Shalom to a Friend
Shalom is a word that has many meanings. It is a Hebrew word thatmeans peace, welfare, completeness, hello and goodbye.
In his 1995 eulogy at Yitzak Rabin's funeral, Bill Clinton captured the
world when he uttered the simple Hebrew phrase, "Shalom Chaver" --
Farewell, my friend. This week I had the unfortunate duty of saying
goodbye to my friend.
In Beth Nielsen Chapman's song "Sand and Water," which is about the
premature death of her husband, she sings "All alone, I came into this
world. All alone, I will someday die." And so it was with my friend,
who died under a bridge, homeless and alone.
There is, however, a notion embedded in that song about the impact a
person can have in between those two points of being alone -- the
impact they can have on our lives. As Nielsen Chapman sings, "I will
see you in the light of a thousand suns. I will hear you in the sound
of the waves. I will know you when I come, as we all will come.
Through the doors beyond the grave." My friend would have appreciated
the metaphor -- he loved the beach and he died on the water near one.
He would appreciate that his life continues on through his kind words,
good ideas and other things that he has done.
People have said that I should feel no guilt at this passing. I
understand that I should not be ashamed. I understand that I did, in
each moment, what I thought was best. But I also believe what Judith
Viorst wrote in her book Necessary Losses, that losses "... are a part
of life-universal, unavailable, inexorable. And these losses are
necessary because we grow by losing and leaving and letting go." And
part of what I can learn to honor my friend's death are new tools to
help others in the future. And I will do this, in his honor. I can
also help others learn by sharing his story.
I wrote a note to a group of friends who had something in common with
my friend. We all suffer from either bipolar or depression. It was
meant to be a personal way to let them know of his passing and his
impact. I made the decision to share it here after getting a note from
one of those within that group who said that she hoped his story
reached a larger audience and also said, in part, that:
"In your piece, you've helped me appreciate what a fighter he was.
You've also done a masterful job of unmasking his unrelenting foe,
manic depression. Where's the parade for a solider who dies in a war
like that?"
This is that parade:
Clark, our friend and one of the earliest
members of the
Centreville DBSA meeting, was found dead
under a bridge in Virginia
Beach. His family learned the news of his
death yesterday. He
was 46.
The cause of death was pulmonary embolisms
caused by deep vein
thrombosis that was caused by, according to
police, "dehydration,
malnutrition and the homeless
lifestyle."
I knew Clark as an intelligent, good and
loyal friend with a rich
sense
of humor, who had a great amount of compassion. He loved life
and the people around him. We say this
after almost everyone dies, but
he was, truly, a good person. Clark was an
enthusiastic member of the
group, as interested in helping others
facing bipolar and depression
as he was in getting help himself. He
helped us start our third group
in Ashburn.
Clark was open about his lifelong struggle
with bipolar disorder. Before
suffering from his first full-blown manic
episode, Clark, who grew up
in Montgomery County, received a Bachelor
of Arts degree in government
and politics from the University of
Maryland, worked as a computer
specialist at the U.S. Department of Health
and Human Services, a
regional manager for Hallmark Corporation,
a data control specialist
for Miami-Dade County and founded an online
auction company.
Clark's first major manic episode was
devastating and sent his life
spiraling out of control for several years.
Clark was not be able to
rebuild his life until he was jailed and
then hospitalized as a result
of that manic episode. Clark did a
miraculous job during his early
recovery, settling in Northern Virginia and
getting back on his feet
by working for Excel Courier in Sterling.
After joining the
Centreville group in early 2006, Clark
obtained a position, through
help from another group member, as a
customer service administrator at
Procraft in Chantilly. Clark left that
position in 2007 to return to
Virginia Beach after his mother's passing.
At the time, Clark felt his recovery was
going strong, as he had found
a good psychiatrist who continued to
provide him transitional care. He
joined a church there, attended
DBSA-Virginia Beach meetings and
helped with his mother's affairs. Along the
way, Clark worked in
several jobs and had gone several years
without a manic episode.
In early 2010, Clark sought out a new
psychiatrist, whom he said told
him that he had ADHD and not bipolar. He
later told me that he wanted
to believe the doctor, even though he knew
this was not the case.
Clark's family and friends tried to
intervene, with his brother going
as far as reaching out to the doctor to explain
the symptoms that
Clark had experienced over his life. But
the doctor put Clark on
Adderall and took him off Lamictal, which
sparked a manic episode that
sent his life spiraling downward.
Late last year, Clark told me he would do
anything to get medication.
But the Community Service Board in Virginia
Beach told him he would
have to wait. He no longer had insurance
and was coming to grips with
the devastation wrought by the episode. He
was homeless, estranged
from many family members and friends,
sleeping in cars until he did
not have one, and on streets after then. He
was depressed and anxious,
barely able, he said, to get two hours of
sleep each night.
In December of last year, Clark
disappeared. As the months passed,
many of us who were his family members and
friends reached out in
desperate attempts to find him. Many of us
feared the worst as we
hoped for the best. In May, Clark finally
reached out to a family
member, who was unable to connect with him
because they were not able
to return his call from a pay phone.
It is unclear what Clark's final days and
weeks were like, but I can
imagine from what the final year of his
life was like -- homeless,
sleeping on streets, begging for food and
friends, searching for a way
to get on his feet and praying to the God
he believed would help him
find answers. One recent day, a group of
recreational boaters saw Clark
sitting under a bridge. When they returned a
few minutes later,
they saw him lying on his side. They called
the police, but Clark had
already passed by the time the police
arrived.
I know what Clark would want me to say to
you right now. To those of
you who were his friends, he would say, as
he had said so many times,
that he loved you and he'd thank you for
all that you have done for him. To
those who didn't know him, he would tell
you, as he said in December,
that his life was a cautionary tale, a
story of the struggle that
those of us with bipolar face with a
disease that convinces us that we are
not ill.
I miss him so much already. But, with these
words, I hope to honor his
life.
Shalom, my friend, in every meaning of the word.
