Checked Out: Cinderburg Part 17
By the time spring of 2018 rolled around, the Cyprus branch inherited a new set of problem patrons. After the Ice Cream Man’s suspension, he disappeared for good, which meant no more repeated issues with ice cream, animated porn, nor constantly having to ask him to leave.
Polly’s library attendance became erratic at this time.
Instead, we were lucky enough to inherit a man I called Mr. Sickie.
Mr. Sickie was an adult patron, much like the Ice Cream Man, who had some form of high functioning IDD. Probably in his early 20s, Mr. Sickie appeared toward the middle of winter and visited the library daily for a few months until sometime in April. He often wore tight fitting t-shirts with sweatpants and socks he pulled up and over the bottom of his pants, giving him the look of a classic baseball player in an unofficial uniform. He was always in good spirits when his caregiver dropped him off, smiling and greeting everyone with infectious good cheer. He spoke with a slight lisp and would often rest his right hand on his chest as he spoke, fingers flat against his breastbone, palm pushed away so that his wrist jutted out. He kept himself preoccupied with computers until his caregiver picked him up at the end of the day.
For almost the entire time we knew him, he either suffered through a month’s long chest infection, or he would recover only to get sick again.
Our first few interactions with Mr. Sickie were friendly enough. He was a chipper, amiable sort who would walk in and greet everyone with an enthusiastic “Hello!” He’d share a few neighborly words with anyone at the reference desk before grabbing a computer ticket and settling in for a few hours of screen time. He played games and chatted with faraway friends on Facebook. He watched videos. He demonstrated quite plainly that he knew how to use the library facilities as one should and we never had to say a negative word to him about his behavior, which was rare when it came to our regular adult patrons.
In fact, had his various (or one) illness not seemed so contagious, he probably would have continued to use the library at Cyprus for years to come.
But one day he arrived with a cough. It wasn’t a light cough that’s stuck in your throat but a heavy, deep cough that had settled in his chest, one that set his lungs rattling with each breath. The skin on his face was clammy and his already pale complexion was drastically white. Just by looking at him, we could tell he was very ill.
But the library is a public place. Sick people are out in that environment all the time, despite their better judgment. It’s why librarians the world over employ heavy amounts of hand sanitizer, disinfectant spray, and wipes. Besides, colds and coughs aren’t worrying enough for us to really step in.
Mr. Sickie’s cough, however, had us wondering if he was actually getting enough oxygen. Will, who had his own unique set of lung and asthma issues, recognized the sounds right away as incredibly concerning. As Mr. Sickie came in, Will greeted him and asked how he was doing. Mr. Sickie, not one to let a “little” cough get him down, smiled gamely and said he was just happy to be at the library. Will asked how he was feeling.
“Oh, I’ve got a little cough. But I’m fine,” Mr. Sickie said, waving away Will’s concern.
Hours later Will found him passed out in the men’s restroom.
I emerged from my lunch break to find an ambulance in our parking lot and EMTs with a gurney surrounding Mr. Sickie at our entrance.
Will updated me about what happened.
“He’s just too sick to be here,” Will summed up, “Why did he even come in today? I could hear his chest rattling each time he took a breath. He needs to be in a hospital.”
Will was more worked up than I’d ever seen him.
Mr. Sickie waved off the EMTs’ help and declined their insistence that he wasn’t well, that he needed to seek treatment.
They left, shaking their heads at his reaction, and we watched him return to the computers.
He passed out a few more times after this, all on different days. Each time Will was the one to find him. He didn’t always call 9–1–1; Will could sometimes rouse him by calling his name while he lay on the bathroom floor. When he couldn’t be roused, EMTs arrived and took him in.
The most concerning day came further in the spring, which I had the pleasure of handling. It was one of only two times I’ve wanted to ask someone to leave due to illness. Our winter had been pretty mild, but a late cold snap hit in April. Whatever cold he battled that week was the worst we’d seen yet.
[Keep in mind this was a full two years before the COVID-19 pandemic.]
He walked in on one of our customarily short-staffed Saturdays. Normally, as the clock ticked down to opening time, a crowd gathered at the library door, pressing against the entrance. Some patrons would elbow to the front so they’d have first dibs on our study rooms. Some patrons wanted certain computers. Some were susceptible to mob mentality and were frenzied because others were frenzied.
That morning, instead of the press of bodies by the door, the only person standing there was Mr. Sickie. Others were there, to be sure, but they all stood back by at least ten feet.
It wasn’t until we opened the doors that we found out why.
“Good morning!” I greeted with my usual cheer.
“Good-” HACK. COUGH. ACHOO! SNIFFLE. COUGH COUGH COUGH.
“Good morning,” Mr. Sickie finished pathetically.
I roused myself from where I stood, only just then realizing that I had reared back and stepped slightly behind the door for cover, my hands curled into my chest, a look of horror and disgust mixed on my face. I forced a smile and stepped aside.
Mr. Sickie walked in, oblivious. The rest of the patrons behind him gave me knowing looks.
He chose a computer and logged into his Facebook account.
This is where it will get disgusting, readers. Brace yourselves.
Much as before, his coughs weren’t small, but huge, hacking coughs that wracked his entire body. And like most people with an IDD, he had no understanding of how to politely cover his mouth or wash his hands to contain his own germs. So when he gave his hacking cough, he raised his head, so as to not cough on the computer screen, naturally, and heaved out a cough so alarming that the people around him flinched violently. I imagined the germs in a cloud that hovered over the workspaces around him before floating down, contaminating everything. Patrons nearby found a different computer within seconds.
If that weren’t enough, he also sneezed constantly. Horrible, disgusting sneezes. Wet sneezes that shot rivulets of snot out of his nostrils which landed on his face.
The poor man would freeze each time this happened as if he was unsure of what he should do. Like he knew he should wipe it away, but perhaps was waiting for someone else to do it because he probably did usually have someone else who would do it for him.
I was not going to be that person.
The first time it happened, I grabbed the box of tissues from my desk, stood as far away from him as I could while approaching, and held the box out for him to take one.
“Are you okay, sir? You don’t seem to be doing well,” I commented.
“Oh, I’m fine,” he said.
“You’re not sick?”
“Oh no,” he said, wiping the snot away, “I’m not sick.”
“Hmm, okay,” I said doubtfully. I returned to my seat and dunked my hands in a bucket of hand sanitizer.
A few minutes later, it happened again.
I approached once more with the box.
“Are you sure you’re not sick?” I asked again.
“No, I’m not sick.”
“Really? You seem to be coughing and sneezing a lot for someone who’s not sick.”
But he vehemently assured me he was not sick.
This happened for the next hour or two until finally I noticed a line of people waiting for computers. The only ones available were the few around him and they all pointedly refused to go anywhere near Mr. Sickie.
Clearly they thought he was massively contagious. I agreed. For his own sake he didn’t need to be out and about. He needed to be home resting instead of making himself more sick and exposing everyone else to his sickness, too.
For the umpteenth time, I approached with tissues.
“Sir, I really don’t think you’re well,” I began as he took another Kleenex for his nose.
He turned to me with his face upturned, “Can you feel my forehead? I think I have a fever.”
“No, I’m not going to do that,” I said, pulling my hands protectively to my stomach, “If you think you have a fever, you are sick. I really don’t think you should be here if you’re sick.”
“Oh, I’m not sick,” he insisted.
I sighed as he sneezed again.
“Sir, it is very clear to me that you are unwell. You can’t stop coughing. You need a tissue every five seconds. You just said to me that you think you have a fever, which means you’re probably contagious and probably spreading whatever illness you have to the other patrons here today. I really must insist that you go home and rest so you can recover and get better and come back again when you’re well.”
He tried to tell me again that he was fine but I wouldn’t hear it.
“I insist, sir. You need to go home now. You do not need to be in the library in this state.”
At this point he turned his eyes to me, filled with despair, which had me feeling all kinds of guilty.
“But, my ride won’t be here until 4:00. How am I supposed to get home?” he asked.
Boy, he could turn the puppy dog eyes on with the flip of a switch.
“Do you have a phone?” I asked, hiding a cringe in case he needed to use the staff phone.
“Uh huh,” he said, retrieving one from his pocket.
I breathed a sigh of relief.
“Call the person who’s supposed to pick you up right now. Let them know you are sick and you need to go home and they need to come get you.”
He tried to argue with me further about staying, but I was firm. I told him he needed to be in bed and resting, not pushing himself at a public place like the library.
He called his ride and they must have said they’d be there soon. He hung up and looked at me expectantly.
“Are they coming?” I asked. He nodded sadly.
“Okay, then let’s go outside and wait for them.”
“But I’m too sick to go outside!” he cried pitifully.
I looked at him sharply, “I thought you said you weren’t sick?”
He snapped his mouth shut and trudged away.
We didn’t see him again for a few days.
When he did return, it was once again on a day when the branch was short staffed, which had become the norm. As a result, I found myself at the adult services desk when he came in.
“Hello!” I greeted him cheerfully, “You’re looking much better today. How are you feeling?”
He did indeed look better. He wasn’t coughing or sneezing. His eyes were brighter and he didn’t look anywhere near as pale as he had the day before.
“Good!” he replied with a smile and a delicate hand pressed against his chest, “I’m feeling good. You know, I went to the hospital after I left the library the other day.”
I narrowed my eyes at him, “You went to the hospital after insisting you weren’t sick for over an hour?”
He looked down and shuffled his feet guiltily, “Yeah, I guess I really was sick.”
“I’m really glad you got to the hospital where you could get better.”
“Oh, the hospital didn’t make me better,” he said, lifting his head, “Jesus healed me. He made me better.”
I tilted my head and gave him a questioning look.
“Jesus heals me when I get sick. I know he’ll take care of me if I just believe. I don’t trust medicine.”
Well, this explained why he was always sick.
“But,” I countered, “Isn’t it possible that Jesus took care of you and helped you get better by sending you to the hospital to get medicine?”
He digested that for a minute, almost panicking at my logic, before pointing a finger at me and laughing like I’d almost tricked him.
Then he proceeded to the computers.
A few minutes later, a woman arrived. She walked straight to Mr. Sickie and they started a lengthy conversation. I didn’t think she was his caregiver, as they seemed to be going through documents in a file. But she couldn’t have been someone he worked with; I doubted he worked at all.
Then it clicked. She must be some sort of social worker.
Luckily, I was there as she left and I caught her.
“Excuse me,” I began, “But that man you were talking with just now. I understand you might not be able to, due to HIPAA or privacy laws, but do you happen to have a contact number for his caregiver? Or could you tell them to contact us? You see…”
And I explained to her all of the health problems that had befallen him during his visits to the branch. She listened and smiled politely. When I finished, she finally said, “No, I can’t give that number to you. But I can talk to him and ask that he give the number to you.”
She returned to Mr. Sickie and spent a few minutes making our request. I returned to the desk and waited, trying not to watch their conversation. When she came back, she shook her head, “He’s not willing to-”
“Why are you prying into my business?!” He thundered, suddenly at the case worker’s side. I’d never seen him angry before, since he was often smiling and chatty.
The case worker turned to him.
“Now, Isaac,” she said, laying a hand on his shoulder to calm him.
I kicked myself. This wasn’t the reaction I wanted. Yet again, my well-meaning actions were misinterpreted.
“I’m sorry,” I said immediately, as genuinely as I could, “I should have asked you directly. It’s just, we’re really worried about you here. You’ve been very sick lately, and a lot of the time it’s been while you’re at the library. You just told me you went to the hospital after you left here the other day. We’ve had to call an ambulance for you twice before that. We are honestly concerned about you and your well-being and if something like that happens again, we want to make sure we know who to call. Can you understand why we’d try to do that?”
Whatever he’d been expecting, I don’t think it was that. He couldn’t deny his health problems now that he was well, however much he liked to deny them when he actually was sick.
My explanation calmed him down enough that he returned to his computer, mollified that we at least had legitimate reasons to try to get his caregiver’s number.
I walked the case worker to the exit and thanked her for trying.
Then I made a fatal mistake.
That’s dramatic. It wasn’t fatal. But it was very grave.
I left the library.
At the time, I was looking at new homes and had plans to meet my realtor during lunch. I was only gone for an hour.
When I returned I sat down in the break room to read through a short email and wolf down a sandwich.
Mia found me immediately.
Without much preamble, she sat in the seat across from me, arms tucked into her sides, hands clasped, and said, “I’m so sorry to bother you on your lunch break, but a lot of things happened while you were gone.”
I swallowed a mouthful of turkey and bread past a growing lump in my throat and gave her my full attention.
While I was gone, Mr. Sickie grew increasingly agitated while using his computer, likely instigated by the conversation between the two of us and his case worker. While playing his game, his agitation rose. Then, with no warning, his computer shut down.
This could have happened for any number of reasons: he adjusted the screen and disconnected the power cord, he adjusted the screen and pressed the power button, Windows forced through an unexpected update, or maybe his time ran out. Whatever the reason, it appeared to shut down.
He could no longer cope.
Cue the major meltdown. He shouted at the screen. When this, understandably, did nothing, he rushed to get help from Mia. Mia, however, was in the middle of helping someone else. He interrupted her with his questions, getting louder by the minute.
Mia, ever the angel, calmly replied that she wasn’t sure why his computer had shut down, but that he shouldn’t worry as there were plenty of other computers available for him to use. Once she finished with the patron she was in the middle of helping, she’d investigate.
It was no use. He was beyond reason at this point. His yells got even louder and more direct, especially toward Mia. She was so alarmed that she called security.
Library staff never want to involve security. When I was there, we only did it as a last resort, such as if we felt staff or patrons were in danger. Involving security typically made matters worse before they improved. But since Mr. Sickie was in full-blown meltdown mode, a violent outcome was very possible.
Members of the security team came in, surrounding him. This induced panic more than anything and he screamed more passionately, fearfully this time. They restrained him and with his continued screaming echoing throughout the library, they escorted him to the lobby. Once there, they must have loosened their hold on him, for he wriggled free and sprinted back into the library, his renewed screams getting even worse.
“You can’t make me leave!” he yelled, running desperate circles around the computers. By now sobs accompanied his screams, “You can’t make me leave the library!”
Security gave chase again, eventually succeeded in restraining him once more, and escorted him out a second time. Once in the lobby, with him firmly held in place, they told him he would have to leave for the day or they would have to restrain him again.
Meanwhile, Mia pored over the patron code of conduct, struggling with the question of suspension. He’d broken plenty of rules, but we also often made allowances for people who might have difficulty understanding these rules. Should there be a suspension? If so, should it be shorter, allowing for his cognitive difficulties?
As she debated, her desk phone rang.
“Thank you for calling-”
“I’M REALLY SORRY!” yelled a voice.
It was Mr. Sickie.
“I’m really, really sorry. I know I shouldn’t have yelled and ran in the library. But why was I kicked out today?”
Mia looked at the phone sadly, noting the tragedy of his astute observation with his complete lack of understanding.
He still sobbed audibly on the other end of the line. She explained that his yelling and running were the very reasons why he was escorted out.
“But why was I kicked out?!” he asked again.
Mia explained again, but he still didn’t understand. And that’s when Mia realized he wouldn’t ever understand. Mia urged him to take a few deep breaths and calm down.
“We need you to take a few days away from the library,” she explained as he hiccuped his way to calm, “A little break. And the library will call you to talk about it, OK?”
This he understood and they hung up.
Mia consulted with Sylvia when she eventually arrived at work (which was somehow the way the library universe in Cinderburg worked. The managers were never there for most of the exciting moments). They considered previous exceptions they’d made and the severity of his behavior. And after much discussion, it was decided he would be suspended for a year.
I doubt he suffered any real effects of the suspension, however. He somehow communicated to us that he was moving to a city thirty miles away and he’d be using the library there from now on. Mr. Sickie never returned.
As these patron issues continued to ramp up, relations between staff members grew tense, and I most definitely was not exempt from this. Next time, we’ll explore a major falling out.
Until then, I remain…
-C Quill
