He Won’t Make It To 30

I was in a conference room of a small local hospital. My brother had just been transferred there — bound in a straight-jacket and loaded into the back of an ambulance — from the psych ER, where I had driven him. His mental illness had become unmanageable in grad school, but he describes suffering from it as early as 15. We had never seen the unmedicated — and very ill — person until the weekend before this trip to the psychiatric emergency room. We didn’t even know what he actually had.

The hospital convinced him to sign a document that would give his immediate family access to his medical information. We finally had a diagnosis: Schizoaffective Disorder. The hospital staff was keen to convey how important it was that we stand by my brother. They explained that much of the homeless population suffered from mental illness, but they really ended up on the streets because their families gave up on them. They didn’t know us and our precious Kevin.

We would surround him in love. He would never be alone on the street. We’d just spent 48 hours hosting a vigil. Kevin had stopped sleeping and would disappear from our sister’s apartment. He stood outside in the February cold, barefoot and refusing to go into the apartment because the couch was too ugly. He held an animated conversation with a potted plant and he hid in terror in the bedroom as bombs went off outside the windows.

My sister was worn out so our mom and I took over, taking turns watching him. We repeatedly called Community Mental Health. They came out and determined he was not a threat to himself or others. So I repeatedly asked him if he wanted to check himself in. Finally he said, “I want to check in.” He told me in the car he did it to escape me and my mother, that we were annoying. That was fine with me. If it meant keeping him safe, I would annoy the heck out of him.

We walked into the hospital to check in. They asked him why he was at the hospital. “My sister is annoying,’ slight head tilt my way. “He’s mentally ill,” I said. The lady looked at me hard to see if it was hyperbole. I nodded my head yes, that he was suffering from mental illness. She gave me the signal that she understood. She asked him his name. “George Washington,” he answered laughing. I handed her his wallet which I’d grabbed prior to leaving home. He was furious.

One of the men working behind the registration desk was chatting with a pretty blonde in scrubs. He was a black man. My brother said the most racist thing to that man, far more racist than anything I’d ever heard out of his mouth. He said: “don’t talk to her. Talk to black women.” The man almost jumped over the counter. This nerdy white boy was telling him not to talk to a white woman.

I stood up and shouted “No! No! He thinks he’s black. He’s mentally ill!” before anything any more scary could happen.

Then my brother waxed poetic about the qualities and beauty of black women in such a way that the man started to smile a bit. It was so complimentary, I felt bad for the pretty blonde. My brother said she was just an average white girl. Nothing interesting about her.

Once he was transferred to the hospital where he would be treated and stabilized, the staff tried to explain what we were facing with my brother. He was suffering from one of the most challenging mental illnesses to treat. A double whammy. A mood disorder on top of schizophrenia.

They explained — without trying to cushion the weight of their words — that statistically speaking, my brother would not make it to 30. “He will be killed by the police or he will commit suicide by then,” they explained. They then explained that we needed to stand by him, even when it was hard — which they promised it would be — and protect him.

We promised we would. I had just witnessed with my own eyes how easily his confused mind could make someone angry enough to want to fight. Then, just after that near miss with a hospital employee, he was tackled by security. He was placed in a room and lit a cigarette. He refused to comply with anyone so security was called and the man performed a football tackle on my brother sitting in a chair. That was how he ended up being in the straight jacket.

I recently listened to a speech given by a Michigan state senator, Jeff Irwin. He is introducing a new bill, he’s been working for a while to improve Michigan Police Training. The bill includes: de-escalation training, implicit bias training, and tips to help identify mental illness and use that knowledge to de-escalate. The bill is State Senate Bill 945 by Jeff Irwin of the 18th district (Ann Arbor, Mi).

He brought up compelling statistics to support the bill. In a speech given before the State Senate, requesting co-sponsors for his bill, Senator Irwin pointed out that since 2015, 77 people were fatally shot by officers in Michigan. A whopping 50% of those fatalities were nonwhite and 1/4 of those individuals had documented mental illness.

I’m not writing this to say, “me too.” I’m writing it to say that back in the early to mid 1990s, one of the leading causes of death for someone like my brother was death by police. My experience with the police in Ann Arbor left me with the belief that they were well-versed on mental illness and I know for certain they always handled my brother well.

For that, I’m very grateful. Perhaps his white skin helped protect him? I don’t know. I’ll NEVER know. But, I hope the urgency of our current national situation helps address the problem. I’m hopeful training will make a change and I’m grateful to Jeff Irwin for introducing the bill.

My brother is gone now. He out-lived his life expectancy by nearly 20 years. Still, I have compassion for anyone living in fear of violence at the hands of the police. With my brother, I could at least understand the confusion and see how his words and actions could lead to violence.

I do not understand the death of an innocent man. Nevermind. I do understand. I do. I’m going to call it what it is: Racism. I hope that we take this monumental and much-delayed teachable moment, that we listen, grow, and change. I appreciate having leaders willing to lead us from this tragedy in a positive way.