Success?

How do you know if you are a success? I suppose it's all about how you measure.

Paul and I went to a NAMI luncheon today, kicking off the preparation for NAMIWalks for the Mind of America. The walk is October 4th. If you can, please walk with us or at least donate to the cause. The team is Paul's Pals, in Paul's honor.

As we were driving home, stopped at a light, Paul suddenly asked me if he is a success. I didn't quite know what to say, so I used that famous stall tactic of teachers everywhere: "well, what do you mean by success?" Paul sort stumbled through a definition that rolled into some assessment "I guess having a good job ... I'm not really working now ... and maybe ... I don't know...." It was heartbreaking.

And I had one of those moments--I've had about 3 in my life--where I felt REALLY inspired, almost like I was hearing someone else say these things as they came out of my mouth. I wish I could remember it, but it was basically this: Paul, you've been given burdens and obstacles that would have defeated most people, but here you are day after day, still standing, still putting one foot in front of the other. There is no question that, if you take everything into account, you are a success. There were tears in my eyes as I spoke. Paul pretty much shrugged and said "Yeah, I guess."

Brother Update

I know some of my readers like to follow this storyline. So, by popular demand, the Paul update.

I went out of town for 4 days just before Thanksgiving. When I came back, Paul had a regularly-scheduled check-up with his psychiatrist, who decided that he wasn't doing that well and that she wanted to switch his meds. She decided to hospitalize him for what turned out to be about two weeks, so that she could make the adjustment in a stable environment. After that, he was back at the house and everything was as it always has been.

Until two days ago.

When I came home from the office on Monday, having finished all of my end-of-semester grading responsibilities (yea!), there was a note from Paul saying that he had been drinking and decided to stay at the Rescue Mission (i.e. the homeless shelter that he stayed at before).

That was the last I heard until this morning, when my doorbell rang about 7am. It was Paul and he wanted cigarettes. (Right now, he gets a pack every two days, and he was due.) Well, we chatted a little and I gave him the cigarettes, but apparently he wants (yet again) to live at the homeless shelter.

I don't really know what to do about that, so I decided to blog it, and then forget about it and get back to work. I don't think it's what's best for him, but I don't think I can really stop him.

Sigh.