by Hannah Hart
One year Naomi saved up from her part-time job at a place called ChickN-ChickN and bought herself a guitar. She started playing music and writing songs. She listened to lots of Pink Floyd and Led Zeppelin and wrote a song she performed at our school talent show. She was so good, it got written up in the local paper. But I didn’t celebrate with her. I was angry and resentful because she always seemed to be out living her exciting life and I was focused on our baby sister, Maggie. I thought she should have spent that money on the family. That’s what I would have done. Naomi told me that we all make choices. But I didn’t feel as though I had any choices left in the wake of hers.
As we entered young adulthood, the bitterness I felt toward Naomi grew. She left for college and left me behind. Going away to college was the right decision for her, but again I resented her for it. Naomi and I have always been opposites, we’re like fire and water, but I wanted us to be on the same page. What I didn’t realize back then was that we need our differences for balance. If we were the same, we’d never be able to confront the challenges that faced our family.
So when I set out to tell you guys about the relationship between myself and my sister, I couldn’t think of a moment that could be emblematic. There were too many moments. It was in all moments. I was formed in response to her, as she was formed in response to me. We were each other’s parent and each other’s child.
I thought about the incident with the kittens, I thought about the incidents in the summertime, I thought about how once our mother broke a wooden paddle hairbrush by repeatedly beating it against her own head and screaming “This is how much pain I’m in.” And how Naomi and I looked at each other and laughed because we’d had the same thought and could see it in each other’s eyes: “That was our only hairbrush.”
So as you can see, all the stories I tell and have told include Naomi in some way on the other side.
So instead of telling you guys about the ways Naomi and I had to learn to work together to try and save our mother . . . I’d like to tell you a story about a general and a monk.
THE GENERAL AND THE MONK
Once, long ago, there were two children born to a woman in a cave. The Woman loved them, and cared for the children as best she could, but the Woman had magic in her, not good magic, not bad magic. Just strong magic.
Before the Woman could learn to control the magic, it overtook her and turned her into a Witch. She tried to hide the magic from the children, but they could see it for themselves. The Townsfolk in the Village below began to gossip about the Woman because her magic was strong, but you never knew which way it would turn. Sometimes she would bring chaos and burn the fields of others, but sometimes she would bring laughter and light and paint pictures of the village for the children. They began to call her the Good-Bad Witch.
The Townsfolk had names for the children too: the Crying Child and the Quiet Child.
The Crying Child would ask the Townsfolk for help when the bad winds would turn. But they could not help. They would not help. The Quiet Child was quiet but listened.
The Crying Child would plead with the Townsfolk for bread, and they offered whatever they could. The Quiet Child was quiet but grateful.
The Crying Child would fight the Witch, crying out against her magic, demanding that the winds cease as they stormed, but it would only add strength to the spells. The Crying Child was helpless. The Quiet Child was quiet but helpless, too.
Years passed, and the Good-Bad Witch grew wretched with madness. The Townsfolk wouldn’t speak to her; they were afraid of her and unable to understand her ways. Eventually, even on days when the good winds would blow, the Good-Bad Witch was avoided. Treated like a monster by all except her children.
But the children grew, and it soon came time for them to leave the cave. The Quiet Child was reluctant to go. Who would travel to the Village to get supplies for their mother? The Crying Child told the Quiet Child that there was nothing to be done about it. And the Quiet Child grew loud and angry. “Go, then! We will be better off without you! You want to leave because you are weak. I am strong enough to stay, but you should go. You only make things worse.”
Wounded by the madness of the Witch and the anger of the Quiet Child, the Crying Child left the cave and wandered into the world alone, their heart broken in many places. Perhaps I am weak, they thought. Perhaps I have made things worse. Perhaps I have abandoned the Quiet one. Perhaps I have failed them both.
The Crying Child wandered through many different Kingdoms, far from the cave of their birth. They learned of many people and many ways. They learned that there was much pain in the world, not just their own. And they learned that there was also much Joy. It wasn’t that Life had selected their family to suffer, but rather that in Life there is both Suffering and Joy.
The Crying Child found a Mountain where others who had suffered had gone to learn to live through letting go. They learned that one must not struggle to change the unchangeable. That the only peace to be found is the peace of acceptance. Away from the chaos of the Cave, they were able to quiet the passions of their heart. On the Mountain, in constant meditation, the Crying Child found peace and became a Monk, devoting their life to teaching others about life after pain and suffering.
Years passed, and the Monk would sometimes hear news of the Quiet Child. “Is that so?” the Monk would say, smiling peacefully before moving along. Sometimes the Monk would think of the Good-Bad Witch and would feel the pull of family deep in their chest. But the Monk would not allow themselves to be pulled apart by this feeling and would instead sink deeper into meditation.
One day, the Monk was sitting in meditation when there was a knock at the door of their hut. They rose slowly, leaning on their staff to stay grounded as they opened it.
The Monk blinked in the sunlight and saw a General dressed in brightly polished armor, with arms folded across a shimmering chest plate. The General also wore a helmet, and the Monk instantly recognized the voice that rose from beneath it:
“The Good-Bad Witch is dying. Her magic has consumed her.”
“Is that so?”
“Yes. She is dying, and I cannot let her die like this.”
“We must all die one day.”
The General’s fists clenched beneath the metal mesh gloves. “While you are correct, dear Monk, we can all make choices while we live. I choose to try to save her, so that I can live knowing that I have done all that I can.”
The Monk sighed and closed their eyes. The General spoke again, firmly: “I don’t expect you to understand, here in this hut hidden away from the world. But I must tell you that I have traveled far and wide and I have gathered the resources of many Kingdoms. I have grown great in wealth and knowledge. I have led and I have commanded. I stand here before you, informing you of my quest and offering you a place by my side.”
The Monk could suddenly picture the well-worn cord that joined their hearts. Damaged but unbroken. They could sense hope and fear in the General’s words. There was much passion behind them, but that passion was fueled by the fires of pain. The Monk knew that the General could not win this battle without help, without seeking balance. Perhaps this journey could show them the way together.
The Monk stepped outside and shut the door, turning to the General to say, “You’re not so quiet anymore.”
As they traveled together down the Mountain, the General informed the Monk of their quest. The first phase was to hire Mercenaries from the Village to take the Good-Bad Witch to a Healer in a Far-off Kingdom where the General had Allies waiting. As the magic of the Good-Bad Witch had grown stronger and more violent, they had been seen by many local Healers, but those in the Village could hold her powers for only three days. It was believed that the Healer in the Far-off Kingdom was very powerful and would be able to hold the Witch’s power for longer.
The Monk listened to each phase of the plan, replying gently, “Is that so?” and nothing more. The General grew impatient and demanded an explanation for the Monk’s lack of urg
ency. In response, the Monk shared many lessons of patience and peace with the General as they journeyed homeward. The General didn’t understand them but found them interesting nonetheless. As they approached the Village, the General put their helmet back on, explaining “No one knows that the General is the child of the Good-Bad Witch. I’d like to keep it that way.”
“Is that so?” the Monk replied coolly.
They enlisted a Sherpa whom the General trusted who would accompany them on the quest and who could cool the General’s temper whenever they grew angry with the Monk’s apparent apathy. The General understood that the Monk was peaceful, but did they have to be so smug about it?
The group prepared for departure. The Mercenaries gathered, and the General gave the Good-Bad Witch an elixir that would cause them to sleep through the length of the journey. But early on, the plan began to fall apart. Sometimes Mercenaries like to exercise their power in strange ways, and instead of leading the group to the Far-off Kingdom, they suggested a shortcut, leading to a Kingdom Across the Water. They had no Allies in that Kingdom, and there wasn’t much time before the elixir would wear off and the Good-Bad Witch would awake.
The fear in the General’s heart turned to anger and the anger to hopelessness, triggering a spell that the Witch had placed on the General long ago, to keep them close, reducing the General to the Quiet Child they had once been.
The Monk and the Sherpa peered under the General’s shining helmet, but their armor looked empty. Then, suddenly, the Monk could see a small child nestled behind the chest plate, hoping to remain unseen. The Monk moved to face the Quiet Child hidden inside the armor. The Monk gently knocked against its front, asking if they could speak.
The Quiet Child made no reply. The Monk spoke.
“Hello, little one.”
“I want to be left alone,” the Quiet Child said with bitterness.
“Is that so?” the Monk asked. “Have you spent much time alone?”
“I’ve been alone for years. Alone because of you.” Hate dripped from the child’s words.
“Is that so?” the Monk asked again.
“You left me because you were too weak to stay in the cave. You were too weak to stay, and you didn’t try to take me with you.”
“Did you want to leave the cave?”
“No! Of course not. But you shouldn’t have left, either.”
“I see. Are we the same, you and I?”
“Not at all.” The child stood suddenly, pointing a finger in the face of the Monk. “You are weak. And I am strong. We are not the same at all.”
“You are right. We are not the same. I couldn’t stay in the cave with you because I was not as strong.”
The child was confused but didn’t want to show it. “You should have stayed, because out there everything hurts!” They began to weep. “I know, because I did it, too. I left, and now that I’m back, I’m in even more pain.”
The child fell into a crouch, banging their head against the armor for being so foolish and hopeful.
The Monk spoke in a soothing tone, unmoved by the child’s tantrum. “You are right. This world does hurt—”
“See! So—”
“You have turned your pain into passion and drive, yes. But it is still pain.”
“So don’t tell me to go back out there! It will only cause more pain. If I hide in here for long enough, eventually I will sleep and the pain will stop.”
“The pain will not stop. It will resume upon your waking. The answer is to learn to confront the pain and embrace it.”
“What good will that do me?”
“There is much in this world that hurts us, but if we let pain become our master, we live our lives as slaves. Do you want to be a slave?”
Tears ran down the Quiet Child’s face. “No, but nor am I a master.”
“You are right. You are not a master. You cannot lead because you are still a child.” The Monk smiled at the Quiet Child, removing the helmet to wipe the tears from their face and moving to embrace them. “Thank you for trusting me and for showing me your grief. There will be pain to come, but you are not alone and you never have been alone. I am here with you.”
The Quiet Child let themselves be held, pressing their face against the worn fabric of the Monk’s robe. And suddenly the spell was broken.
The General stood, lifting their shield as they spoke. “There is still hope. We must still try. I’ll find a ship to carry us across the water.”
The Monk stood and said, “I am ready.”
I believe that each of us has the power to change the world in a thousand small ways, without even knowing it. The person who changed our world was a receptionist at Fremont Hospital who recognized me in the waiting room.
When the police arrested Annette in April 2016, they took her to the San Mateo County General Hospital for a three-day hold. Naomi, Kati, and I spent the day sitting outside the locked doors to the psych ward ER, waiting to speak with the doctor on call. He was finally able to see us at the end of the day, and we told him about our mission to get the LPS referral letter. We pleaded our case, showing him our documentation and telling the story of thirty years of suffering, Naomi and I each taking turns when the other couldn’t speak. Eventually, our passion and our perseverance won out, and he said that he understood and would admit her.
But then they transferred her to a different hospital, Fremont General, without even telling us. It was a fluke that we found out. We jumped into the car and raced to Fremont, where the new attending psychiatrist would not see us. We were told we could leave a message. Naomi and I refused to leave and were preparing for an all-night vigil when a nurse on staff told us there was no use waiting. The doctor had actually left for the day hours earlier. As we stood in the lobby, quietly debating our options, the receptionist recognized me and asked if there was something she could do to help.
That woman saved our mother’s life . . .
I explained what was happening—that our mother had been brought in on a 5150 (when the police arrest someone and admit them to the psych ward at a county hospital for an involuntary seventy-two-hour hold) and that she had been transferred from San Mateo County General Hospital to Fremont without our knowledge. Apparently, the rules for communicating with families for psych emergencies are different from those for medical emergencies. In a psych emergency, the hospital is allowed to contact next of kin only at the request of the patient. But what if that patient (my mother, for example) is babbling nonsense? Good luck getting a phone number out of that situation. Not to mention the sad fact that many facilities don’t even try to contact family because there is none. Many people suffering from psychosis have been abandoned by their loved ones because of the difficulties of dealing with the illness. (I’m not judging the families in these situations. I’ll admit that I’ve considered abandoning my mother many times; it’s very difficult to try to help someone who can’t be grateful and who doesn’t believe that they are sick.)
She could see how much we had been through, and the gift she gave us was to go behind closed doors and find the social worker who had been assigned Mom’s case. She came back out and said “You have ten minutes.”
We spoke to Dennise, the social worker, and presented the case we had gathered. We told her about our goal of conserving our mother, which she discouraged us from pursuing because it was such an unlikely outcome. I then asked her to take a look at our catalogue of evidence and at the very least recommend the psychiatrist get a 5250, a fourteen-day hold, which would give us the time we needed to gain the referral for the next step.
Dennise hesitated and asked if our mom had any insurance.
I was confused by this question and said, “No, of course not. She’s terrified of paperwork.”
Dennise then began to explain why gaining approval for the 5250 was unlikely and recommended we take our mother to a shelter. I had flashbacks to trying to take her to shelters back when I was in college, only to have her grab the steering wheel of my car to tr
y and crash it.
At the mention of a shelter, my systems shut down. Blessedly, Naomi’s didn’t.
“We can pay the fees if you keep her. The county will not be responsible. I will sign her up for Medi-Cal today, but you must keep her here. We have money. We have lots of money.”
I was embarrassed and moved to silence Naomi, who had literally shaken her purse to emphasize her point. But then I looked at Dennise and realized that in fact it was about money. Money was the issue.
“Is this really about the cost?” I asked with blunt naiveté.
Dennise’s response was simply “The county is paying for your mother to be here. There is a lot of scrutiny, but I think with insurance and with this case history you’ve brought, we may have a better chance at a 5250.”
Translation: Yes, it’s about the money. Thank you for shaking your purse.
I remember walking out of our meeting with the social worker, having won the battle for the fourteen-day hold and reaching out for Naomi’s hand, a childish instinct but my instinct nonetheless. I would not have been able to move forward without her. My passion keeps me going, but sometimes it also grips me too deeply and I shut down. My pain and my passion are intertwined. But in Naomi’s pain she has sown the seeds of patience. And so we are able to pinch hit for each other.
When Naomi cut ties with the family to heal herself, I was so angry with her for leaving me. But the truth is, she was there all along. Our parents hadn’t been there for us (one due to illness, the other due to ignorance), and we’d been left to fight for our survival. Naomi had needed to leave because she knew she could not survive if we were chained to each other. We had to free ourselves from those ties to keep from sinking.
During the period of time we spent in the Bay Area, fighting our mother’s case, we started calling each other the General and the Monk. It was our way of forgiving each other and understanding the adults we had become: a General powered by passion, a Monk cultivating patience in the face of pain.