Mable

There are many people who have come in and out of my life. But few have been as unique and memorable as Mable. Mable was a large middle aged African-American woman with a mental illness. She was for all intents and purposes a “bag-lady”.

I met Mable on the job. I was newly graduated and working in my field of Social Services. At this time there was a great push to move people out of State Operated Facilities (read - State Psychiatric Hospitals) and into the community (read - nursing home). Mable was on my case load.

Mable had no one. In fact for years after she left that nursing home and moved to another I would get calls from the staff thinking I was her guardian. She had been in the State Hospital for years and had acquired what is known as “institutional behavior”. By this I mean that much of her behavior did not arise out of her mental illness (and she did have one) but rather from living so long in the State Facility. She hoarded. She hoarded anything you would let her hoard…Kleenex, ketchup packets, sugar packets, knick-knacks, odds and ends and anything not nailed down. She carried these items at all times in two large drawstring bags which went nicely with her oversized trench coat and missing teeth.

My job was to assist Mable in the transition from the State Hospital to the nursing home. I would visit with her on a weekly basis and be an intermediary between her and the nursing home staff.

Mable was hard to understand. She didn’t wear any teeth and I found that as long as you didn’t look at her mouth you could pretty much make out what she was saying. She had lots to say, most of it delusional. She would see a picture of the President and say a toothless muffled “Dat’s my bo'friend!” If she saw a picture of George Washington it would elicit the same response as would a picture of Jesus etc. etc. etc.

Visits frequently involved bartering with Mable. The staff would come to me and tell me Mable was carrying all kinds of things in her bags and bugs were becoming a problem. I would sit down with her and she and I would go through her bags (a compliment in and of itself, since she didn’t trust many people). I would pull out all the sugar packets, Kleenex, napkins, mustard, ketchup, and other knick knacks and begin to bargain with her. “Sugar’s got to go”, I’d say. “Uh, No!” she muffle. “We got to get rid of some of this Mable. It attracts bugs. How about you get to keep the ketchup packets and we dump the sugar?” She would pause then give me a “Huh-yuh” to consent. On and on this would go through each and every item until we had negotiated our way through both bags.

After these haggling episodes we would go down to the community room and visit. By this time Mable was quite attached to me and would frequently introduce me with “Dat’s my muther”. Mind you I was in my early twenties and she was pushing 60…and she was black. Most people would ignore these comments. However, one day a very well dressed woman from St. Charles (a nearby affluent suburb) was sitting at a table close by. Mable asked me if I wanted a pop and then as she was going to get me one she went by the woman and announced “Dat’s my muther!” and left.

The woman struggled with herself for several minutes. I could tell that curiosity was getting the best of her. Finally, unable to continue under the strain any longer she belted out “You’re not really her mother are you?”

Honestly! And they call Mable mentally ill?