It’s early in the morning. Dawn is about to waken the birds. Soon life will enter the daylight, but here I am sitting at my MacBook pondering a former patient of mine. Why him? I haven’t thought of Winky (not his real name) in years. But now I revisit the fate of Winky, a mentally challenged man who in 1996 was arrested for sexually assaulting young girl as she walked to school—a Catholic elementary school in the town in which I reside. Winky’s story isn’t pretty, in fact, it sucks… but I feel compelled to write of how the State of Connecticut failed Winky—how corporate caregivers put profit ahead of common sense.

What Winky did should never have happened, that’s the consensus of many of the mental health professionals who worked with him, observed him, and in the end found him incompetent to stand trial—something a superior court judge vehemently disagreed with. I’m not going to rehash a prejudiced and inflamed judicial decision. Winky is now out of prison, living in a supervised group home, forever labeled a sex-offender. I can’t change history; instead, I’ll offer you my Winky story. You the reader decide about Winky.

I knew of Winky before I was assigned to his care. His crime was headline news. An older woman who witnessed the attack, beat him with a broom, and was hailed the Grandma Hero for her bravery in thwarting Winky’s attempted rape of a young girl. Two other witnesses also intervened, both young men, restraining Winky until the police arrived. Winky’s mugshot was shown on all the news channels. He looked every bit the deranged psychopath; Hollywood couldn’t have done a better casting job: Winky had an institutional haircut, he had no teeth, his face was wrinkled as a Sharpei, and he had an open tracheotomy hole. He was Freddy Krueger; he was a young child’s worst nightmare.

His attack happened on a Friday. I didn’t work the weekend that he was committed to Cedarcrest. But I knew he was there. Co-workers called me. I was their union representative (Health Care Workers 1199); the consensus was Winky belonged to the Department of Mental Retardation or the Department of Corrections, not the Department of Mental Health. Winky’s being retarded (that was the correct term back then) wasn’t something my co-workers were trained in dealing with. I was: I’d transferred from DMR to Cedarcrest in 1985. But the most egregious point my co-workers brought up for Winky to be transferred was the fact he had Hepatitis C, and he was a spitter, he used his trach-hole as a portal to launch his disease. I wasn’t looking forward to Monday morning.

Winky was assigned to my unit. Staff wanted to mount a protest, but what was outrage and concern for their health, quickly dissipated when I volunteered to work with him until the issue of competency was addressed in the courts. I didn’t volunteer because I was altruistic, the Union had already washed their hands of Winky being at Cedarcrest—he was their problem either in DMR or DMH, 1119 represented both departments. I knew I'd be assigned to him, we had other retarded patients come through Cedrcrest's doors. Those who had DMR experience were always chosen to be caregivers. So, I studied his chart, listened to morning report and then made my way through the chaos to meet Winky. What I saw broke my heart.

My good friend Mary Jane was watching Winky. She tried to calm Winky as she introduced us, but how do you reassure a mind that can’t process anything but its own reality? He cowered when I approached him. Night staff had a sheet wrapped around his upper-body and neck to keep him from spitting. Winky couldn’t speak without the aid of a battery-powered voice box that amplified the vibrations that were his voice. That voice box made him sound like a robotic Popeye, adding to what was already a freakish appearance. I introduced myself. I called him by his name. His fear answered back.

Winky was a product of de-institutionalization. He grew up in Mansfield Training Center, and when that facility closed its horror shop, Winky was thrust into the real world, unprepared, and entrusted to corporate care—a private group home, more concerned with profit over client care. So, I did an experiment. I removed his sheet, warned him about spitting, repositioned the blue bandana he wore to hide his trach-hole and took him by the hand walking him down the halls past patients and confused staff. He didn’t make eye contact. He gripped my hand like a frightened boy would his father’s hand. I winked at him to reassure him—that’s how he got his Cedarcrest name.

The experiment was a simple one. I gave Winky a pen and paper and asked him to sign his name. He did so, proving to many that he was high functioning, capable of reason. I then printed my name on the paper and asked him to read it aloud. He remained silent. I then asked him to read from the morning paper; he couldn’t. But when I took him to the maintenance closet, opened it and pointed to the mops and brooms, Winky’s eyes lit up like a child on Christmas morning. He placed his voice box to his throat and in his robot-Popeye voice, he simply said, “Clean now?”  As I stated earlier, Winky was a product of institutionalization, cleaning units and beatings by staff was all he knew within the confines of locked doors. I then raised my hand as if in anger. He dropped to the floor in a fetal position. I went to to the laundry cart, took a towel, and wrapped it around my hand. I told Winky to look at me. “No one's going to beat you,” I said. I unwrapped the towel and threw it in the garbage. The Lead psych-counselor questioned my judgment; the doctor and social worker had yet to arrive on the unit, so they weren’t heard from—yet. It was the head nurse who allowed me to continue: he trusted my judgment—he knew Winky wasn’t going to be a quick discharge decision. Winky couldn’t stay on one to one status for the duration of his committal—staffing issues, overtime pay, and administrative concerns for perceived abuse, was paramount. That’s the way it is with high-profile patients. Perception is everything. Outside agencies would be included in Winky’s care: what their social workers, psychologists, and lawyers thought about administered care mattered—administrative jobs could be lost. Professional licenses could be revoked. I helped Winky to his feet and promised him safety: it was a promise I couldn’t keep.

It's now late afternoon. The birds are singing. Outside, it's damn hot. 

 Next installment soon…

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