By: Donna Easto
Beryl (not her real name) had always been “different.” In the small village where she grew up, she, her siblings, and their parents were objects of pity, met with sideways glances and whispered comments. School was a nightmare, some kids, knowing her desire to “fit in” played mean jokes. Her brothers had frequent fights with these tormentors. A few of the girls would try to befriend her, but as Beryl grew older, Schizophrenia took over her life.
After moving away from the small village she managed to hold a job for a number of years, and maintain a few friendships. She bore a son who was given up for adoption, there was no support from family or state to help her raise him. As her paranoia grew more debilitating she moved to a tiny northern village and found a trailer affordable on social assistance. Beryl rarely left the trailer, blocking all its windows with thick, black curtains. Every can of food in the pantry was numbered. Under a Community Treatment Order she was forced to take treatment, but in those days the medication was archaic and often included insulin coma therapy (ICT discontinued in 1960s due to high mortality rate).
Beryl was well known to the local RCMP, making multiple complaints about items stolen from her home, and a phantom that came through the walls disturbing pictures and moving objects. The Mounties responded kindly trying to convince her that none of those things were real. They went away without writing any reports, until the newest member of the detachment, Charlie, was assigned to deal with her exclusively.
When Constable Charlie (not his real name) responded to a call from Beryl, he did something no one else had done, he did not challenge her delusions, he listened without denying her fears, he made note of all her ramblings and read them back to her. He told her she could count on him. Charlie understood there was nothing he could do beyond calming her fears as best he could.
Beryl died a year later of a heart attack, her life hadn’t changed but those of us who knew her understood that for a few brief moments of real compassion, there was someone who cared. So, Constable Charlie, wherever you are, well done!
