Buzzard Roost – Part 2

Author © Scott D. Zachary

       “Bobbie and I had logged hundreds of possible titles. Then a few months after I began working on this book, I told my boss, Nelson, at Gardens Alive that I projected it would be well over a thousand pages long. He asked, ‘What are you going to call it, War and Peace?’ That weekend, Bobbie and I brainstormed about how we could include the words ‘War and Peace’ in the title of the book. We came up with Sparkles, Warpaths, and Perfect Grace. ‘Sparkles’ to denote all of my big adventures that put a sparkle in my eye, ‘Warpaths’ for when someone gets in the way of one of my sparkles, and all about my path to the Lord’s ‘Perfect Grace.’

       “We had settled on that title for about four years until a few weeks ago when Bobbie went to pick up our granddaughter, Remi, to spend the weekend with us. I’m always joking with Remi about animals like rhinoceroses, monkeys, and duck-billed platypuses. Remi might say, ‘Let’s go, Papaw!’ I’d respond with something like, ‘We have to wait for the walruses?’ And Remi asks, ‘What walruses?’ And so forth.

       “On their way to our house, Remi told Bobbie, ‘And tell Papaw, no iguana business, this time!’ When Bobbie walked in, she told me what Remi said, declaring, ‘There’s your title.’ I said, ‘Yep!’ And so it is. I’d be hard-pressed to change it now.”

       “I like it!” exclaimed Audrey.

       I handed Audrey my spiral-bound life resume, which I had opened to the page of my EMT instructor’s letter of recommendation. I had only intended for her to read that page, but Audrey continued to scour all the other letters of recognition, medical certificates, and commendations. I then handed her the ornate “Diploma de Reconocimiento” (Certificate of Recognition) awarded to my optical team by the Mayor of Rancho Grande, Nicaragua. I interpreted, “...for vastly improving the quality of life of the population of Rancho Grande and the surrounding region.” I asked, “Have you ever seen anything like that?”

       She shook her head.

       Realizing I was displaying mania and my mouth had been going like a machine gun firing off my excitement, I stated, “I can be lazy.”

       “I couldn’t imagine that.”

       “That’s when I’m doing what I don’t want to do. Like when I woke up at two o’clock in the morning a few weeks ago and said, ‘Yeah, I want to write!’ and realized that I had to get up and go to work in four hours. Hence, I just wanted to sleep all day. Sometimes I have to work to gear myself up.”

       “How do you do that?”

       I clenched my fists, staring intensely into the ether. “I chant, ‘Go, Scott, go! Go, Scott, go!’ ”

       “Okay, I’m talking now. We have become strict with our policies. You will be required to attend therapy sessions like everyone else at least once every three months.”

       “They were strict with their policies before, but that’s fine. I was going to ask you to allow me to see a therapist here at RiverValley every three months for the next year until I pick up a software contract. As you may have read, I’ve taken a year off to focus on clean water missions to Costa Rica and Ethiopia and on writing my book.

       “I usually see a massage therapist at least once a month for two hours. I select my therapist to also be my psycho-therapist—preferably Christian. I love spilling the beans non-stop for two hours while being pampered. I much prefer that kind of therapy.”

       “I need to recommend that!”

       “I like therapy. I need to cut my costs while I’m off work for a year, and therapy here will be covered under my wife’s medical plan.”

       “Your prescription is for three hundred milligrams of lithium twice a day, correct?”

       “Yes, ma’am. I wasn’t going to tell you this, but I received a letter from Doctor Harmon last December—just three weeks after I had seen Dr. Perry—telling me that my treatment was being terminated because I wasn’t making my scheduled appointments with my psychiatrist and therapist. And I hadn’t even seen Dr. Harmon for a couple of years. I reduced my total daily dosage of lithium to three hundred milligrams on the second of February to stockpile some lithium just in case, and I’ve seen no difference in my state of mind. I’m very protective; I like my life exactly like it is.”

       “I’ll give you as much lithium as you want. I’m going to give you two prescriptions.”

       “Good.”

       Pointing to the Accomplishments and Plans documents I had given her, Audrey asked, “Do you mind if I show these to my Director?”

       “Not at all.”

       “She’s having a very bad day. This will lift her spirits.”
       “I almost never have a bad day. And when I realize I’m having one, I look for the silver linings. They’re always there, if you look hard enough.”

       “I’d like to see you again in three months.” Audrey handed me a note with several therapists’ names on it. “You’ll need to schedule appointments downstairs with one of these therapists every three months. If there’s anything I can do to help you, please let me know. I want to be here to support you. I plan to be here for the next thirty years until I retire.”

       As Audrey escorted me out, I apologized, “Sorry about bombarding you with my enthusiasm.”

       “That’s no problem at all.”

       “I’m sure I’ll be a little less vociferous next time.”

       “No problem.”

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

       I was at the very pinnacle of Maslow’s hierarchy of needs. My appointment with Audrey was on Tuesday of that second week in May. The Detail Shop picked up my car on Wednesday to wrap up my initiative of restoring my fourteen-year-old Altima. I had already painted it and had a mechanic replace all the “iffy” parts. Instead of buying new cars like most “well adjusted” people would do, my wife Bobbie keeping her six-year-old car and me restoring my old car had enabled us to donate a year’s worth of my net income to help disadvantaged people around the world. Contemplating the thousands of people’s lives our generosity had elevated—the prostituted girls in Thailand, the starving children in Sudan, the villagers in India and Africa who had to give their children disease-infested water to drink, the persecuted Christians without a Bible, the Nicaraguans needing acute medical care, Mafer in Ecuador, the guys at the homeless shelter, and many others—taxied my virtual F-16 to the end of the runway. That one little word uttered by Audrey while reading my list of accomplishments—Wow—had revved my engines. Todd delivering my pretty car on Friday morning launched my spirit down the runway toward Buzzard Roost.

        My flight to the heights overlooking the Ohio River was certainly well below supersonic, so much so that I uncharacteristically punched my speed-control precisely on the speed limit. Overflowing with contentment, in no hurry whatsoever, I eased onto the berm of the road every time a car nudged the safe space behind me, allowing them to dash off to wherever their frantic aggression was leading them. Not me, I had no needs to be fulfilled. Except one.

       Also, unlike my usual self, I hadn’t turned on my GPS. I’d either get there, or I wouldn’t. It didn’t matter to me on this particularly beautiful morning. After leaving Highway 37, I never encountered anyone along the tree-canopied gravel stretches. Rod Sterling didn’t introduce my diversion, but it wouldn’t have been inappropriate. I was in my own alternate universe, one where everything matters, but nothing matters. It would’ve been inconceivable for me to stumble upon a difficulty. There were none to be found. Only silver linings. In fact, the intensity of all the silver linings had completely obliterated their fostering clouds.

       The shrouding trees parted to reveal a broad curving stretch of the Ohio River and thousands of acres of farmland spread out below me on the opposite bank of Kentucky.

       Perfect.

       I pulled off the road onto an overlook path. Stepping out of the car, I walked to the precipice, smiled grandly, filled my lungs, and howled wolfishly at my heart’s content, sloshing my overly abundant joy all over the countryside.

       “Thank you, LORD!!!”

       My jubilation tempered, the joy in my heart perfectly balanced with my mind’s sense of reasoning, I closed my release valve and floated down the hillside on a waft of peace to the picnic area in Magnet, Indiana. I aimlessly strolled along the river, meditating on the serenity I’d found since my life fell apart ten years earlier. My life had become better and better in every way.

       Strict.

       Do what?

       Remember what Audrey said about being strict? They are now strictly applying their policies to you. You’ve improved the quality of life of thousands of people around the world, and you haven’t earned any latitude whatsoever, not even a tiny speck of consideration. RiverValley is treating you like everyone else and requiring you to attend therapy every three months exactly like all their other patients.

       But I was going to ask to see a therapist every three months while I’m off for this year, anyway.

       But she said, “You will...”

       I got exactly what I wanted, though, didn’t I?

       Did you? It’s a matter of perspective, buddy. You are required to see a therapist from now on to get your lithium—whether you like it or not. And you have to see Audrey every three months, too. They quadrupled your psychiatric sessions from two to eight per year. They only know how to deal with uniformity. Nobody cares how much time and money you spent helping all of those people all over the world while improving every aspect of your own life.

       Damn!

       You’re right back where you were last December when Dr. Harmon threw you to the curb in his form letter. Now, see if you can find the silver linings this time!

       There aren’t any, are there?

       Nope.

       But I got what I wanted. Let’s try to maintain that perspective.

       Alright, but keep in mind, they’ve demoted you for no good reason.

       Yeah, yeah, I know.

       When I arrived home and told Bobbie about my quandary, she said, “I wondered if you’d get back to that word “strict.”

       Over the next three weeks, my focus flagellated on and off about RiverValley forcing me to attend therapy, mostly on. Just like the previous December when Dr. Harmon lumped me in with all their other patients and threatened to terminate my treatment, I plundered another three weeks analyzing the illogic and injustice of my predicament. My focus was almost completely diverted from my usual fixation on helping others to wringing out the silver linings from RiverValley’s one-size-fits-all treatment plans.

       Thank God, my wife doesn’t seem to mind me brainstorming endlessly until I can grasp all the silver linings of any mental challenge. After countless hours of analysis over three weeks, I concluded to Bobbie, “After Audrey read my long list of accomplishments, she left out the key element that fulfills all my good deeds when she said, ‘You’re a perfect example of someone with high intelligence, mania, and good intentions.’ She disregarded my ‘initiative.’ And that’s the element that I allowed RiverValley to kill when I let them damage my perspective. I can’t believe that I even considered going back to drinking to treat my bipolar disorder and thought about canceling all my good initiatives to help others who have no one there for them. I’m not going to let RiverValley destroy what I’ve worked so hard for a decade to build just because they’re fixated on treating all their patients uniformly.

       “An interesting correlation occurred to me. Doctor Harmon had a clue two years ago when he gestured toward my autobiography at forty percent of what it is now and declared, ‘You’re getting plenty of therapy right there.’ He didn’t have a big clue, though. Conservatively, I’ve spent more than a thousand hours a year for the past four-plus years self-analyzing in the process of writing my memoirs.”

       “I’ll vouch for that. A lot more!” declared Bobbie.

       “That’s more than four thousand hours. Four thousand divided by four one-half-hour sessions a year equals two thousand. It would take at least two thousand years of their forced therapy sessions to match what I’ve already invested in me. And I’m just getting started.

       “Based on Dr. Harmon’s declaration ‘I wouldn’t dream of changing a treatment plan that’s working,’ Dr. Perry’s response ‘I live by that,’ and just plain good common sense, I’d bet fifty-to-one odds that when I research treatment plans online, they will all say something to the effect that ‘Treatment plans should be unique to the individual because every individual is unique.’ Don’t worry, Honey Bunny, I’ll find the silver linings with which to spin my mental web.”

       “I have no doubt, dear.”

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

       My presumption about treatment plans was spot-on. www.PositivePsychologyProgram.com says, “Instead of just throwing medication at a mental health problem ... a good mental health professional will work with the client to carefully construct a treatment plan that provides the best chances of treatment success.” They go on to say, “No two treatment plans will be exactly the same, because no two people’s experiences are exactly the same.”

       The “Guide to Creating Mental Health Treatment Plans” on website www.icanotes.com asks, “What is a treatment plan?” Answer: “A treatment plan is a detailed plan tailored to the individual patient and is a powerful tool for engaging the patient in their treatment.” They should’ve added, “And certainly a devastating tool for disengaging the patient if poorly/inconsistently administered.” Ask me, I know.

       The Guide further states, “A treatment plan also helps counselors monitor progress and make treatment adjustments when necessary.” Did you note the words, “when necessary”?

       Moreover, ICANotes states in their “Tips for identifying goals and objectives for patients” that “Everyone is different, and so is every treatment plan. A counselor must use their skills to help a client establish the best goals and objectives for their unique condition.”

       Based upon the above, I would award RiverValley’s treatment plans the grade of “F” for “Fickle.”

       Let’s continue. ICANotes’ “Mental Health Treatment Plan Checklist” asks:

1)    Is the treatment plan customized to suit the patient based on their unique skills, goals, lifestyle, educational background, culture, and socioeconomic status?

2)    Are their strengths incorporated in the treatment plan?

3)    Has the patient participated in developing the plan?

       When those questions are applied to RiverValley’s treatment plan for me, the answers are clearly: No, No, and No. And finally, ICANotes emphasizes that “There are no set rules for developing a treatment plan for your patient because every plan is unique.”

       I found basically the same approach to treatment plans on every mental health website, including www.healthyplace.com who even used my terminology when they stated: “With such a wide range of people and challenges, treatment plans can’t be one-size-fits-all approaches to healing and wellness.”

       Therefore, my conclusion: Time to institute a new game plan, a new storyline. Now that RiverValley Behavioral Health has become a negative influence on me, a drain on my initiative, it’s time to terminate my relationship with them. It’s time to break my feeling of dependency on them. It’s time to fire Audrey.

       Now, regarding those three points in time that I listed at the beginning of this story, my perspective is the only significant difference between them. In the second instance, I had allowed outside forces, namely RiverValley, to temporarily damage my perspective. There is only one thing that each of us has control over, and that’s perspective. The bottom line is: The world is what you want it to be. It all depends on your perspective. Reach out and grab those silver linings. Hold onto them, and don’t let anyone take them away. If you’re having a bad day, that’s because you allowed yourself to think you are having a bad day. I’m going to have a good day, every day—because I can. It’s my choice. It can be your choice, too.
       Then again, perhaps it’s time for a brand-new story. One that makes the psychiatry books. Maybe.