Remembering Gus Levine, M.D.
by Charles C. Hall, Ed.D.

"Though not your kin, a Friend is your best relative" -Hindu Proverb

Gus was the medical doctor the wards assigned to me when I did my "internship" at a mental facility even though I had previously earned advanced degrees in Psychology. I placed internship in quotations because full-time employment in a state institution, housing temporary and permanently so-called "mental patients" is as demanding exercise in finding which can be helped back to normalcy.

Compassion and kindness are the touchstones by which any ill person regains one's former health, be it a physical or mental illness. An institution is a scary and unfamiliar place for anyone experiencing a breakdown of some sort. Also, most such hospitals are over-crowded and the noise is unfamiliar to new entrants. That is why those attending them should exert every effort to allay fears and expectations.

Gus was the type of person who could inspire confidence and hope to those we attended. He had an easy going demeanor and a broad smile -- always. We worked well together. Fortune smiled on me. Observing some of the other physicians, well ... I was lucky to be with Gus.

Gus and I lived in the Physician's Dorm, he in a suite on the second floor and I on the first in a corner suite. His family was in Houston and preferred to remain there. Gus went home most weekends. I had not yet secured one of the residences allocated for senior staff.

We came to trust each other unconditionally. He often invited me to dine with him. And when our son Phil returned from Vietnam, we shared my suite. Phil was always included in the meals Gus prepared. Being Jewish, they were kosher. I didn't know what that meant but, no matter, his always tasted better than mine.

Gus had been a practicing physician in Ft. Worth long before I knew him. Somehow, he became addicted to some banned drug, was convicted and sent to the Ft. Worth Correctional Facility for "treatment. " The "treatments" he received were rebuke and disdain by staff. His medical license was suspended for a period of time. The FACF is for minor felons which included physicians, engineers, architects, lawyers, etc. Most were not at all dangerous to others -- no murderers, rapists, so on and so forth.

The staff took a sadistic pleasure in belittling these highly educated persons. Their attitude toward these men was hostile and demeaning. The negative atmosphere did not portend an easy and successful return to a profitable future. Unless one took one's own therapy in one's own hands, the future would be bleak and unforgiving. Each who survived his debilitating surroundings returned much stronger.

Gus was one of those who "cured" himself. In spite of the guards and staff taunts, he decided that he must survive by his own talents. He found like-minds, and together they became better persons than when they were sentenced for their former behavior.

Gus told me, "Before I was put in that place, I was a selfcentered, selfish fool, had little respect for my patients, and served them poorly. I learned to become a healer in an environment that destroyed rather than rehabilitated. It may seem strange to say to one who has never experienced humiliation on a daily scale as we were, but that place, and my efforts at becoming a human being saved my life. I'm glad I was there, otherwise I may not have been here at this time in this place. I know what is necessary to give hope to those who find their way here.

I never questioned Gus about anything. I just listened attentively. He was a great inspiration to me. He rewarded my friendship by inviting my wife and me to his daughter's (or was it his son's?) wedding. We were the only Gentiles in the room -- and the foods were delicious. Gus was one of the kindest persons I've ever known. He told me a wonderful story that I will let him tell us in his own words, next week. Healthy people are not afraid to bare their souls to others whom they trust sincerely. Gus was my friend and mentor. I miss him terribly. Gus was a loveable mensch.

So it goes . . . .