[Mb-civic] Youthful convictions - Elissa Ely - Boston Globe Op-Ed

[William Swiggard]

  Youthful convictions

By Elissa Ely  |  February 26, 2006  |  The Boston Globe

MY STEPFATHER was an occasional oracle. It was one of his few 
self-indulgences. He liked to reveal to us the ways we were going to 
change with age and wisdom. The prophecies he made were infuriating and 
unbelievable; he had no expertise in us.

I particularly remember the political prophecy he made -- that we would 
grow more conservative with time. On the military front, we would move 
from dove to hawk; it was preservation of self. On the domestic front, 
once we started working hard for our money -- so hard that we were tired 
by the end of the day -- we would think more carefully about supporting 
those who did not work for theirs.

He spoke from experience that was hard to question. In my sleep I could 
hear the tread of his shoes on the carpet by 6:15 a.m. The car was 
warming in the garage by 6:20. It slid down the driveway by 6:45. It 
slid back into the garage between 6:30 and 6:45 p.m., minutes after the 
iceberg lettuce, refrigerator crystals still on the leaves, had been 
placed on salad plates for dinner at 7:00.

He worked these hours into his late 70s, and on Sundays sat at the 
dining room table surrounded by tool manuals, listening to opera in his 
socks, cross-indexing some client's catalog by hand before it went to 
press. He would have preferred lying on the sofa, conducting opera with 
his toes and napping, but work superseded Sunday pleasures. Sometimes, I 
caught him napping upright. On the topic of money honestly earned, his 
authority was unquestionable, even by the harshest family critics.

I grew up. I began to work. I made money. It was satisfying. I never 
lost the conviction that those who were impoverished, whatever the 
reason, must be supported.

My line of work sometimes involves filling out disability and Social 
Security Administration applications. The first time I received one, in 
residency, I was so anxious to make the case for my patient that I 
frontloaded the form with footnotes and flying arrows, little weapons 
landing on more proof by example. I photocopied pages from the chart and 
added my own pages because the space Massachusetts had provided me with 
was physically insufficient to convey the details. I used many 
adjectives; it was a beautiful piece of writing. The Social Security 
examiner called to say he had never received such a thorough response. 
It seemed like an excellent use of wordsmanship. The pen was stronger 
than any government resistance.

Many applications have been filled out since then. Sometimes one or 
another is rejected; then it becomes a personal project to rebut the 
doubts, strengthen the case for need, and reapply. When it comes 
through, the occasion can feel oddly jubilant, as if it were cause for 
celebration. The patient is safe now, provided for. Another oversized, 
green envelope with someone else's name is waiting in the mailbox.

A few months ago, an examiner left a message. He wanted more information 
on a case. He assured me the application would go through -- the need 
was clear, he was going to approve it -- but he just wanted further 
details. I started to give them. After so many years, descriptions are 
generally more professional and less impassioned.

The case is not unusual for these times; a man with serious substance 
abuse, trying for sobriety (again), coping with anxiety and depression, 
intermittently homeless. He is physically strong but has not worked for 
years. He realizes what drugs and anxiety have done to him; his 
motivation and dread are equally high. Funding would be a source of 
stabilization while he recovered.

I looked at the form. I could see the questions in my sleep, the sleep 
my stepfather walked through. Here was a man capable of some kind of 
work when sober, yet I was making a case for his disability. He had no 
psychosis. He was a lovely man in the throes of an injured life.

Preexisting anxiety and depression had probably led to the substance 
abuse, which then worsened the psychiatric symptoms in the usual cycle.

A source of steady -- though by no means luxurious -- income would 
provide security. A repayee would arrange its responsible use. It would 
relieve us all. But wouldn't a job do that, too?

Why WASN'T he working? I could make the case to the state as usual -- 
but suddenly, less to myself. Was this the end of liberalism as I had 
planned to live it and had argued about it, in the days of the oracle? 
Money honestly earned buys self-respect. I was being paid to formalize 
his dependence. I was working so he could remain unemployed. It 
dignified him to reconsider.

We hate to prove our parents right.

Elissa Ely is a psychiatrist.  

http://www.boston.com/news/globe/editorial_opinion/oped/articles/2006/02/26/youthful_convictions/
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