July 27: Saint Pantaleon

Today's feast saint, Pantaleon, is the patron of physicians.  He is honored in the Greek Orthodox Church, which identifies him as "one of the Holy Moneyless Ones who treated the sick without payment."  The Greek version of his name is Panteleimon, which translates as "the All-compassionate One."  All the other details of Pantaleon's life are suspect, and that means that legend and fact have stewed over the centuries into a mash of truth and fairy tale.  The one thing that's obvious, from his name and titles, is that he was a man of great caring, a person who looked after the poor and broken.  I kind of picture him as a cross between Mother Teresa and Anthony Edwards on ER.  One of the hardest things to do as a human being is to comfort another human being who's suffering physically or mentally, especially if that suffering is acute and frightening.

Last night, I sat in a room-full of people who face that kind of suffering every day of their lives.  It was the monthly meeting for the local chapter of the National Alliance of Mental Illness (NAMI).  It's a support group for those suffering from mental illness and their families and friends.  Basically, it's for people on the front lines, who deal with the effects of bipolar, schizophrenia, depression, mania, OCD, borderline personality disorder, you-name-it, every day of their lives.  Over the years, I've had therapists and friends tell me I should attend a NAMI meeting.  Last night, I decided to follow their advice.

As I listened to people speak last night, I heard story after story of heartbreak and frustration.  One 26-year-old attendee knew she had acute depression when she was 12 or 13; she didn't start receiving legitimate treatment until four or so years ago.  Another person suffered from mental illness since she was a child, but she didn't get help until she was in her thirties; she's in her forties now  and, in a one-year-span, tried to kill herself five times.  There was a young man whose brother is schizophrenic and violent.  The brother refuses to take his medication, and the man can't get him committed to a hospital until the brother hurts himself or another person.  Another man has a girlfriend with untreated bipolar disorder; the girlfriend screams at him and beats him up when they're together.  "She's my best friend.  She's helped me through a lot," the man said, paused, and then finished, "and she's pregnant now."

The details were different for everyone, but they were also the same.  Family members wanted their loved ones to be well.  Those with mental illness wanted to feel normal, think clearly, be happy, at peace.

Through all the anger and frustration at a health care system that, for the most part, fails patients with mental illnesses; through all the turbulence of mania and depression and psychosis and paranoia; through all the meetings with doctors and therapists and police officers and lawyers and judges; through all of this shit, there was one overriding emotion:  hope.

Hope that the pregnant girlfriend will stop screaming.  Hope that the brother will take his shot.  Hope that the next medication, the next treatment, will be the ONE.  Hope.

I didn't expect to find that at NAMI.  I expected the crying, heartbreak, pain, anger.  I didn't expect hope.

But there it was, shining through the understanding nods and concerned questions.  There it was in the face of the woman who said, "I'm going back to college this fall."  There it was in the girl who had found a friend she could talk to, who understood what it felt like to want to cut yourself.  There it was in the man who said he wanted to hold his unborn child.

NAMI is full of Panteleimons.  All-compassionate ones.