My Cousin, Mark --- The Post-Gazette (2011)

I grew up in Pittsburgh. My parents talked about my cousins who lived in New York, but I didn’t know them well.  As a child, I saw them only a few times.  I was told the oldest, Mark, who was 10 years older than me, “had something wrong with him,” but I didn’t understand much more than that. He had been institutionalized in his teen years and continuing throughout most of his adult life.

Once when I was around 16 years old, Mark escaped from a state hospital and took a bus to Pittsburgh. We got a phone call saying he was on his way, and my father was asked to meet him and drive him back to New York. My dad was afraid to meet him alone in the middle of the night, so he dragged my brother along with him.

When Mark got off the bus, my dad and brother were greeted, not by a monster they expected, but by a friendly young man with a huge smile. On the drive back, Mark told the corniest of jokes and the three of them laughed the entire trip.

I was afraid of Mark because I was told he had something called schizophrenia, whatever that was. But each time I saw him, he greeted me with that same glowing smile, along with all the corny jokes. Mark loved to see our family and he always smiled. But his smile showed his rotted teeth. He walked with a limp and his hands shook. I was told all of those were side effects of his medications.

Eventually Mark moved to California with his father, but he couldn’t live independently. He ended up in some type of group home and his father visited him often.

Years went by and eventually Mark’s father died. Then Mark was truly alone. I had the opportunity to visit a few times, but mostly I, along with the rest of his extended family, ignored him. Then one day I received a letter telling me Mark had died a few weeks earlier. I called Aunt Bobbi to ask what happened. It turned out he was simply eating a peanut butter sandwich with the other residents. Suddenly he stood up and then collapsed to the floor. He had choked to death. The coroner explained his strong medications caused his reflexes to slow and he couldn’t get that peanut butter out of his throat. He had just turned 51.

Only a few people showed up at Mark’s funeral. His sister spoke some kind words and then invited others to do the same, but no one else volunteered to speak. Aunt Bobbi, Mark’s aunt as well as mine, finally stood up to break the awkward silence. She was saddened by all of it. I was sad, too.

And so I began to think about his life. Mostly I wondered how it could have been better. So many of us were afraid, but what if we would have supported him, spent more time with him, took him places? I don’t think we could have helped him live independently, but we could have been kinder and more empathetic. We could have read more about schizophrenia. Was anyone making sure he was being treated right at all those hospitals, institutions and group homes? What medications was he on and was he being overmedicated? It seems his death was preventable.

Mark had occasionally become delusional and violent, but I was never told why. What were the circumstances surrounding his violent episodes?

Sadly, Mark is gone now and there are many things I will never know about his life. But I became curious about schizophrenia and other mental illnesses. Who were these people so many people feared? Maybe there were many people with mental illness. Maybe I could learn from them. Maybe I could make a small difference by being kind to them, by treating them like they are people instead of monsters, by helping them achieve as much independence as possible.

That’s why I found Mercy Behavioral Health. That’s why I am here. Not just to have a job. To me it’s personal, in memory of my cousin, Mark Julius Geertz.                                                                                                                       

Amy Geertz Kriss, Casual Pool                                                                                       22amylouise@gmail.com   (412-721-1078)