Sherry’s Juneteenth

It was Sherry’s 64th birthday and this was our fifth year celebrating together.

As usual, she ate her Culver’s meal methodically: first, her single burger with only pickles; next, her fries, one by one; and lastly her soda, with a few long drags on her straw. I conversed for both of us. Sherry was silent, but I expected this. I knew she’d eat every bit of her meal, wrap the fries package in the hamburger wrapper, stick it inside her cup, and say “Done.”

Usually, Sherry would then stand, signaling the party was over. But that day, in 2021, she leaned forward and said, “It’s Juneteenth! President Biden made my birthday a holiday because slaves were set free.”

And indeed Biden had made June 19, which happened to be Sherry’s birthday, the first federal holiday declared since Martin Luther King Jr. Day was established in 1983. Juneteenth commemorates the day in 1865 when 250,000 enslaved people in Texas finally received word they were free.

“My grandfather was African American,” Sherry said, beaming, “and now my birthday is a holiday!” Her excitement at sharing this significant date with her Black grandfather was contagious.

Sherry’s Medicaid status and diagnosis of schizophrenia qualified her for the CCS (Comprehensive Consumer Services) program in which I was a provider. She and I met three times a week. It never felt like work.

It wasn’t unusual for Sherry to share world news with me. She sat alone in her apartment, day after day, and only left when she had a medical appointment or was with a worker. Yet she constantly amazed me. She was living independently in an apartment in the same building she and her mom had moved to when Sherry’s dad died. Soon after that move, her mom also passed, leaving Sherry to live alone for the first time in her life.

Sherry meticulously paid her bills on time, took her medicine religiously, made out her weekly shopping list, kept up with routine medical appointments, and scheduled rides to and from them. She stayed current on politics, watched late-night movies, and loved her soap operas.

Sherry’s mom had taught her to crochet, and she was always working on a project. When I’d brought a kitten home from the Humane Society, I told Sherry how sick he was. On my next visit, she gave me a lavender blanket she had lovingly made and said, “Here, it will make him feel better.”

My “wellness management” visits with Sherry included getting her out of the house, walking and exercising, taking her to pick up yarn, or her favorite: driving through her old neighborhood. On the five-mile round trip through the countryside, she’d point out houses and tell me about the people who used to live in them. Mary was blind; the husband in that house left his wife and married his secretary; so-and-so’s house had burned and been rebuilt; and little Johnny died of leukemia. She also told me about the many cats she’d lived with on the farm and the dog that was missing an ear.

When she wasn’t discussing her old neighbors, she was relating the plot of a book she’d read, with lots of spicy details. She loved romance stories. She said she’d never had a boyfriend and thought it had to do with not wearing dresses. When she wore a dress to school one day, her dad brought pants and made her change clothes.

Other than me, she saw her social worker maybe once a month, and had weekly visits from her shower lady, cleaning lady, a worker from Inclusa managed care, and the man who delivered her groceries.

When Sherry turned 59, she started requesting her annual birthday meal at Culver's. Everything was the same each year: the drive to Culver's, her order and the way she ate it, our conversation, and our drive back to her house.

But on the day Sherry rejoiced about Juneteenth after I’d dropped her off and driven the 45 minutes home, reflecting on our time together and our priceless relationship, her case manager called. He said I wasn’t to see Sherry anymore, due to a cost-saving move for the county because she also had a worker from Inclusa. He said I could call and tell her this news but could not see her and explain because once a worker is taken off a case, in-person visits aren’t allowed.

This year Sherry will turn 67. I think of her often. Her ability to stay engaged in life while managing a serious mental illness stays with me. Her joy in having her birthday fall on a national holiday, and her awareness of the importance of this date, continue to inspire me.

(“Sherry’s” name has been changed to protect her privacy.)