Broken

Things were changing at the old raised ranch. It started out small, or so I thought. Some nervous anxiety here. Some feelings of sadness there. I didn’t know what to make of it at first. He had always been strong for us. Unbreakable. I knew his life had been hard. Long before me. I knew things hadn’t been easy for him. Divorced parents by age five. Bouncing from home to home, left by his own mother. His father went on to kill himself years down the line. Things had been ugly for him from the start. So, I figured he was entitled to a breakdown every now and then. But I also knew he hid. He hid his weaknesses. He didn’t want us to worry. Every cold he downplayed. Until he could no longer. Every on-the-job injury as a carpenter. Every bleeding hand. Every bruised leg. Even a few lost fingers. He downplayed it all. And so, I began to worry he was downplaying it all again.

Only this time it was different.

This time it was serious.

The past few years had not been easy. On any of us. We experienced more than one great loss during that time. My sister had left home to move in her with boyfriend, at age 16, leaving a gaping hole in our hearts. It was as if she had died, watching the two of them leave in the pickup truck that terrible day. I will never forget the cries that my parents let out that day. It was then that I knew I had lost my sister. And we weren’t going to get her back for some time. I remember frantically trying on clothes as she drove away in an effort to think of anything else. I knew I was crazy for doing so, but I needed to somehow blunt the emotions that ran through me.

There was loss of a grandfather. Followed by loss of a grandmother. And of course, my disease, a loss all its own. I knew how it weighed on him. I knew how he had pleaded and begged God to take it from me. Many times I knew he had cried out. I knew he struggled with ‘why’ for his little girl. I knew he had even asked God to take my lupus and give it to him instead.

For that, he will always be my hero.

It was the kind of sacrificial love you don’t often hear about. Uncommon and so precious.

In our family, he had always been the strong one. He was unwavering and even light hearted when things were tough. When money was tight, I would sometimes see my mom worry and fret. But he didn’t. It was as if nothing could shake him.

He was also the source of jokes and laughter. Anything to make us giggle and smile. But things were different now. The laughter that once filled the ranch had gone away. Long talks on the deck were a thing of the past. And home no longer felt ‘easy’. The laughter we once all knew had been replaced with a sobering silence. A silence that haunted our hearts and minds. It was a heavy silence. And I knew something was terribly wrong.

A few visits to his primary care physician, and he was referred to psychiatry at the VA Hospital, given the need for further evaluation and his prior Navy service. He was started on some low dose Xanax. We didn’t know it then, but this was like starting a sprinkler to put out a forest fire. Things ran deeper than we knew. And there would be no quick fixes. He went on to try a good number of SSRIs, or antidepressants. Still no relief. Paradoxically, some actually worsened his anxiety. Frustrated and running out of options, he began weekly visits at the VA Hospital to speak with a psychiatrist. He encountered many residents while there, not one able to help him. Nothing brought relief. Many meds were tried. Lithium. Lamictal. Seroquel. Depakote. Risperdal. Trazadone. Effexor. Buspar. Wellbutrin. Abilify. And more. Still no relief. His anxiety was increasing still. There was trouble sleeping. Shaking hands. Panic attacks that raged. He was eventually diagnosed with bipolar disorder (type 2). It frustrated me to hear this. I knew of others with the same diagnosis whose behavior was off the walls. Their behavior was irrational and often violent. That was not him. More, he had been happy and content for my entire life. How was this possible? I believed he likely had post-traumatic stress disorder, given all he had endured. My mom and I fought his doctors regarding his diagnosis. This was not a picture we believed was accurate, nor was it one we were willing to accept. Nonetheless, they proceeded forward with treatment. We eventually conceded, learning there were two types of bipolar disorder. He was regarded as a “highly functioning” type. Additionally, his paradoxical reaction to antidepressants actually helped prove his diagnosis, as patients with bipolar are often worsened by traditional antidepressants.

I was thankful my days were occupied with nursing school. It was a good distraction from the heaviness of home. Growing up, the old raised ranch had always been a place of safety for me, bringing great comfort and many happy times. More recently, it had begun to feel as if someone were tugging on the thread of our once happy family, slowing pulling, only to watch our undoing.

Nights were harder. His medications were not easy. On him or us. He was greatly sedated a good majority of the time. More, his demeanor had changed. He no longer smiled. A great sadness had taken over his eyes. Others didn’t notice at first. He was still functioning after all. He went to work each day, though he really shouldn’t have, given his active use of power tools. He could pretend for others. But not for us. My mom and I saw. Past his downplaying. We knew he was gone. It hurt talking to him. His reactions were no longer the same. He was no longer excited for me when I was excited. It was as if he were expressionless and emotionless. I hated his meds. I knew they were contributing to some of these changes. More, losing my dad in that way, broke me. I wouldn’t show it to him. Or to my mom. But it pierced my heart in a very sharp way. I felt like I was losing my best friend.

Where was God now? To allow this to happen to my dad, who had served him faithfully all those years. Didn’t he see his pain? Didn’t he see our pain? Didn’t he care?

One morning I remember coming out of my room. I saw my dad, facing the television in the recliner chair, with a tissue in his hand. My mom was standing over him. I heard loud inhaling and exhaling of air, and it startled me. A moment later I realized it had been coming from my dad. He was crying. More, he was sobbing. He looked at my mom, waving his tissue, stating he “didn’t even know why” he was crying. Startled, I rushed back to my room. My heart was racing. That was it. I knew I needed to be strong now. Strong for my mom.

He was broken.