It is 9:35 Friday morning, and I’m sitting in my pickup truck, parked in a rural high school parking lot. In 25 minutes, the future of my 17-year-old patient could be shattered.
Zack is in trouble. His mother, Sheila, called me last night sobbing and begging me to be here. Zack and another student had gotten into a fist fight, and while attempting to break it up, his math teacher had been knocked to the ground. Sheila has already talked to the principal, who informed her that Zack will be expelled for the rest of the year. School policy states that each expulsion day is graded as an automatic zero. Even if Zack were to complete all his assignments while expelled, he would still get zeros. Since Zack turns 18 in three days, I know his response will be to quit school. A high school diploma, once seen as a bridge to college, will be torched and burned.
I flip through his records. Sheila was 15 when she became pregnant with Zack. His fathers’ whereabouts is unknown. Her mother, Nancy, a nurse, is the glue holding this family together.
Age 4: Nancy brings Zack to me for help in controlling his temper tantrums. He has severe developmental delays, all coming from a brain-bleed at birth. Zack has had three neurosurgeries.
Age 10: Sheila has just divorced a man who turned into an abusive alcoholic. Zack’s school label is now “The Bad Kid.”
Age 15: Nancy has been diagnosed with breast cancer and will die before Zack turns 16. Zack’s anger, now set loose, causes more school trouble.
As I closed his records, a drawing spilled out: A forest scene with redbud trees. I am moved by the quality and beauty of his drawing, which takes me back to my childhood ... Liquid golden fingers of sunlight touch and warm my face. Redbud trees add splashes of magenta to the forest. My mother and I are walking in the woods, mushroom hunting. I see her stop and bend down. She waves me over saying, “Look here.” I scour the ground but see nothing. She takes her long stick and draws an invisible circle upon the forest floor. Once again, I scanned the ground. Nothing. She then draws a much smaller circle, “Try again.” My hyper observant eyes become rakes which sift and sort every inch of the circle. My mind catalogues what I see: here is a dusky, chocolate brown leaf, a woody acorn nut, a silky latticed spider web, an umbrella shaped cap? A morel mushroom, two inches high, lies hidden under the leaves. Electric charges set my brain thrumming ... My first mushroom!
“Dig it up,” she says. As I proudly hold it, she tells me to carry the mushroom and look at it as I hunt. “This will train your mind to hold a permanent picture — like a photo — of a morel. So, from now on, when you hunt, use your mind first and your eyes second.”
I set forth, deeper into the heart of the forest. Pausing to fulfill her instructions, I raised the mushroom up to my face, inhaled its black-earthen aroma, and repeat, mind first, eyes second. Mind first, eyes second ...
The school conference begins. “Zack’s defiance forces me to expel him,” his principal announced. I held up Zack’s drawing. “How many of you knew he was a gifted artist?” Blank faces stare at me. I next summarized Zack’s history, ending with, “I am asking you to look beyond his bad behavior, use your mind first and your eyes second, and focus on his abilities and potential.”
Scowling, his math teacher barks, “Just because Zack has had a hard life, you can’t make excuses for him.”
I reply, “You are confusing ‘making excuses’ for him with me trying to give you an explanation for his anger. You are judging him solely on his bad behavior and reputation. I also want Zack expelled, but I don’t want his future destroyed. I am asking you to allow Zack to complete all of his assignments, for grades, so he can graduate.”
As I leave the meeting, Sheila comes up to thank me; the principal has agreed to my plan for Zack to graduate.
My mother taught me that seeing was not the same as believing. Believing — in the existence of a mushroom, or, in the goodness locked inside Zack’s heart — transcends our senses. In this way, she laid the foundation for how I would come to relate to others: Look for the best in others, and when you find it, hold on tight. For you may be the only one who has the strength to not let go. The content of this article is for educational purposes only and should not be used as a substitute for treatment by a professional. The characters in this story are not real. Names and details have been changed to protect confidentiality.
Dr. Richard Elghammer contributes his column each week to the Journal Review.
