A part of me always wanted to rescue Mom from the troubles that forced her into institutionalized living for the majority of her life. It took me a long time to reconcile my emotions to the fact that sometimes it is not possible.
Though my father, too suffered from mental illness, he was, despite hospitalizations, able to retain a position in sales with J.L. Hudson's. He wanted to advance his career to management, but was unable to do so because of the restraints in his life. He also had thought about schooling, but his responsibilities were many. He was a lifelong member of the Disabled American Veteran's (DAV), which provided the means for him to care for us as best he could. There was disappointment in Dad's life, but his faith sustained him in the face of adversity.
As I indicated before, all of us, children, were placed in an orphanage until we matured enough to take care of ourselves. I was twelve when I went home. It was truly a traumatic experience. I never shared with my folks how overwhelming it was. On the last day at the orphanage, I was so stressed I punched a girl who was my friend. I begged her not to tell and she didn't. I was running to look out the window for my parents and quickly dashed back to the playroom, when I saw the car, to act like nothing was happening. At seven, my parents were set to have me go home, and my mother had even taken me to see the school where I would attend. On my birthday, she again became ill; however, so I could not go home.
There was a time that I was hospitalized at the very same institution as my mother though in different wards, but I would see her. The sad thing was she really did not acknowledge me. There was a lady my mother felt comfortable talking to and she essentially ignored me. We actually had a class together where we took a test on medications and drugs. I got them all right and Mother missed one. The one she missed was that smoking was actually a drug.
I came to realize I could not help Mom get out of the hospital by being in it with her, so I followed the steps and was released. Imagine how messed up my thinking was on that one. Mom had also been hospitalized at St. Lawrence, but not at the same time as myself. When Mom passed away in August 2005, around the same time as my birthday, I went through the motions of going to the funeral and paused over her casket at the back of the Church before it was closed. She looked beautiful, with a pink suit-coat and skirt. Her hair and makeup were perfect. I had not gone to the funeral home deliberately, because it would have been too much for me. I didn't want to have to talk to anyone at the funeral home. For those of you who are not Catholic, a funeral is usually a three day event.
I had been attacked by a rabid bat, and had forgotten to get the last shot, but I was only a day or two late when I remembered after Mom's funeral. The story of bats will have to wait for another day. At any rate, December rolled around in 2005, and yes, I spent Christmas hospitalized, but I was unable to express to the staff what was going on. I had my meltdown from Mom's passing. I was upset while at the hospital because the occupational therapist was not putting newspaper to cover the brand new white tables when projects were being done. I was washing each table to try desperately to keep them clean. I took styrofoam cups and made crepe paper flowers for Mom and placed them on each table. I could not explain to the staff why I had done it. The flowers stayed on the tables for a very long time. Again I was released.
On another occasion, St. Lawrence Hospital did not monitor my response to medications close enough and I nearly died. The nurse called, Dr. Barberio, who actually did not support her, at the time, I know because she later told me. I don't blame him, he's human. Thankfully though, she had enough sense to call an ambulance and have me transferred to their medical facility. My family was called, and they were informed to say goodbye at Sparrow Hospital, where I had been transferred. Well, God must have a purpose for me here because once again I survived. I suffered neuroleptic malignant syndrome from Zyprexa. When I was transferred back to St. Lawrence, I was released with no medications after three days.
I am in a good place emotionally now and 1000 mg of Depakote sustains me. I take 500 mg bid at night, and I am good to go. I do drink coffee (2) cups and I am trying to break my addiction to diet soda where I drink (1) a day because I know my bones are rotting. The soda is very difficult to break for some reason.
My life seems to be coming full circle now. I am divorced, but my children know that though my marriage was not what I desired for them or myself, I have emerged as a better person. I am the skipping stone who will always be listening for their voices no matter where I am or where they are. When I am gone and a skipping stone is sent threw the water, I will be the ripples sending frequencies far and wide. I believe we are our brother's keeper and my commitment now is to improve the lives of all by being an example of solemnity to my experience, while a champion for human dignity.
