A somber presence had come over the ranch. I watched my mom,
weary and worn, retire to bed early. There was an unmistakable sadness that had
come over her soft blue eyes. I hated seeing her this way. I wanted to somehow
make things better for her. But I kept my distance, afraid that even gentle
tugging at her heart would lead to her undoing. I knew she needed to be strong
now. We both did.
I tried to quiet my busy mind as I laid my head on my pillow
that first night. The house was silent, as if it felt the loss, knowing he wasn’t
there, knowing something was not right. I pulled the covers over myself and
exhaled. As much as it hurt to have him gone, a small part of me was relieved
in knowing he was safe. So many nights I had worried. So many nights I had
prayed for God to make him better. Now, there were more to care for him. More
to look out for him. I hoped I could trust them, his doctors and nurses. I
hoped they were kind to him and not callous. I hoped he would come back to us.
All of him.
I knew it was bad. He had admitted himself. I knew how he despised doctors. He avoided going until he
absolutely had to. I knew weekly meetings at the VA had been hard for him. I
knew his doctors had been wanting to admit him for some time. But he refused. Several
times. He had to work. He had to provide for his family. He was driven more
than anyone I knew by this responsibility. And so, hearing he had chosen this himself
was both revealing and heart breaking.
He needed to be better so he could provide for his family.
That was his
motivation for admission.
Throwing himself on the fire, for us.
To get himself better.
Or at least try.
He was still my hero.
The following morning, we made what would be the first of
many visits to the psych ward at the VA Hospital. I was surprised in noting how
nervous I was on that first day. I tried to calm my racing heart, not knowing
what to expect, what kind of shape he would be in. Would he be crying? Would he
be angry and shout? Would he be out of it? Would he be able to speak at all? Would
he be different from the person I knew? I wasn’t sure what ‘losing it’ actually
entailed. He had been the one to comfort me my whole life, so seeing him in
such a vulnerable place was unnerving. I didn’t know how to behave, so I nervously
decided to let my mom do the talking.
As we walked through the hospital, I saw many men in
wheelchairs, missing limbs. There weren’t many smiles as we made our way toward
the elevators. The hospital, while known for its good care of the veterans, was
rundown and dreary. I tried not to let its dismal appearance affect me. I tried
to be hopeful as we made our way toward the grey elevators. In silence and
nervous anticipation, we scaled the floors of the hospital, as the psych ward
was on top. I braced myself as the elevator doors opened.
We anxiously walked down a short hallway and were
immediately greeted by a man with a kind smile seated at a desk. We introduced
ourselves, and he graciously opened the locked door for us, telling us my dad
had been in the common room. As we made our way past the gate, I noted a
gathering of men, lining up to each receive a medicine cup full of pills. I
wondered what kind of pills were in those cups. I wondered if they were the
same kind of pills I had seen my dad take. I wondered if these men would soon
be ‘out of it’ as he had. I hated psych meds. So little was known about the
brain. Such seemingly rudimentary treatments for those with diseases of the
brain. It felt unfair. Unfair to see him suffer in this way with so few options
for relief.
I knew as an outpatient his psychiatrist had even mentioned
electroconvulsive therapy, or ECT, as a possible treatment option. ECT is a
procedure, done under general anesthesia, in which small electric currents are
passed through the brain, intentionally triggering a brief seizure in an effort
to change brain chemistry and hopefully reverse symptoms of mental illness. The
trouble was that it was extremely risky, leaving many with permanent short term
memory loss.
Tranquilizing medications. Or literally shocking the brain.
These were the available options.
How was this possible? It seemed like a cruel joke. More,
how was this happening to my happy and easy-going dad? He couldn’t be broken. This
was not allowed. We needed him. Didn’t
God know that we needed him?
As we entered the common area I was relieved in seeing my
dad. He sat with his legs crossed as he always did, sitting in a chair and
talking to the man next to him. There were several others in this room filled
with books, board games and cards. Two men were playing cards. Another man was
seated by himself staring ahead silently. I tried not to make eye contact. My
dad greeted us with a hug. We sat with him there for a while. I didn’t know
what to say. But I was relieved to see him. I knew things weren’t even close to
normal.
But somehow they were better.
Just being together again.
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