Engaging a Homeless Man called the King of Norway

"When I was born they named me the King of Norway."

On the way to the middle of the bridge. Notice the slope.

My granddaughter and I were crossing the Tacoma Narrows Bridge  on foot when we approached a homeless man. Em was nervous about stopping to offer help. But he wasn't muttering to himself. And his person and clothes were clean. 

The man looked to be in his 60's,  grey hair cut close to the scalp, shaved. He was lean and muscled, browned by the sun. Missing several teeth which had shifted to fill in the spaces, he reminded me of a popular childhood TV puppet, Ollie the dragon.  

 His belongings were neatly loaded onto three connected carts, fastened with duct tape and bungee cords. Strong as he appeared to be, it was a tough go uphill.  He was glad for the offer. He showed me where to grab the handle on the middle cart and my granddaughter pushed the last cart while he pulled the train backwards. 

It was hot, and even with our help we had to stop frequently. It gave him a chance to talk. I got pretty confused as he talked about various times when he served in multiple branches of the military. And when he pointed to an alder tree he launched into a little lecture about bio-organisms that he believed were being spread by the government from certain labeled transmitters. At that point I realized there was some mental disorder.

We walked, stopped again, chatted. He pointed out his well-maintained chain saw which he used to earn cash. He opened the case with pride and showed us  the tools, and the sharp chain, ready for work.

We pushed on, stopped, and he pointed out two clear indentions in his head "from bullets in the war." He didn't specify which war. 

By the time we reached the crosswalk my husband caught up with us. He heard the tail end of the conversation and asked "Do you mind if I ask how old you are?"

 "98. I'm one of Howard Hughes' sons." And then he added he had been named the King of Norway at birth.

I was so sad to think of this man, apparently able to take care of himself, so disconnected from reality. I glimpsed the terrible damage done by PTSD, or traumatic brain injury, or some other set of factors. 

I haven't talked to a homeless person in years. When I drive I ignore panhandlers at the corners with their signs. When I walk I cross the street to create a lot of space between us. 

This man carried himself with dignity.  I'm glad my stereotypes were challenged, and we got to meet the King of Norway. 

the view from the Tacoma Narrows Bridge

Don't Ignore That Bump to the Head - Brain Injury Awareness

I am all for good causes, so I note that March is National Women’s History Month (go, Amelia Earhart! ) and National Frozen Food Month (bring on the ice cream). But National Celery Month--not so much.

As March is National Brain Injury Awareness Month, this is the time for "the talk." I  want you to know that brain injuries are more likely than you think, and many go undiagnosed until symptoms get increasingly severe.  

Aww, you think. What a downer! Yep, it is, but because brain injuries can happen “anytime, anywhere, anyone” I want to warn you.

wikipedia.org

We all know that car accidents can cause traumatic brain injuries (tbi). But did you know that for kids under 14, and adults over 65, falls cause 50% of all brain injuries. (source: Centers for Disease Control) While falls can’t entirely be prevented we know it’s only wise to wear helmets when exercising on anything with wheels. And we boomers can prevent falls with regular exercise, minding home safety, and getting adequate calcium. 

What we don’t realize is that sometimes what appears to be a minor injury, isn’t. A  neurosurgeon described the brain like jello, and if it gets jostled, it is easily damaged.  A new acquaintance recounted how her college age daughter had fallen from the upper bunk. Shortly after, the girl started having difficulties with balance, and keeping up with her classes. 

“Did she have a tbi?” I asked the mom.  

“Yes! How did you know?” She was eager to talk.

Having been through my own daughter’s injury I recognized the symptoms, and the isolation this mom felt. (more details in my two January blogs on “Regret”)  

Which brings me to my second point. If you are dealing with the results of a brain injury, FIND A SUPPORT GROUP! Talking with other parents that understood why I felt sad, frustrated and powerless helped me persevere through my child's recovery--and learn to cope with the deficits that might be irreversible.

So, play safely and don’t ignore any bumps to the head.  

Regret, part 2

The story began in the blog post on January 17, Can One Regret a Prayer?

Dealing with the hospitalization, her injuries, and healing were a profound experience for me. I treasured the fierce mother love it rekindled. The outpouring of concern and care cascaded over me like a waterfall.  The whole ordeal excavated my faith to bedrock. I cherish those blessings.

As for Susanna, she came out of the coma with some jumbled word recall, and temporary lack of inhibition. Sometimes the results were funny. Late one night nurses called us to come calm her down. She had repeatedly punched in random numbers on the telephone trying to reach us. 

Each day she made noticeable progress toward nearly-complete recovery. Within a few weeks she was back home. Within a couple of months she was able to return to school, and shortly later could resume driving.

Of course I regret that Susanna was injured. I wish I’d learned those lessons in some other way that didn’t involve pain and suffering for my loved one.  

Did she discover treasure in the affliction?   She persevered when she mastered skills and strategies to tackle the new learning difficulties. She eventually graduated from college and found a job she enjoys and is successful doing. She’s commented on some lessons learned. She believes that the changes in her plans for college put her in the right place to meet her husband and subsequently create their loving family.

 I can see an additional benefit.  Her temper is slower to ignite, and the fireworks aren't as spectacular or prolonged as they once were. She’s less judgmental of others since she’s had to struggle with her own cognitive changes. 

At some point after the hurricane of hospitalization, therapies and support groups I thought back to my original prayer. I knew God well enough to know He hadn't caused this adversity to answer my misguided request. I repented of words that flippantly seemed to ask for trouble. 

Do I regret my prayer?  No, because I do not believe it moved God's hand to cause a disaster. Rather, I detect evidence He lovingly cared for us in spite of my request. 

Can one regret a prayer?

The morning my eighteen year old daughter left Colorado on a road trip with her friend W, I told them to wear their seat belts.  Susanna and I stood in the street behind the tightly packed car. The girls promised to call from Montana, their first stop. I kissed my daughter and they drove away.

Susanna and I today

  

I stood in the street and asked God to use the trip to get Susanna's attention.  

This may seem like a strange prayer. But my deepest desire was that Susanna encounter God in some way on this trip. I wanted her to turn to Him for guidance and make a wise choice for college. I wanted Him to woo her into a faith relationship. 

I also knew that I had sought that relationship when life seemed to take control out of my hands. In my way of thinking, getting her attention would most likely involve some difficulty. But I didn’t want catastrophe, so I irreverently amended the request: "Don't kill her in the process."

Before the day ended an accident catapulted Susanna from the little station wagon. The injuries left her in a coma for fourteen precarious days.

God got my attention.

While she was unconscious but healing, I catalogued innumerable mercies. Even though the girls traveled a typically deserted Montana highway, a state patrolman had been near enough to see the dust the rollover raised. 

Despite small cracks in her spinal column she could move her arms and legs. Although she didn't open her eyes or speak, she lifted a finger when her dad asked if she could hear him. 

So many of our needs were generously supplied. The Ronald McDonald House had space for me to live while she was hospitalized. Loved ones deluged us with long distance calls, cards, and flowers.  Our church raised money to help pay for uncovered costs. 

Hospital staff went out of their way to encourage me. Following their advice I kept a journal and made time to be away from the hospital.  One evening I attended an Alison Krause concert.  When she sang "I'd rather be in the palm of His hand..." I felt like the song had been chosen for me. 

...to be continued next week

Have you seen God's mercy during a crisis? Encourage us with a short comment about your experience.