I first noticed my mother’s mental illness in July of 1969. I suppose that there were signs of her impending breakdown long before that time but I was so innocent and naive that I had never before witnessed the ravages of the mind that mental illness sometimes creates in even the most incredibly brilliant and brave souls. My mother had seemingly been a tower of strength after my father’s death. She was only thirty years old when he died leaving her to care for three young children ranging in age from two to eight years old. It had to be a daunting task to rebuild our family life but somehow she did it with so much finesse that I believed that she was superhuman.
My mother shielded me and my brothers from the darker side of life. She was always optimistic and generous and loving. We grew in wisdom and age and grace under her care and somehow thought that she was capable of conquering the world. Sadly she was human and I suspect that the stress of going it alone and dealing with a tight budget was bound to have had an effect on her. Looking back my brothers and I realize that there were signs that she was faltering that we wrote off as a kind of quirkiness or the type of worries that everyone seems to have at one time or another.
I remember a time when she told me that she had been engaged to another man before she met my father. She loved this man dearly and planned to marry him when he returned from his stint in the army during World War II. He was fighting the Japanese when he was killed. She recalled that she went through a long period of sorrow after his death. She even remembered seeing the Virgin Mary on the front porch of her childhood home one evening when she was particularly depressed. The way she described that moment was a bit scary but I still thought nothing about it. She had obviously overcome the grief of that tragedy and had gone on to meet my father and create a wonderful life with him.
When my daddy died she frightened me because she had always appeared to be so strong and yet in that time she stayed in the darkness of her bedroom for days and days not even checking to see how me and my brothers were doing. That is when I decided that it was my duty to watch over my younger siblings and to be as good a girl as ever I might be to help her.
Eventually she came back to life and managed to appear to be a tower of strength for the next dozen years. She bought and paid for a house, earned a college degree, became a teacher, was admired by countless friends and acquaintances. I thought that she was the most remarkable and perfect woman. I was still too young to fully understand the stress that she had endured. I took her loving care for granted little thinking about the many sacrifices she had made for me and my siblings.
I was a newlywed when the most egregious symptoms of my mother’s mental illness presented themselves. I first realized how sick she was when she had no interest in the landing of the first humans on the moon. She had been so interested in space travel and it seemed out of character for her to be unable to concentrate on the crowning moment of human achievement. Instead she recounted one fear after another with eyes darting in terror. She closed the blinds in the house and languished in the dark worrying that someone was out to take her life. She was deeply depressed and certain that we were all in danger.
I bungled her care in that moment mostly because I had little or no idea of what to do. When she eventually became well again I believed like she did that she was somehow cured of the disease that had so overtaken her mind. I rejoiced that it was over and carried on as though it had never happened. Then the symptoms returned again with even greater force. That time I was older and had much better ideas of how to find her the help that she needed. I took her to a wonderful doctor who would treat her for the next twenty plus years. He truthfully told us that her condition was chronic but that he could help keep her symptoms under control.
She would follow his advice and take her medication for a time but always found reasons to toss the pills aside and attempt to stay well on her own. She hated that weight gain that made her feel fat even as she ate like a bird. She did not like the feeling of numbness that the medications created. She tried to use self care to stay healthy but then had one relapse after another. Ultimately she quit going to see her doctor altogether and that is when she becomes sicker than at anytime in her life.
I found myself searching desperately for a new doctor for her because the one who had so faithfully helped her for so long had grown old and no longer had the heart to deal with a patient who would not follow his directives. I spent over two weeks on the phone all day long calling one psychiatrist after another. Some only dealt with teens, others did not not accept insurance, some worked with all ages but not seniors which she had become, some were about to retire and only working part time. I finally broke down in tears after days of trying to find someone willing to take her. The kind doctor with whom I was speaking spent over an hour comforting me and finally suggested a doctor who specialized in geriatric psychiatry. To my great relief I soon had an appointment for my mother with him and he would prove to be better at keeping her well than anyone who had ever treated her.
Just when it seemed that my mother’s care was certain the fabulous doctor announced that the state of Texas had cancelled all of the funding that allowed him to offer his services to older patients. Instead they were assigning him to a hospital for criminals with mental illnesses. He gave us the name of a program that would take my mom but it was erratic and until the day she died my brothers and I never knew if she would get proper care.
I tell this story because we hear many lawmakers insisting that deadly criminals just needed proper treatment before they hurt others. They babble on about setting aside a few million dollars but little realize that the system for caring for those who suffer from diseases of the brain are all too often either ineffective or unavailable. Funding for the health of American citizens is broken and especially for those who suffer from mental illness. Until we rectify this problem there will be great suffering in families trying to keep their loved ones well. It is a daunting task and even more so when the person is inclined to self harm or extreme anger and paranoia that evolves into murderous behavior.
Luckily my mother was always a gentle soul who would never have hurt herself or anyone else. Nonetheless she endured great pain over and over again because we have yet to genuinely invest in the healing of those whose madness is often both feared and misunderstood. Advocating for research and treatments for the mentally ill has been my holy grail for over fifty years of my life. I know all too well how much we need to unravel the mysteries of why sometimes our brains turn on us. I know there is an answer if only we are willing to pay the price for finding it. A wise world would certainly make every effort to end the cruelty of only half heartedly working to understand diseases of the brain.
All It Takes Is A Little Love 