Sarah Levin: Seeking normalcy
Sarah Levin and I shook hands at the airport, meeting for the first time. We stood outside the terminal, taking stock of each other as we made small talk. Then the two of us headed out, picking up coffees and driving into Cleveland. I watched intently, focusing on Sarah behind the wheel as she tooled along the highway into the city.

We were going across town to her office in Shaker Heights, passing close to some of Cleveland’s tougher areas. We left the highway so that Sarah could show me around. There was a reason for the quick tour. This young woman wanted me to see who she is and where she spends much of her days.

Sarah is a social worker who works with kids from the city’s poorest neighborhoods. Our trip now was taking us through some dicey districts. “As long as we are here,” she said, “I need to pick something up. It will save me a trip later.”

Video   They’re thriving despite illness Jan. 8: TODAY anchor Meredith Vieira tells the story of two young people who are living life to the fullest in spite of disabilities that limit them. Today Show Books

We pulled into a driveway in front of a house that had seen better days. Sarah needed to get a document from a client. I waited in the front seat, watching this small woman approach the silent house. The old wooden structure seemed foreboding, the neighborhood rough.

When no one answered the door, Sarah walked back past the car, holding up one finger, signaling, “Be back in one minute.” She seemed unbothered by where she stood, though this did not feel like a welcoming place. She disappeared around back and vanished. She has guts, I thought. She reappeared, papers in hand.

Sarah counsels troubled kids and their families at an experimental school that draws children from around the city. I had spent enough time in Cleveland during my years in the news business to remember journalists mocking the place as The Mistake on the Lake. A brief urban resurgence had given way to the feel of a Rust Belt town that could not keep up with a new era.

Sarah seemed to be smaller than life, a pretty version of Stuart Little’s kid sister, diminutive and always on the go. The two of us walked and talked, jumping or, in my case, stumbling back into the car to drive through more projects in areas Stuart would never choose to visit. Sarah seemed so small up against this urban wasteland with its big problems.

She described going into broken homes and dealing with hostile people, many of whom live with crack vials and cracked dreams. Troubled kids from that world can end up at Sarah’s school and in her life. “My friends ask, ‘Doesn’t it scare you to go into these projects and take chances to do your work?’” Sarah carries pepper spray when she remembers to, in case she is attacked. “Nobody bothers me,” she said. “I have been nervous at times but never really fearful for my life.”

There is another threat that she does take seriously. Sarah suffers from Crohn’s disease. She has a particularly bad case of that debilitating condition of the digestive tract. Crohn’s wreaks havoc continuously on Sarah’s already damaged body, creating daily doubts about her future.

This inflammatory bowel disease compromises Sarah’s life each day. She seems exhausted beyond her 28 years, as her soft, sometimes shaky voice betrays. “It is good,” she said softly, “when there is more time to sleep. I sleep a lot these days. I think a lot of the fatigue comes from the fact that I am always anemic.”

Chronic exhaustion is a byproduct of continual bleeding. Sarah had to have her large intestine removed, and the remaining upper digestive tract is so ravaged, it regularly hemorrhages into her belly. Bleeding is slow but steady, the blood working its way south to become rectal bleeding. “Internal, external, let’s just say bleeding,” Sarah said wearily.

She can speak openly without opening up in detail. Although she is a rock in her professional identity, she is uncertain socially and as a woman. This is not surprising; young women do not share the intimate specifics of intestinal misery with guys so easily. So Sarah lives as different people, one a shrinking presence, the other an expansive personality. A real-life incarnation of the Pushmepullyou, Dr. Dolittle’s mythical animal tugging in opposite directions from itself, her vulnerability vies with her resolve. “I am more the tough person who has days of being vulnerable,” she said. “Yeah, I do stand up in my life,” she exclaimed as if surprised by her own words.

About Sarah Levin
Sarah Levin is a social worker who works with middle-class kids and those from Cleveland’s poorest neighborhoods. Only four when she had her first colonoscopy, Sarah has no memories of a carefree childhood. But it wasn’t until she was fifteen, after undergoing surgery to remove her colon, that doctors realized that she had Crohn’s disease, which affects the upper GI tract. She is on a regimen of prednisone, a steroid that causes her face to swell, stunted her growth and gives her horrible acne. Sarah lives close to her parents, who she relies upon, especially her mother, who has played an important role in her care.  Sarah married her husband Ben in October 2007. 

Larry Fricks: Surviving stigma

Video   Living with mental illness Jan. 9: TODAY anchor Meredith Vieira reports on the story of one man who is trying to rid the stigma from this chronic disease and honor those who died from it in obscurity. Today Show Books

Larry Fricks and I drove into a remote southern town to arrive at what was once Georgia’s most notorious mental institution, Central State Hospital. The institution dated back to the early 1800s, and once carried the quaint name Georgia Lunatic Asylum. That day, the mammoth buildings of the old institution stood silent, as if they belonged in mothballs.

At one position near a long incline, a 360-degree pan revealed endless fields of graves extending in every direction. Nothing about any of the simple graves said anything of their occupants. Religious symbols were conspicuously absent. “The graves were not worthy of being protected and kept up,” Larry Fricks explained. “Many markers were pulled so they could mow the grass. Even in death, these folks were just forgotten.”

The man tried to hold back tears. “Growing up,” he began again calmly, regaining composure, “I was taught that out of respect, not to even step on graves. It is acknowledgement that a human has lived on this earth and that we are all connected.”

Over the years, the hospital became known simply as Milledgeville, after the town where it is located. “Behave yourselves, children,” the admonition went, “or you are going to Milledgeville.” Generations of Georgians still talk about hearing that threat and calling a halt to their bickering.

The place was quiet and deserted on this silent September Sunday but still it was imposing, even threatening. The drab stone structures had been home, or rather prison, to almost fifteen thousand troubled souls at any given time. The hospital had been a warehouse for the mentally ill.

Milledgeville became a freak show in Georgia culture. Tourists flocked to the grounds to take in the sights. The facility housed the largest kitchen in the world, an awesome attraction on the school trip circuit. Larry’s voice choked as he spoke of the hospital’s horrible history.

Electroshock therapy, routinely administered with portable units transported around the floors, was a prime means of maintaining order. One amused superintendent is said to have routinely lavished praise on the “Georgia Power cocktail.” Psychiatrists were heard to demand of patients, “Did Georgia Power make a Christian of you today?”

Larry brought me there because the history and meaning of the spot have haunted him for decades. “This place is the story of stigma,” he explained. “People were brought here and told that they have no role on Earth anymore.” He paused. “This could have been my home if I were not white and middle-class and reasonably connected.” He paused again. “I am mentally ill.”

About Larry Fricks
Larry Fricks lives in Cleveland, Georgia, and was diagnosed in 1984 with bipolar disorder. In denial of his illness, Larry spent much of the mid-’80s in and out of mental hospitals, using alcohol to control his manic periods. Now, married to Grace, a small business leader and a former advocate for people with developmental disabilities, Larry works as a mental health professional.  In 1996, Larry spoke at a White House conference where the first surgeon general’s report on mental health was released. Although he fights every day against the stigma of mental illness, Larry has said he would change nothing “To take my illness, would be to remove the meaning and purpose I now have. Mine is a purposeful life.” 

Reprinted from “Strong at the Broken Places: Voices of Illness, a Chorus of Hope” by Richard M. Cohen with permission from Harper. All rights reserved.

MORE FROM

‘Size Matters’ for more than just the bedroom

‘Size Matters’ for more than just the bedroom New book examines ‘Why Men Die First’ Pet feeling phobic? Put on some Chopin Turn to the ‘Vet’ to protect your pet Help your kids stop dreading the bed How to raise amazing children What would happen to your kids if you ... Excerpt: ‘Medical Myths That Can Kill You’ ‘Redefining 50’ challenges notion of middle age Trying to conceive? Why not try Tao?   Add headlines to your news reader: