Author: Sharron Burnett

I recently celebrated the birth of my eldest daughter. She turned fifty four years old in her rlatest journey around the sun. I remember the day of her birth as vividly as if it had been only yesterday. It’s funny how clearly we recall exact details of such important events. 

She was a true child of the seventies. I was twenty one years old on the day of her birth and as naive as they come but I had grown up quickly the year before when my mother was first diagnosed with mental illness. I had to convince Mama to go to the hospital and get treatment from a psychiatrist who had been recommended to me. That event went south very quickly and set the stage for my mother to push back anytime I needed to get her medical help. 

By the time my daughter was born almost exactly a year later after my introduction to the world of mental illness I felt like an old soul. On the day I went to the hospital to give birth I did not know whether I would be a mother of a girl or a boy. The baby was already overdue and when I finally went into labor it would take eighteen hours for her to come. Back then I stood five feet six and a half inches tall and weighed all of eighty eight pounds before I became pregnant so everyone was in awe that such a tiny woman gave birth to a nine pound two and half ounce precious girl who looked as though she was a month old. 

After my girl’s birth I settled into a homey routine with my new little family that included settling down in front of our television in the evenings to watch the sitcoms that flooded the airwaves. That’s when I first saw Bob Newhart perform his sweet fumbling rendition of a psychologist happily married to a woman who seemed to have to guide him safely through each day. I so loved his character and somehow identified with his gentle nature that seemed to be so true of who he actually was. He became one of my favorite comedians and I would watch him in different roles over the years as my own life would be influenced by him in a most incredible way.

About five years after my mother had first shown symptoms of mental illness she had another frightening bout with the depression and mania that would follow her for over forty years. It was a blow to both her and me because we had somehow thought that she was cured after her first episode. Unfortunately her experience with the initial psychiatrist had been so frightening to her that she refused to go see another doctor. I was desperate to find someone who would help her in a more gentle manner. 

By then I had also had my second child, also a daughter. The only doctor I was seeing at the time was my OBGYN. I contacted him for advice on who might be a good fit for my mother, explaining how the first doctor had treated both her and me as though we were lab rats in his experiments. My doctor immediately gave me a name, Dr. Thomas Brandon, and assured me that our family would love his methods and his style. 

I called Dr. Brandon’s office and he was actually willing to talk extensively with me about my mother, what had gone wrong before, and what kind of treatment I was expecting from him. We spoke for almost an hour after which I felt confident that he would be just the person my mother needed to see. I made an appointment for a few days later and convinced my mother to go after relating how informative and compassionate her new doctor had been when I spoke with him.

We both nervously arrived at the appointed time where the receptionist handed us a sheath of paperwork to complete. My mother was not doing well so concentrating on answering all of the questions was difficult for her. Before long the doctor himself came to the waiting room and sat down  quietly with us. To our utter surprise we noticed immediately that he resembled Bob Newhart so much that he might well have been his twin brother. My mother smiled for the first time in days. 

Dr. Brandon watched her quietly for a time and then sweetly suggested that she might complete the paperwork later. He asked her if she would like to go with him to his office and the two of them disappeared for more than an hour. Later the receptionist asked me to join my mother and the doctor. He explained the medications that he had prescribed for Mama and suggested that she stay in my home for a time. He wanted her to have healthy meals and time with family. He outlined a program in which she would slowly begin to help with household chores as she began to feel better and then he set up an appointment to see her in a week. He gave me a phone number where I might reach him if an emergency arose. Oddly enough Dr. Bandon did not just look like Bob Newhart but seemed to be a clone of him in how he spoke and acted. Somehow it was reassuring beyond belief. 

My mother would be Dr. Brandon’s patient for years to come. At first I would accompany her to the appointments but eventually she went willingly on her own. He quickly had her working again at her job and monitored her progress continually, all without making her feel afraid that he was going to treat her in a way that was uncomfortable for her. 

With the passing of Bob Newhart I remembered how much our family loved his many characters who were so human, so loving, so wonderful. I sometimes think that without him my mother would never have accepted her new doctor. Somehow Dr. Brandon was so much like Bob Newhart that Mama sensed that she would be safe with him and she was. 

My mother had many recurring episodes of severe depression and mania over her lifetime. Because of her wonderful doctor she was able to work until she was old enough to retire. I would always have such gratitude and respect for the doctor who had served her so well. At the same time I felt that somehow I also needed to be thankful for Bob Newhart for being the man who brought so much joy into our home that we knew that we could trust him and anyone whose personality resembled his.  

I enjoyed and loved Bob Newhart in every role that he performed. I could tell that he was a genuinely good man. The world was truly a better place with him in it. Little did he know that he also inadvertently kept an equally wonderful woman from being cancelled by her illness. His work on this earth was all so good. May he rest in peace and maybe if he has a chance look up my mother who was one of his biggest fans.  

My mother had a difficult and tragic life and yet she was one the the happiest and most content people I have ever known. In truth I have never quite figured out how she managed to be so upbeat about life, so loving even toward people who avoided her. In spite of all of her numerous trials she somehow managed to be happy. 

It can be trite and unsympathetic to ask those who are suffering to cheer up and find something wonderful to feel good about their in their lives. There are truly times and situations that are so profoundly difficult that to suggest that they look on the brights side would be uncaring and maybe even cruel. I always marveled at the way my mother found happiness in the smallest of things and how she managed to pop back so blissfully from her long bouts with mental illness. I think the key to her joy came from thinking more about other people than herself. 

One might suggest that my mother’s happiness was artificially created by the psychotropic drugs that she took to control her bipolar disorder, but the truth is that she was never fully compliant in taking her medication. Furthermore, when she did agree to take various prescriptions they tended to mute her emotions rather than send her into a state of euphoria. It was my mother’s generosity and unconditional love of the people around her that made her so delightful. She was like an innocent child in her embrace of people and her satisfaction with life as it was. If she had her radio and an Astros baseball game was on the air she was in her own little heaven. 

My mother spent her days spreading joy. She saw greatness in even the most forgettable person. Those who knew her well loved her because of her almost innocent way of making people feel special. Her generosity is legendary to this very day. She gave of herself to the very end of her life in spite of the limitations imposed on her by illness and a very meager income. What she offered to people was respect and compassion, immeasurable memories of someone who really understood and cared. Her devotion to people outside of herself distracted her from the many problems that beset her and kept her optimism blooming again and again. 

That is not to say that my mother was eternally bright and cheery. The chemicals roiling in her head had the power to send her into uncharacteristic depressions that were so deep that they temporarily paralyzed her and left her sitting in the dark inside herself. Such moments would be followed by a mania that was not so much a joyful time as an inability to turn off a torrent of thoughts that kept her awake and incoherent. 

At such times my brothers and I went into action getting her the help that she needed, returning her to a state of mind that was familiar and reassuring. We knew she was well again when the angelic smiles returned to her face and her thoughts focused on doing things for the people that she knew and loved. She understood pain and sorrow like few people. She listened to those who were in the clutches of sorrow without saying a word. She simply loved them and hugged them and helped them to heal enough to carry on. 

For many of us happiness is indeed a choice but others are embroiled in situations that are almost impossible to overlook. Sadness is not something that we humans can turn off as easily as simply deciding to do so. Horrific events take over thoughts and push people into a kind of darkness that they can only escape over time. We would do well to be patient with them, just be available for them without judgement or commentary. My mother understood this. She understood people and never had expectations for how she thought they should behave. She was simply there for them. 

I learned from my mother. She showed me how to look into the hearts of people who are hurting. I suppose she helped me to develop a kind of sixth sense for discerning when someone is in trouble emotionally. It has served me well in working with young people for decades. I learned how to see inside people’s hearts and how to hear what they were not saying out loud. I realized that souls can be broken so violently by tragedies that being happy again does not seem to be an option. The road to smiling again lies in having someone around who allows them to grieve properly for whatever they have lost. It happens when they finally realize that some pain is so intense that it will never totally leave, but admitting it is a step toward smiling once again. 

We should always be aware that happiness is not in fact something we choose or force on others. It comes from within and often takes time to revive. We must be patient with ourselves and with others whenever life deals its blows. Sometimes the profound sorrow has to be acknowledged before the smiles return. Only a healed heart is able to choose to be happy. 

I stumbled upon a video of Patrick Swayze dancing with his wife. It was an incredibly beautiful and moving performance that lead me to a video of Swayze in Dirty Dancing. Suddenly I found myself thinking of my dear friend, Pat Weimer and the fun that we had in the seventies, eighties and nineties. I suppose that I took it for granted that the two of us would grow old together, laughing our way through one adventure after another. She became the big sister that I never had, a role model who introduced me to aspects of the world that I had never known. She was the best buddy than anyone might ever hope to have and when she died I was heartbroken. 

I first met Pat at my church. I was teaching a class of kindergarteners in our religious education program. Pat wanted to work as an assistant and so the nuns who managed the classes asked if I would be willing to invite Pat to help me with the children who were my students. It was already the second semester of the school year and I had been doing fine by myself but I saw no reason not to accept a little extra help, so I agreed to have Pat join our little group. 

I immediately learned how orderly Pat was. Instead of just showing up on the day of the class and quietly following my lead she insisted that I come to her home so that she might become familiar with the lesson that I had planned. As she took copious notes and asked questions I realized that she was going to be way more than just an extra set of hands. She even made suggestions for improving the presentation and requested that we meet each week before the scheduled class time to review what the children would be learning. 

I honestly wondered what I had gotten myself into as I drove home from our first meeting. I had a very hectic schedule of my own and did not have much spare time to set aside a couple of hours each week just so someone might “help” me to have an interesting presentation for my students. Nonetheless, Pat was warm and earnest and so I went along with the arrangement without complaining. Over time we expanded our time together with play dates for our children and informal dinners with our spouses. Soon we were meeting up not just out of habit but because we enjoyed each others’ company. 

Pat was a spark of fun in my mostly serious life. I tended to always be too busy for frivolous ventures but Pat insisted that I tag along with her to movies that I would never have chosen on my own and trips that were very different from the rugged tent camping that I so enjoyed. Soon I was discovering a different side to my own personality and a world that I had not before imagined. She took me from my little neighborhood to places far across town about which I had heard but had never experienced. 

Sometimes Pat and I did girl time, just the two of us. Most of the time we took our daughters with us and they began to view each other as sisters. On Friday nights we often enjoyed Rom Com movies and the greats of the eighties. Pat kept up with all of the trends so we sat in the dark together for Footloose, The Breakfast Club, Pretty in Pink, Ferris Bueller’s Day Off, The Blues Brothers,  and Dirty Dancing. These were films that my husband has not seen to this very day but because of Pat I delighted in them and grew to love her more and more. 

Speaking of husbands, our spouses became the best of friends as well. They were both intellectual men who loved to read mysteries and histories. They could talk about world events for hours on end. Pat would invite us over to her house where we sat around her table with cookies and ice cream and coffee and solved all of the problems of the era. Sometimes the conversations were so lively that we would stay until the wee hours of the morning, unwilling to stop the flow of wisdom that seemed to be never ending.

Pat seemed to be the most energetic and heathy person I knew. She was a nurse who understood how to maintain an optimal lifestyle. It came as a shock when she announced that she had been diagnosed with cancer. I hardly reacted because in my heart I had little doubt that she would survive the treatments and we would resume our antics. I believe that she thought the same thing and for a time it seemed as though she had beaten the odds until the cancer returned with a vengeance. 

I could hardly believe what was happening. I convinced myself that it would be far too cruel for Pat to never have a chance to grow old with me. I just knew that she needed to be the best grandmother ever to her grandsons. I was in a state of denial even as she tried to make me accept the truth. Even when she was gone I walked around in a kind of haze as though I might wake up at any moment to find that I had only experienced a terrible nightmare. Pat would be on the phone telling me to put on my shoes because we were going to have some fun. Surely she was not really gone!

It has been almost twenty years since Pat died and I have not yet come to terms with the loss of her. That may seem a bit neurotic on my part to still be grieving, but her death left a gaping hole in my heart. Watching Patrick Swayze the other day reminded me of how important she had been in making me the person that I am today. I will always cherish the moments I had with her. They remind me to never ever take any relationship for granted. The joy that Pat gave me was gone in an instant but it also blooms regularly in my heart. I am so glad that she came to help me those many years ago. She made me a better person than I otherwise would have been and gave me the sister that I had always wanted.

I have always had a love of history whether it be historical tracts, biographies, autobiographies, movies, television series, essays, or conversations. If I have learned anything from my fascination with the past it is that we humans have a tendency to repeat our mistakes and end up in situations that we might have prevented if only we had paid more attention to signs that things were amiss. I know that the first half of the twentieth century was unimaginably difficult for those who lived through it. It was a time of pandemic in which millions died and a cycle of world wide economic depression in between two world wars. 

My maternal mother and father came to the United States shortly before World War I and my paternal grandparents watched younger folk go across the Atlantic to the war that was supposed to end all wars. Both sets of grandparents must have endured the Spanish Flu which decimated the world but none of them ever spoke of it. My mother was born in the Roaring Twenties and spent her early years enduring the Great Depression which my paternal grandfather often described in great detail. It was a hard time that left many people hungry and homeless. Then came the rise of despots across the world and yet another world war in which my uncles and father were engaged. Little wonder that everyone was ready to settle down in the nineteen fifties when the United States experienced an economic boom. 

I came along shortly after the end of World War II at a time when my parents still told stories about how they felt when Pearl Harbor was attacked and spoke of the loss of friends in faraway places like Saipan. As a young child I joined my fellow Baby Boomers in crowded classrooms and neighborhoods filled with children and great hope for the future. By then we were involved in a cold war that made the USSR an enemy to watch carefully. We trained for the worst possibilities with air raid horns running practice alerts every Friday at noon, reminding us that we were not as safe as it seemed. We ducked and covered under our desks in preparation of an attack which thankfully never came. One of my teachers told us about the Cuban missile crisis and urged us to be safe and prepared until the danger was over.

As a teen I watched upper class men who had graduated heading off to Vietnam and sometimes coming back home in coffins or with injuries that would change their lives. I was witness to the Civil Rights movement mostly from afar because I was still too young to join but I understood what was happening and thew my emotional support to those who were marching and protesting. Somehow it felt as though things would never settle down as much as I wished. There was always some kind of flash point somewhere in the world. 

I married young because it felt as though I might not get the opportunity to really live and enjoy my time if I did not seize the day. My focus was diverted by my mother’s illness and the family that I began to build. Perhaps it was only wishful thinking but it felt as though the world had finally taken a breather from all of the drama and hate that had defined the earlier part of twentieth century. I was too busy having a good life to notice that not everyone in the world was sharing my good fortune. It would be later that I would understand that political intrigue was leading us to the present day. In the meantime I rejoiced at the dissolution of the USSR, somehow believing that people all over the world would finally be free from domination. It was a very uneducated and naive way of thinking. 

I see now that while I was sleeping dark forces continued to gather in the world. Russia was not as democratic and happy as it had seemed because Vladimir Putin was plotting another path for his nation. The Middle East became a hotbed not in a single moment but from decades and perhaps even centuries of divisions, tribalism and religious disagreements, not to mention domination by the western world. China awoke from its state as a sleeping giant. Our nation was attacked by terrorists just as it had once been attacked at Pearl Harbor. I awoke from my daze and began to pay attention once again. 

Still there was a beacon of hope. The United States elected its first Black President and it felt as though much of the racism that had plagued our history was gone. It was a moment of hope that made me believe that perhaps we had learned our lessons and would be able to live in more harmony than ever before. Sadly that was not how it would be. Evidence of pent up racism showed its ugly face as though it had always been hiding and waiting for the moment when it’s time would come again.

Another pandemic came just a little over a hundred years from the last one. We started out working together to keep everyone safe but our resolve soon broke down. As a nation we became more divided that I had ever witnessed. Families and friendships were stressed sometimes to the point of breaking. A sad time of death when we might have comforted each other turned into a feud.

Even as we somehow muddled our way through those terrible times the world has ruptured once again. Russia invaded Ukraine as though it was their birthright. Hamas killed Israelis and took hostages. Israelis struck back with horrific force leaving tens of thousands of Palestinians of all ages dead, Gaza plundered, millions displaced and starving. Gangs overtook the streets of Haiti. China threatened Taiwan. In our own country a former president incited an attempt to overthrow the results of a fair election that he lost. There are days when it feels as though the whole world has lost its mind. 

The only bright spot in the scenario is that we have historically managed to find our way back to goodness and decency if only for a time. Heroes emerge and fight the evils that plague us. In my most optimistic moments I believe that surely we will find our way out of the darkness. Hopefully I am not allowing my forced optimism to overtake my reason. I am older and a bit weary even though I have had a most wonderful life, but find myself longing for a time when the suffering of others will abate. I’d like to think that we humans have evolved enough to know that it us up to each of us to work for peace on this earth with our relationships and our votes for people who will bring us together, not tear us apart. I hate to think that my last memories on this earth will be of evil and hardships consuming innocents anywhere. I have a dream that one day we humans will finally get things right. My thinking may be pie in the sky but I what can it hurt to try?

To be yourself in a world that is constantly trying to make you something else is the greatest accomplishment. —-Ralph Waldo Emerson

It is not always easy to march to your own drum beat. Even at an advanced age I still all too often find myself attempting to be a people pleaser, to stifle my own feelings and opinions in an effort to be polite or to keep from causing trouble. I have to admit that the people that I most admire are those who have learned how to be totally comfortable being themselves. They don’t hurt others or make them feel bad but they bravely present themselves to the world just as they are. Sometimes there is controversy over the lives and beliefs they have chosen so they suffer the slings and arrows of judgement while hanging on to the persons they have decided to be. 

A have a former student who has boldly announced to the world that she is a lesbian. She recently married and flooded Facebook with photos of her beautiful wedding. I am certain that there may be those who do not share her enthusiasm but I know her to be one of the kindest and most loving people I have ever known. There is nothing off putting about her lifestyle. In fact it is beautifully symbolic of the kind of love that we need more of in this world. My admiration for her is unlimited and I wish her well in a world where not everyone is understanding. 

I have another former student who is a gifted photographer who specializes in creating beautiful photos of transgender individuals. I wish that someone would snap a picture of me that so captures the inner beauty as his do of his lovely subjects. His skill with a camera transforms them into something uniquely spiritual. We can see their joy and their inner beauty in each frame. I salute him in bring happiness to people who are all too often shunned by society. He sees their individuality and their loveliness as humans. 

I have a grandson who is so dedicated to the health of our planet that he left a well paying job that required him to work for groups and organizations that are doing damage to our earth. He instead wants to do be part of changing the way we see our roles on this planet. He is willing to live more frugally to steadfastly live the way he believes that we should all be doing to bring about a better world.

I keep in touch with another young man via social media who is determined to make our schools and workplaces and daily lives safer by advocating for gun control legislation. He is a brilliant recent college graduate who might have just launched a promising career and settled into a comfortable life but he has bound himself to the belief that we must do something about the proliferation of guns in our society. He earnestly works to convince those who govern us that having sensible gun control laws will save lives. It’s difficult work and he is often threatened and berated but his courage keeps him pressing forward with his goals.

I know another young man who has a prestigious degree in accounting who might well have found work in a company that would have paid him far more than what he makes providing his services to nonprofit organizations. His dream is not to become a rich man but to provide himself and his family with what they need while also helping in the battles for those who are hungry, homeless and unwell. His faith in God is his guide to everything that he does.

I admire a doctor who toils tirelessly to create vaccines and medicines for the poorest people in the world even as he is threatened with violence for doing so. He is an energetic soul who fights ignorance and continues forward with his research because he knows how many will be saved by his discoveries. Through all of the negativity that is hurled at him he smiles and never gives up. He is most deserving of the highest praise for tirelessly doing what he believes to be work that he was destined to do.

It is difficult being heroic enough to be oneself. I know this because I sometimes waver, bite my tongue, go with the crowd. I worry too much about what people will think of me if they see me stripped bare to the person that I am. I do my best not to give in to denying who I am when peer pressure rises and most of the time I get over the push and pull. Nonetheless there are times when I feel weary and simply hide what I am thinking out of caution. I know that when I am totally and truly myself I sometimes lose people that I thought were my friends. 

We should encourage, not discourage people to be themselves. It should never be up to us to attempt to talk them out of nobly living out their dreams in plain sight. They are the leaders and dreamers who show us the wonderful possibilities of coloring outside of the lines. They are innovators who bravely show us the importance of stepping outside of the boxes that we use to demand certain behaviors from everyone. I glory in their courage.