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The Monsters of Poverty and Grief

2006; Lippincott Williams & Wilkins; Volume: 28; Issue: 4 Linguagem: Inglês

10.1097/00132981-200604000-00015

1552-3624

Edwin Leap,

Homelessness and Social Issues

FigureDo you remember the story of the labyrinth? Think back to your mythology. The labyrinth was a maze-like prison commissioned by King Minos of Crete to hold his wife's offspring, the half-man/half-bull monster called the Minotaur. The Minotaur had a terrible appetite for human flesh. In deference to the power of King Minos, young men and women from Athens were brought to Crete in a black ship with black sails, and sacrificed to satisfy the beast's hunger. Finally, brave, young Theseus, son of the king of Athens, went on the ship, intending to kill the Minotaur. King Minos'daughter, Ariadne, who fell in love with Theseus, gave him a ball of twine to find his way out, and a sword to kill the monster. His courage ended the terror of the endlessly turning walls of the labyrinth. ‘We plunge into the darkness of their lives, every day and every night, dreaming of the day all the monsters die’ Some days, when I listen closely to patients, I realize they are stuck inside the labyrinth. Ancient myths, it has been said, are always true on the human level. They speak to us about eternal realities of human life. They tell us about fate and flaws, about tragedy and hope, about suffering and its universality. They tell us about love and loss and heroism. But why would I think of a myth like the labyrinth when I think about medicine? What is the analogy? I'll tell you about Gladys. She came to me a few months ago with shoulder and neck pain. About 70 years old, she poured out her life story in the middle of the night. It wasn't busy so I sat and listened. She described her pain to me, and I resisted the temptation to roll my eyes or run away as she mentioned the inevitable chest pain, the numbness that's near epidemic, the sleepless nights, the financial difficulty seeing doctors. “You know,” she said, “I can't afford no doctor so I come here.” Because Gladys lives alone, she needed to tell me her story. And it started with her childhood. Her daddy was a drunk who died and left her mother with three children. Her mother worked in a cotton mill, and left the three little children alone all day. Imagine that! At age 6, Gladys made biscuits in the oven for her brothers. The welfare department tried to take her little brother because someone wanted to adopt him. But her mother “wouldn't have none of that,” Gladys said, and they hid, living in an abandoned house till they were thrown out. Fast forward. Gladys works hard her whole life ironing cloth in a mill. She raised her children and then her grandchildren after her son died. Her husband died, and then one of the grandchildren she had adopted died at age 16 in a car wreck. She cried when she talked about him. He was so sweet and so good. She pays every month on his grave because no one else in the family could afford to bury him, and she loved him so. Sometimes she lies awake from the pain. I'm not sure if she means the neck pain or the pain in her heart. Sometimes, although her faith is very strong, she asks God why he let her be born into such a life. Gladys has lived her life in the labyrinth, facing the monsters of poverty and grief. Many in our society, educated and wealthy, look at its walls from the outside and wonder about the noises inside, the shuffling, the running, the screaming, the dying. But most of the time, they never know what really goes on in that place. Then there's Cassidy, who has lost no less than four children to the department of social services. She is usually stoned when she comes to see us, and it's plain that she was gorgeous before she entered the labyrinth. A deputy I know went to high school with her, and he said she was beautiful then, but she began to use drugs and hang out with bad types. Cassidy once dislocated her shoulder three times in one day for pain medicine. Her boyfriend, or one of them, removed a dirty needle box from the wall and put it in his car to sift through later. I'm afraid that Cassidy will die in the labyrinth. She can't escape the monster addiction. Roger lived in a labyrinth of alcoholism. For a while, he ran from it with vigor, but it cornered him in the end. And they sat awhile and shared a bottle, knowing he would die when his liver quit and that the monster would have the last laugh. I saw a man enter the labyrinth once. After blowing off the leg of his lover's husband with a high-powered rifle, he subsequently faced the pain of her suicide. She put a shotgun under her ribs and pureed her liver. I doubt he has escaped the monsters of grief and guilt. For some, the monsters are physical. They made no bad choices. Their bodies just went bad, and they live in terrible pain. They live with paralysis; they live with the constant fear of death. They live with the knowledge that their children will die in a few months. Their beast is mortality; their beast is disease. The examples are endless and as mythic in their pain as the story of the Minotaur. Just name the sacrificial victim, identify what the walls are made of, and name the monster. But what we seldom recognize is that often enough we enter the labyrinth like Theseus. In fact, sometimes nurses, doctors, paramedics, firefighters, and police officers are the only ones who do. We hear the screaming, we take our few weapons, and we go in to try to stop the monster. We try to drag the victims out into the light. We treat their diseases, we stop their pain for a while, we offer them counseling, we try to make them stop drinking or drugging or fighting or whatever it is that holds them in the terrible place. Some are happy. Some push us away with torrents of curses, and run back to the darkness, the only home they have ever known. There aren't a lot of people who try these days. We live in bizarre times, where rich and important people worry loudly about how little is done for the poor and suffering, who donate money to occasional projects, who volunteer for occasional soup kitchens. Few people wrestle hand-to-hand with the monsters. But we few heroes, we few who watch and wait are all camped outside the labyrinth in hopes that when the black ship arrives, we can rescue the cargo. We plunge into the darkness of their lives, every day and every night, looking for them, and dreaming of the day all the monsters die, the walls that held them all crumble to the ground at last, and we can break camp for good.