What's your problem?

I was shopping at a little organic vegetable store near my house this morning. At the billing counter the young, plump and healthy looking woman customer chatted with the shop assistants. She must have said it at least six times: “…I can’t eat…because I have a heart problem.” It didn’t elicit more than raised eyebrows.

My curiosity piqued, I was planning to ask her, “What sort of trouble?” when she left. I was confused as she had said it pointing to the packet of grapes she was having billed. If she had said she couldn’t eat them because she was diabetic, it would have been reasonable. All I discovered was that people(by this I mean the six shop assistants) had lower levels of curiosity than I did.

“I can’t see without my glasses,” scores over, “I forgot my hearing-aid.” “I have Diabetes, blood pressure and heart problems,” are said louder than “I have a gynecological complaint.” Strokes, Dementia, Alzheimer’s and Parkinson’s are spoken of with much hedging compared to the discourses on arthritis, joint or back pains, and allergies.

I’m no doctor, but I’m sure there are many more diseases, whose names are left unuttered or uttered with contempt (by others). However nothing, nothing evokes a curiosity that a mental illness does. The sufferer sometimes isn’t aware of his/her problem, but people who are will not lose an opportunity to inform you in a voice barely above a whisper. You cannot miss the undercurrent of malice and laughter in their restrained eagerness. 

“Ayyo, Amma…ayyo, amma…” a woman’s voice cried out. I raced through the walking path to investigate. My daughter thought somebody would need CPR.

It was just the old woman who walked with her helper every evening. After they passed by and the helper assured us that there wasn’t any problem, the park gossip, an old grey-haired woman enlightened me.

“Her head isn’t okay,” she said, her old eyes alight with wicked amusement. “She lives opposite my house. She poured boiling water over her husband’s hand. She’s been to the hospital many times. No use. Giving her medicine is a huge task. They have to mix it with her food.” She held a forefinger to her head triumphantly and turned it—the classic mime to show ‘a screw loose.’

My daughter, a medical student who was with me said, “Yes, I’ve seen patients at the hospital whose family members have tried to beat ‘sense’ into the patient. There’s no understanding or sympathy for mental illnesses. How can we expect anything from ignorant public?”

Sad but very true.