(19) You Call it Bipolar-I Call it MSD: Ready for Action: Ready for Danger

You Call it Bipolar-I Call it MSD

Ready for Action: Ready for Danger

So I let not one, but two days go by without posting an MSD piece.  That was just to prove that I do NOT also have an OCD (obsessive/compulsive disorder).  That was a weak-sauce effort to inject a little humor into the subject.  Now that the crisis has been averted, as of say seven or eight weeks ago, and my therapeutic journey has been charted and plotted, I am ready for action, ready for danger.  I’m ready to work with Dr. Mark Cerri, a psychologist situated in Ukiah, and so traveled down with Annie, yesterday, to begin the process.

We arrived at his office a few minutes early, parking in the available graveled parking lot, adjacent to his office.  Like Dr. Garratt’s “office,” this one had a name on the window of the front entrance, that did not match the person I was there to consult.  As we looked around, it was easy to see that there were no other vehicles present, so where was Dr. C’s car?  At precisely 1:58, a vehicle pulled into the lot, and a man got out, looked over at us, and gave a single wave of his arm, and indicated that he would go around the side, and come back to open the front door.

He told us upon ushering us into his office, that he worked primarily on Wednesdays and Thursdays, and that he hoped we were OK with the arrangements.  I told him we appreciated his being able to fit me in so quickly, and that it was all good.  Right away I  asked Dr. Cerri  what I should call him, and he said that Mark was fine.  His manner was relaxed, his voice confident and modulated, and he put me at my ease immediately.  His opening words were simply ones which indicated that we should get acquainted.

I made the briefest of statements, having already given him some background information in an email, telling him that we had been seeing Dr. Garratt, on the coast, but that it was not a fit because he was not interested in pursuing cognitive behavioral therapy, and we were.  I then suggested that Annie take the narrative from there, because I had a tendency to get too detailed, and she could better maintain focus on the big picture.  It was a solid plan.

I thought back to the tumultuous circumstances surrounding my first visit to Dr. Garratt, after my having been “rebuffed” by Norm, the psychologist at Long Valley, who had given me fifteen minutes of his time, only to say he had no patient openings.  I had not been able to articulate to Dr. Garratt in the same manner, the facts of my case, the way I had done so smoothly in Norm’s office.  With Dr. G, I had become amped, as a response to the anxiety I felt at being there in the first place.

The net result was that the man prescribed Seroquel, an atypical, antipsychotic drug!  This was in response to what he felt had been portrayed as a guy who did not get enough sleep.  All that is history now, and it is enough to say that my opening session with Mark Cerri, went ten times smoother.  I had brought my mood chart along, to indicate that I was monitoring myself each day, to determine the level of prominence, of any of my possible symptoms, but we never got that far.

What we established was that we were going to obtain a book from Amazon, which Annie had researched and knew to be the outline of the cognitive behavioral therapy program we wanted to follow.  Annie is going to order two copies, one for me and one for Dr. Mark.  We established that Dr. Mark is going to begin gathering some history next session, and that he will subsequently begin a series of diagnostic tests, so that we can obtain a clinical diagnosis.  That was the one thing we were never able to extract from Dr. G.

So now the process has begun, in a calm and sane manner.  It was kind of nice, so maybe that bodes well for the future.  It sure feels right.  

Perfection in Paradise

Perfection in Paradise

As a lifetime fan of baseball, I am thrilled that Matt Cain has risen above the best of the best, and thrown the first perfect game in Giants history.  This is not just SF history, but all 129 years of Giants history.  Matt did something that Mathewson, Marichal and Perry had never done, and only 21 pitchers before him in the major leagues had accomplished.

Having listened to Sandy Koufax’s perfecto in 1965, I am ecstatic to have been able to share in a second perfect game.  I will not compare it to Christmas, because Christmas comes every year.  It’s more like your long-lost uncle showing up, and taking you, your dad and your best friend to Disneyland for three days, with unlimited money for food and entertainment.

I listened to Ed Halicki’s 1975 no-hitter.  I listened to John Montafustco’s gem a year later.  Both were notable accomplishments, but not like Matt Cain’s performance.  Approximately 19,350 times a Giants pitcher has ascended the mound and attempted to retire the opposition without a blemish.  That means that Matt had to have pitched the best game of his life, and that each of the other players on the field, must have also played his best game of his life, in order for this to occur.  

I find it easy to zero in on Melky Cabrera’s grab in the sixth, or the tantalizing snag Gregor Blanco made in the seventh, the one that sfgiants.com featured on a one minute forty-nine second film reel.  You can see a catch many times in that space of time, and enjoy it every time.  But there were 25 other outs recorded in the game, and each had to be done flawlessly in front of a sold-out yard.

I remember Jonathon Sanchez’ no-hitter from 2010, and how galvanizing an event that was on our march to the World Series title.  There is no way to calculate the impact such an inspiring performance will have.  Couple it with the Dodgers’ SECOND ninth inning loss in three nights, and we are only three and a half games back.  This is why I follow baseball.

Now the Giants are about to enter a crucial part of the season, with nine consecutive games against the formidable American League West, on the road, and six more on top of that, three against the Dodgers, and three against Cincinnati.  We are going to need every particle of momentum we can get to come out of this next fifteen-game stretch on top of the pack. 

I hate to make predictions, because I am terrible at it.  I will stick to simply saying that I believe Matt Cain’s performance will further ignite an already red-hot team, and that we will see the results of Matt Cain’s inspirational effort.  If we come put above .500 for the next fifteen games, I will feel that we are in position to overtake the Dodgers.  

Only time will tell if a Cainsational game makes a difference or not.  My guess is yes.

(18) You Call it Bipolar-I Call it MSD: Sleep

You Call it Bipolar-I Call it MSD

Sleep 

Somewhere along the line, sleep and I fell out of synch.  It happened so long ago, as to defy recollection.  It simply never mattered.  What’s a little sleep here and there among friends?  For so much of my life, I have suffered from the type of insomnia which surfaces three or four hours into a normal night’s sleep, and that’s it.  I’m done.  

For so many years I fought insomnia, the way everyone does who encounters it.  I stayed with it, determined to get my seven hours or more.  It didn’t seem to matter that I wasted a hell of a lot of time trying to sleep, when there was no sleep to be had.  Now, when I lie down during the day, to get either my morning nap, or my afternoon nap, and I can’t sleep. I know I am in hypomanic mode again.  I just never knew it in the past.

Sleep is the culprit, who tried to slip through the night, and avoid me to the point where I got caught up in the whole thing, and it backfired.  Sleep is the single component in my frame of existence, which serves as the first domino to go down, and start the flood.  If I maintain sufficient sleep patterns, I avoid the pitfalls of mood spectrum disorder.  If I do not get enough sleep, then I run the risk of setting all of the other factors into motion, which create the stage that is necessary for a nice hypomanic run.

So I pay close attention to sleep.  As one who retires each night around eight o’clock, I would like to say I sleep straight through to four or five the next morning.  I slept seven hours a while back, after a tumultuous emotional experience, and taking a Lorazepam, which is an anti-anxiety drug.  Other than that, however, five is usually the most I get at one shot.  My custom has been to arise at that point, possibly make the coffee, check in briefly with my computer, and then see about a second run at sleep.  I used to go ahead and have my coffee at this point, because I did not see sleep coming back into the picture, but now I hold off.

Otherwise, I arise and do a piece of writing, post an email or two, check out sfgiants.com in the event that we won, and spend some time on FaceBook.  Here is where the insomniacs come out of the woodwork.  I see the same people making the same rhetorical comments on F/B night after night, and they see me.  Before I was diagnosed, I routinely arose at midnight, or shortly thereafter, and that was that.  I made no effort to return to sleep, because I figured it was a waste of time.  

When I began writing, it merely replaced reading as a means of diverting myself.  I certainly never watched films upon arising, because electricity is an issue at night, and because I simply did not do television much.  Just the Giants games, and the occasional film sufficed to keep my TV cravings at bay.  Now I keep the big picture dialed in at all times.  I try to make sure I get at least six hours of sleep between eight at night, and six the next morning.  Then a nap, or even two during the day, gets me close to or past seven hours.

I won’t even go into the details of exercise and diet, as they relate to MSD, because of the magnitude that sleep possesses.  It is the proverbial deal-breaker.  If only I had known then, what I know now.  So many driven people pay scant heed to sleep, because they can manage without it.  Are these people sufferers from bipolar II?  I do not know; I only know that when I went five consecutive days of five or fewer hours max, per diem, Annie was gearing up for another visit from the enemy.

It didn’t happen because I was tracking my sleep, and it was the only component present, which pointed to hypomania.  Score one for me.  And that’s what MSD is all about: keeping score, so that we can keep track of the tiniest of details.  By itself, each component does not carry that much weight; combine two or more, and the odds increase that I will be in for rough waters.  

(17) You Call it Bipolar-I Call it MSD: Translating Then into Now

You Call it Bipolar-I Call it MSD

Translating Then into Now

I was walking the dogs according to custom this morning, ambling along contemplating the universe in general, when I had a thought.  I remembered an occasion last fall, when I had written a piece about our early experiences on Bell Springs Road, and posted it on my blog, and Annie had not been real happy.  She had objected to a point I had made early on in the narrative, and asked that I omit one little passage.  It does not matter what the specifics are, what matters is how differently I view the whole exchange now.

I have mentioned in passing, about two hundred times, that hard times were had this past year or more, but it’s hard for me to put a finger on what that looks like.  One example is just what I was relating.  One element about my writing is that I do not like to alter what I have written, except to correct an error of some sort.  I can not say specifically what that is all about, except I guess I feel that what sallies forth onto the paper the first go-round, is that which I wish to see on the paper.

However, when thinking about the example I presented, there was a specific reason why Annie made the request she did, so I should have been willing to simply cut the offending sentence or two out.  At this time that seems perfectly obvious to me.  Back then I think I took it as some kind of affront, and was offended that I was asked to remove it.  

This issue of what I write and post has been an ongoing one.  It is no secret that Annie is a very private person, and by detailing the ongoing trials with which we deal, I am opening her up to a potentially precarious path.  That is why I run my posts on MSD past her.  She has explained this issue of privacy to me multiple times, not to be a nag about it, but because I keep overstepping my boundaries.

I do not even think she minds my overstepping the boundaries, but she does mind it when I get agitated that she won’t allow this anecdote or that to be included.  So now that I am infinitely clearer about what constitutes violating her privacy, it does not come up as often, and when it does, I am much more likely to recognize it as an issue, before I even present it to her.

I have been sifting through similar examples of past patterns of behavior, for the past five or six weeks, ever since I accepted my diagnosis, and begun recording daily data.  I bring them up frequently as we walk, not to browbeat myself, but because these actions were the main reason why Annie sought help from a therapist, in learning how to understand and deal with my illness.  

Now that we have retained a new psychologist, and have an appointment for this Thursday, I am hopeful that we can focus on the dual tasks at hand: creating and implementing an appropriate therapeutic program, and addressing those issues which created disharmony in the past.  By isolating instances of behavior, which were addressed incorrectly in the past, and recognizing a more appropriate way to deal with it now, I feel gain insight.  

By doing this work prior to seeing the new psychologist, I save myself the time and effort of having to do it in a session.  It’s all forward progress.  Think of it as having the contractor show up on the job-site, and having to move a stack of lumber, or having to level the site.  If I move the lumber, and get the pick and shovel out, and level the site, I am that much ahead of the game.  I think I have established by now, that in this particular contest, called MSD, I need to stay ahead of the game, in order to remain even with life.

I'll Be Right Back

I think this piece of fiction is a tasty little morsel.

I’ll Be Right Back

Maria burst through the door of the hotel room, her gaze instantly taking in the presence of the suitcases in the center of the room.  “Yes!” she exclaimed, never so happy to be moving on, than from this bleak spot that her mom had dragged her to, the worst in a long string of bad spots.  There was no other way it could be done.  Maria’s mother, Estelle, worked as a consultant for a high-profile group of corporate business interests, performing a role which required that she be on-site for as long as three months in each major city to which she was assigned.  The next destination was Seattle.

It was a good news/bad news proposition, in black and white, and etched in concrete, at least for the foreseeable future.  The good news was that Estelle was very well-paid, which allowed her to travel comfortably and live extravagantly, if she were of a mind.  The bad news was that, unless she wanted to send Maria away to a boarding school, there was no alternative to taking the girl with her, paying for not only a governess for Maria, but paying for that individual to travel and live where she and Maria did.

But when money is not an issue, and concern for the welfare of the girl is uppermost, then a course of action can be followed that at least allows mother and daughter to live together and spend what time they could together.  Unfortunately, circumstances dictated that there was generally little notice for a change of venue, and Estelle frequently found herself being reassigned, without warning.  Sometimes she was in one location for as little as a month; other times it stretched to three months or even longer.

For Maria, who was thirteen, it was as though she were permanently in purgatory.  She never referred to it as hell, because hell was forever, and Maria knew that even if it seemed like forever, eighteen years old would come eventually, and she could then do as she pleased.  Until then, she accepted the fact that there were no grandparents, or benevolent older siblings, who could help Estelle out, and provide an acceptable home for Maria, at least for the school year.  No, that was not possible, and Estelle was just fine with that.  She did not want Maria growing up without her guidance and love.

So placing Maria in school was not only impractical, it was inhumane.  No one wants to be the new kid 24/7.  Therefore, Maria had a governess, Rita, a woman in her twenties, who was pursuing a career in writing, but needed a steady income as well.  It worked out nicely for all involved, because Rita’s hours were consistent, and consisted solely of providing curriculum for Maria.  Rita followed a set of academic standards, provided by an independent educational service, designed to cover a broad spectrum of recognized grade level skills.  When Maria got to the point where she sought higher education, Estelle wanted her fully prepared to take her position without any noticeable gaps in her formal education.

So what was missing in this domestic picture?  How about a life for Maria?  What about sports?  Friends?  Or even the opportunity to have a crush on a boy or six?  As you may imagine, the situation worked out well for everyone involved, on paper.  But get away from what worked on paper, and start looking into what constituted reality, a twelve-year-old girl could introduce a lot of reality-drama, in an environment pretty much devoid of drama.

Estelle herself was simply not seeing men.  She had experienced hard times when she and Maria’s father had gone their separate ways, her resolve to stay out of the dating arena, still strong after more than five years.  Maybe, at some point in time, when her life had regained some consistency in it, she would have the luxury of dating again, but until then, she had too much on her plate, to include a helping of men.

Therefore, when Maria complained that a hotel was no place to live, because there were no other kids, Estelle commiserated with her, but could only suggest that it was a temporary situation, and then it would be different.

“When, Mom, when will it be different?  When I am grown up? What about my childhood?  Everyone else gets to be a kid and have friends, but I get to have a governess.”  Estelle admitted she made a persuasive argument.

“I’m sorry, Maria, as much now, as the other thousand times you have mentioned this fact.  What would you like me to do?  Besides quit my job, and go to work as a waitress, again.”  Estelle waited.

“Well, we’ve been here for two months now, and it’s boring as heck.  If only there were something here for kids to do!  If only there were kids here to do the something here for kids to do!”

With that rather incoherent bit of logic hanging in the air, Maria stormed out the front door, bypassed the elevator, and raced the five flights of stairs to the lobby, which is where she stopped to gather her thoughts, sitting on one of the deep sofas, looking through a pamphlet she’d picked up out of a whole selection of “things to do” in the greater Seattle area.  So immersed in her thoughts was she that she did not notice the appearance of a boy, probably around fourteen or so, who stood uncertainly to one side, as if trying to decide whether or not to proceed.  He wore a forest green hoodie, and seemed out of place in the lobby. 

Without warning a hotel employee who was sweeping nearby, allowed his broom to fall, hitting the floor with a resounding thwack, and causing Maria to look up suddenly, meeting a pair of the brownest eyes she had ever seen.  Why is it that she thought only girls had brown eyes?

Instinctively, she said, “Hey, there.  Is that you making all that racket?”  Maria was impressed with what she saw.

For an instant nothing happened, and then quickly the boy was pulling off his hood, and extracting the speaker buds from his ears, grinning widely and saying, “Sorry.  Listening to the Killers.  What did you say?”  He was not especially tall, but did seem to carry himself with an athlete’s composure, and the hint of a mustache on his upper lip, gave him the slightly older look than she might have first thought.

“Nothing.  I mean, it’s not important.  Who are you?”  She laughed then at her own abrupt question.

He laughed with her.  “I’m Ivan.”  His smile was right up front, with its authenticity and sparkle.  There was a hint of an accent, as though he were raised in a household where others spoke accented English.  His hair was jet black, with his complexion as smooth as glass, and hinting of a Mediterranean origin.  “What are you doing here?”

Now Maria laughed, since it seemed as though it were open field day on abrupt questions.  “I’m recovering.  From a fight, I mean.  With my mom.”  Why was she even saying this?  “What about you?  You’re here.  Where are your folks?”

“They’re up in our room, resting.  They don’t travel like they used to.  We’ve been on the road since the day before yesterday, if flying in a 757 can be considered on the road.”  He indicated the soda he was drinking.  “Can I get you something to drink?”

“Sure!  A Coke would be great!”  Wow, did that take Maria by surprise.  She’d never been offered a “drink” before.  This was definitely more like it.

He disappeared around the corner, and returned shortly with a similar beverage to the one he was carrying.  He also had a bag of pretzels, which he held out to her.  “Would you like a pretzel?”

Lunch too, she thought merrily to herself.  “Perfect.  I love pretzels with soda.  Thank you.  Why are you in Seattle?  Are you going to be here for more than just a day?”

“Definitely!  Probably for a month, while my father takes care of some family business.  What’s to do here?  Anything?”

“Besides the Needle?  I don’t really know.”  She giggled like a sixth grader.  “Maybe we can find out together.”  Had she really said that?

ivan beamed back at her.  “I think this could be the start of a very good thing.  When do we begin?”

Maria beamed back at him.  “Ten minutes?  I’ll be right back.”  She scampered toward the elevators, but stopped short and turned back to him, for one last wave.  He hadn’t moved a muscle, and waved back at her.  He pointed to the floor at his feet, as if to say, “I’ll be right here.”

Never had the elevator taken so long to ascend the five floors.  When finally she broke free and raced down toward the room, her heart was on Cloud Nine.  Maria burst through the door of the hotel room, her gaze instantly taking in the presence of the suitcases in the center of the room.  “No” she wailed, never so distraught to be moving on, than from this joyful spot that her mom had brought her to.

Wheeling around, Estelle threw her hands up in the air.  “NO?  I thought you would be pleased.  I made some phone calls and rearranged my life, and now you say “NO?”

“Oh Mama, please, please, no.”  And Estelle sighed and thought to herself, What did I do now?  Jesus Christe.  “Come here baby, and tell me about it.”

Maria looked down at her soda, and watched as a tear mingled with the ice, and felt that ice in her very soul.  “What’s to tell?” she asked, and the tears came tumbling down.

(16) You Call it Bipolar-I Call it MSD: The Next Level

You Call it Bipolar-I Call it MSD

The Next Level

Even people with mood spectrum disorder know how to shift gears and move forward.  With the decision made to switch therapists, Annie went to work  researching, checking this website out, and then switching to that one, until she had come up with a very short list of local possibilities.  She was seeking a therapist who specialized in Cognitive Behavioral Therapy (CBT) and Interpersonal Social Rhythm Therapy (ISRT).  I sent out an email to brother Noel to see if he had any skinny about our short list.

Indeed he did, and what he said corresponded to what we had been thinking.  The one we were most interested in was Dr. Mark Cerri, a psychologist working out of Ukiah, who had a website that Annie was impressed with.  She said she thought that we could work with this guy, because one feature of his practice is that he had been working with veterans, so that made me feel as though there were a good chance for a fit.

Amazingly enough, it turned out that my brother not only knew him, but had worked with him earlier, and was very enthusiastic about what he thought might produce a good fit.  I asked Annie if Noel liked him so much, why didn’t he recommend him in the first place.  Annie responded that originally we asked him about a psychiatrist, because we were interested in both a clinical diagnosis and someone who could prescribe medication for me, should that have proved necessary.

Dr. Cerri is not a psychiatrist, he is a psychologist, even though he does have a PhD.  At this juncture in time, I believe that if I felt that medication were necessary, I could go to my own doctor, and ask her to prescribe it for me.  I have already explained to her what is going on, and she knows I am seeing a therapist.  What Annie and I would like Dr. Cerri to help me do, is proceed with the Cognitive Behavioral Therapy, and help me get a handle on dealing with the kinds of issues which cause the most turmoil in our lives.

We had yet to discuss with Dr. Garratt, some of the specific issues which arose last winter, when Annie was struggling to figure out what was going on.  It was the reason we originally told Dr. Garratt, that Annie was doing each of the sessions with me, so that she could provide better insight in to what was happening last winter, when I was having the most challenging of times.

And I did not feel that I adequately emphasized that Dr. Garratt is a very capable and very competent therapist.  I would never find fault with him, when it came to his therapy or his approach.  The simple fact of the matter was that he specialized in a therapeutic approach that did not meet my needs.  I cannot emphasize this enough, because I would feel terrible if someone went away from my blog, feeling as though Dr. G. did not fulfill some sort of necessary step, and I left as a result.  Nothing could be further from the truth.

The time to move forward is right now, so that the momentum I have built up recently, will remain in place.  A year ago, things were just heating up; now, things are falling into place.  My sister, among others, has told me repeatedly that I must be an advocate for myself.  I feel as though Annie and I are in better shape now because I have assessed myself and have formed a plan.

When we first appeared on Dr. Garratt’s doorstep, I was in complete denial.  When I think of how much growth I have made since then, I will not say that Dr. Garratt is not also responsible for my progress.  it’s just that I want to take it to the next level.  Now, with Annie’s guidance, I have located and communicated with someone who seems able to get me there.  

The next level.  I feel as though I am playing some sort of video game, with levels and pitfalls, and changes in course.  The only problem is I cannot take the game back if I do not like the way the whole thing seems to be working out for me, so I have to keep plugging along.  Never having indulged in video games before, I am not at my best.  But I am a fast learner, and I have a great coach, so bring on next level.  Where the hell is my ladder?

The Homeless Guy

Annie made an innocuous comment yesterday about street people, up in Eureka, and it prompted this piece of fiction.

The Homeless Guy

Hyacinth emerged from the whole foods store, with a basket of goodness, in more of a hurry than usual.  She’d stopped on the way home from work, with the intention of just picking up some fresh greens and some coconut water, but her shopping cart had taken over, and dragged her around the store, as she willingly abandoned herself to the task.

Now she was behind schedule, the parking lot was a zoo, and she was trying to make her way through the quagmire to her car, when she became aware of the presence of street person, one of the many homeless guys who inhabited this area, because there seemed to be a more tolerant air about the premises.  I say she became aware, because she smelled him before she saw him.  Her immediate thought was that something had died; her next thought was that she wished it would die, and then she realized that the smell emanated from the person who had followed her across the causeway, but continued past her to a point about thirty feet away, where he stopped and fastened his eyes on her, as she fished about in her bag for her keys.  What on earth did Homeless Guy want from her, besides the obvious? 

What was normally an automatic action, became a prolonged moment of anxiety, as the elusive keys were nowhere to be found.  And then when she hauled them out, and tried to insert the key in the lock, the whole ring had ended up on the ground.  The more she tried to assume an attitude of indifference, the more she struggled.  At one point she had returned the man’s gaze, just long enough to feel a sense of revulsion at what the image presented.

His face, aside from being dirty and unkempt, was bruised and covered with flecks of dried blood, one side already turning a mottled blend of black and purple, with his stubble of beard providing an appropriately unattractive backdrop for this feature.  He had a crew cut, a dirty blond color, which was more dirty than blond.  He wore a tight t-shirt, and a pair of loose, dirty Levis, that hung down his backside, in the fashion of the times.  He was awfully young to be a homeless guy.  The creepiest feature of all, was his eyes, which gave him the dazed appearance of being on medication.

The man was a walking mass of gnarly.  And why did he seem so intent on staring at her?  He was making Hyacinth seriously nervous, and she kept her cell phone at the ready, in case he should go off.  Was that him muttering to himself?  That is so creepy, she thought to herself.  She felt his presence so strongly, she actually looked around to see if there was anyone else around who might be of assistance, should the need arise.  With a sense of relief, she saw another man, one who was obviously a businessman of some sort, because he was wearing a suit, and was carrying a briefcase.  He was surveying her, carefully checking in all directions, before continuing across the parking lot, still heading toward her. 

As quickly as she could, she tried to cram the rest of her groceries into the trunk, so that she could return the cart to the nearest cart corral.  Three things happened simultaneously, with blinding speed.  The homeless man yelled and bolted straight for her; the business man had broken into a dead run, and was also coming straight at her, and she dropped her gallon glass jug of organic apple juice on the pavement with a thunderous crash.

She jumped back to try and avoid the splashing juice, while the two men converged on the spot, with the homeless man unexpectedly plowing headfirst into the business man’s stomach, knocking him to the ground, and with it the briefcase and another very curious object.  It was a little snub-nosed hand gun, gleaming in the afternoon sunlight, that the businessman had withdrawn from his briefcase.  The force of the head-butt had knocked the businessman back so forcefully, his head had been slammed hard enough into the asphalt, as to knock him unconscious.

Thunderstruck by this sudden turn of events, Hyacinth stared, open-mouthed at the homeless man.  She saw that his eyes were blazing and alive, and that he was obviously not out to harm her.  “I saw this guy do the same thing to another woman, and I didn’t do a damn thing to stop him.” He spoke softly.  “This time I said, ‘No way.’” 

With that he was gone as a siren wailed in the distance, rapidly getting closer as Hyacinth stood there, contemplating the old cliche about not judging a book by its cover.  Maybe not, but the book could still be a best-seller.  At least Hyacinth thought so.