Someone pointed John out to me as we drove past him. That’s somebody’s uncle. He has schizophrenia. From the car, he looked big and intimidating. Shirt partially unbuttoned at the top, in shorts and slippers. He did not look friendly. I don’t want anything to do with him, I thought to myself, with some trepidation. I had no inkling that I would soon be meeting John every week.
Not long after that, my colleague, G and I began to accompany John to the government clinic and sometimes to the hospital. John had to go for his weekly blood test due to the medication he’s taking. He was not able to go by himself.
John would later tell me that he once held a job at a multi-national company. He spoke of the time when he was living alone on the streets. He tells me these things in Bahasa Malaysia and English. He speaks softly and sometimes his speech is slurred. He rents a room from a friend. He has no wife or children. He has brothers and sisters but he doesn’t seem to see much of them. There are huge gaps in his story but I don’t probe. He shares what he wants with me during our walks to the clinic and in the waiting room.
G faithfully puts his medication inside a pill box for him to make sure he does not miss taking them. John’s housemate gives him the medication. I think sometimes she forgets. The kids make fun of him and throw things at him. John tells us this matter-of-factly. He learns to avoid them. He takes these things with a measure of repose and composure that is admirable.
John has an engaging smile. That surprises me. I suppose it’s partly because I don’t expect him to smile. Sometimes he wears that smile when he greets us in the morning. He thanks us for our help after we send him back from the clinic. At times he shakes my hands.
I have occasionally caught fleeting glimpses of the man John once was. In a rare moment of reflection and introspection as we were walking to the clinic, he confided that he didn’t know how he became like that. He alluded to a woman he once loved and almost married. I believe that John is a good man who is tormented by a debilitating sickness. He is clearly aware of his condition. I am certain that he wants to get better but he seems helpless to fight off the delusions when they descend upon him. I sense the quiet sadness and despair in his words “I don’t know how I became like this”. I felt, within those words, our shared humanity.
John smokes and is known to indulge in drink once in a while. But he tells me he has not had alcohol whenever I ask him. He once showed me his open wallet and told me he had one dollar left. He is obsessed over money. Understandably so.
A man adrift. That’s how I see John. I try to put myself in his shoes. But we live in two completely different worlds. I can’t even begin to understand what life is like for John, how he thinks and how he sees the world. I don’t pretend to. He cuts a sad and lonely figure. A man who has known deep sadness and brokenness but remains unbowed. He swims against the rising tide long after most would have surrendered to the oncoming waters.
I don’t know how long I will continue my journeys with John. I know I am growing ….. learning. Knowing John has done that. He has shown me what courage and resilience looks like in the face of overwhelming personal adversity. There is a ripple of empathy that stirs within me where once there was only my ignorance and indifference. I try to judge less. Sometimes I need to look deeper under the surface to find beauty in brokenness. We are all God’s children, fearfully and wonderfully made. We are loved by Him unconditionally. It’s something called grace. These are my growth lessons. John is my teacher.