My first efforts to quell the ravages of my mother’s mind were fraught with misunderstandings, mistakes, a total lack of knowledge about mental illness. We hide such things in darkened rooms. Few people wish to even hear about psychosis, paranoia, deep depression much less openly discuss such diseases emanating from the brain. We have all too often shamed and spurned those whose minds break down. Finding help for loved ones suffering from such illnesses is all too often a far too difficult task. Loneliness is the partner of mental illness.
In the summer of 1969, I found myself facing one of the greatest challenges of my life when my mother drifted into a fog of depression so severe that she was rendered incapable of even discerning reality from paranoid contortions of her mind. I was up to that point a rather naive and unsophisticated soul. I had never before encountered anyone with a mental illness. I knew little or nothing about what to do for someone so deeply melancholy as my mother now was.
When I contacted my aunts and uncles for advice I soon realized that they were as baffled as I was. They were reluctant to do more than come to visit her and then shake their heads in confusion when I asked what we might do together to help her become well again. Their comments urging her to pull herself together were as fruitless as the medication that Dr. Jorns had previously prescribed for her. The food that they brought to her ended up in the trash because of her fears that it was poisoned. She was in deep pain from her very legitimate illness and I soon realized that I would have to be the person to find a treatment for her.
I called Dr. Jorns again and when I described her worsening symptoms he agreed that she needed more expert help than he would be able to provide. He gave me the names of two trusted psychiatrists and suggested that I contact one of them, noting that I would not go wrong with either one. I randomly called the first one on the list without any real knowledge of his education or reputation. I had to simply trust that Dr. Jorns was not misleading me.
The doctor had a clinic with his father and brother in the Memorial Baptist Hospital that used to be in downtown Houston. When I described Mama’s behavior to him he urged me to bring her to the emergency room of the hospital and get her admitted. He would treat her from there.
While he made the task sound simple I already knew that it would take some slight of hand to get my mother to agree to such a plan. I enlisted her long time friend, Mrs. Barry, to help me. Together the two of us convinced Mama that she needed to see a doctor so that she might feel better. I explained that Dr. Jorns had suggested that she see a specialist at Memorial Baptist Hospital and that he might want her to rest in the hospital for a time. While she initially quashed the idea, I was determined to get her there one way or another, so I talked her into submission.
The following day Mrs. Barry drove me and Mama to the hospital. The doctor with whom I had spoken had already alerted the admissions department that Mama would be coming. They were ready with the paperwork that had to be completed. That created the first dustup as Mama became suspicious of all of the personal information they wanted from her. Ultimately I had to finish all of the documents and when my mother refused to sign any of them I was the one who placed my name on each page.
The whole process was exhausting to both me and my mother. Mama began to feel so weak that she protested very little when a nurse took her to a room in a wheelchair. She was greatly confused by then and I suspect she was feeling betrayed by me and Mrs. Barry as well. Nonetheless she had very little fight left in her when the nurse gave her some medication to calm her down. She was soon sleeping deeply for the first time in many days.
I learned to drive on the freeway to downtown in the weeks that followed. I visited my mother daily and saw progress even as I sensed that somehow my relationship with her was now strained. I knew that she loved me and hoped that she realized that everything I had done was also out of love, but she was never able to admit that she did indeed have a mental illness. It would be a bone of contention for the rest of her life. Sadly at the time neither of us understood that her illness was chronic. I hoped that it was a once in a lifetime event precipitated by the traumas that she had endured and triggered by the stress and disappointments of the teaching position that had overwhelmed her along with the difficult relationship she had with her mentally abusive man friend.
When Mama finally came home she was better, but shaken by the experience. She insisted that her doctor had assured her that she was cured and would never again endure such an horrific experience. Her next goal was to find another job. Mine was to return to the University of Houston to work toward my degree. It had been a difficult summer but I was optimistic that better times lay ahead for me and Mike and for my mother and brothers as well.
Perhaps the best news was that my mother finally had the determination to end her relationship with the man who had in many ways contributed to her fears and melancholy. It was easier than she had thought, but what she never knew is that her brothers had visited with him when I told them how he had been treating her. They essentially suggested quite strongly that the man would have to deal with them if he continued to harass Mama. He got the message and the bravado he had used to manipulate her disappeared. I was relieved to know that we would never have to see him again nor hear his boasts about knowing powerful people who were willing to use violence to change the face of our nation. We all had a second chance to restart the next chapter of our lives without the yoke of negativity weighing us down. My optimism and determination returned. Better yet I now had proof that I was capable of accepting adult responsibilities. It was time to get serious.
All It Takes Is A Little Love 