered but only in doses that  allowed him  some mental alertness. Visiting him one night in a nursing home, I waited awhile until a nurse  flushed his throat and then removed Lester's   respirator for a few minutes. My brother motioned me to come close. He  pulled my arm towards him . " I love you,"  he whispered. Then , pointing at a wall ,  said ,  "I  broke it that time and threw it in  the waste basket. Robert, I'm sorry  "

            I was suddenly compelled to ask my brother, " If a doctor could heal you today and return you to the outside world, would you go ? " 

           My brother shook his head  no and meant it. 

            Was Lester  saying he was in the world but not of it anymore—and actually  preferred it this way, even it he were young and healthy ?   Was he--as some mystics  have said--DYING TO  SELF  yet fully and truly  alive  and at peace ?    Did he now crave--as all of us do all our lives-- for that  infinite Something to satisfy  our  deepest longings ?  Yes, yes, yes. 

            Lester's  body  systems  began to  shut down ; they no longer could  assimilate  his  intravenously-fed   nutrients . At 7:45 one evening, I whispered the 23rd Psalm into his ear as I had for my dying mother, then kissed my brother on the forehead  and asked God to make all that was good about my brother remain alive in me.  In that moment I experienced a joy of a great truth blossoming into reality :  My brother was now actually  alive , living joyfully  forever !  

    Over  his grave at All Saints Cemetery in Des Plaines ,Illinois  , I began to imagine my  brother arriving in  heaven  and being led by Jesus to Mom and then to Jesus, who tells Lester,   Now, Lester, Behold your mother.

Mrs. Dorothy Schwarz and sons Robert (left ) and Lester

The End

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© 2017-18 , 2023  Robert R. Schwarz