Stupor

As the months marched on, the heavy sorrow that had become our norm followed. And with it came a terrible fear. Fear that we would never get him back. Fear that this was now our lives. Fear of another terrible loss. It was as if he had been hallowed out. And stolen from us. From the outside he may have looked the same at a quick glance. But he was no longer in there. And the weight of that loss was just too much.

I watched my mom during this time. She grew more quiet. Deeply concerned. But I rarely saw her cry. She had always been the emotional one of the family. She would tear up at commercials and was the first to be offended by a rude comment. As kids, my sister and I inadvertently made her cry on more than one occasion. I was certain she would be the first to crumble. The first to come unglued.

But she didn’t.

I knew she was broken. How could she not be? But she didn’t let it paralyze her. And that’s when I began to learn about strength. Quiet strength. Unrecognized strength. The kind of strength that doesn’t get a lot of attention or even recognition. But I saw. And it was incredible.

A few weeks passed, and summer gave way to fall. It was late one chilly evening. The air was clear and crisp, displaying the soft grey moon in all its splendor. I had been studying in my room for an exam the following day. The television was blaring loud in the ranch that evening which had been getting on my nerves. I knew about an hour earlier my mom had gone to bed. So I began to walk down the hall, in hopes of turning off the television or at least turning it down. As I approached my dad from behind, seated in the recliner, I was not at all ready for what I was about to see. As I made my way around the side of him, I stopped, in fearful dread. One glance revealed him half holding a bowl of cereal. It had spilled. All down his chest and into his lap. The cereal was soggy, creating a foamy mess. I knew he had been there for a while. My heart sunk. His eyes were now shut and mouth wide open, while his chin was severely pressed into his chest. Couldn’t he feel the mess? Couldn’t he feel the wet cereal all over him? I wanted to shake him. Or at least clean him up. But I couldn’t. Something in me froze. Seeing him this way scared me to my core. Seeing the man who had been my hero come apart this way. It was messy. And it was ugly. I desperately wanted to help. But I just stood there, paralyzed by my fear and sadness, frozen.

I decidedly tip towed back to my room as quickly as I came. A grieving sadness came over me, and I buried my face in my pillow, letting out a wale. I knew he was not just ‘sleeping’. I knew he was out of it. I knew it was the meds. I hated seeing what it did to him. What they took from him. And all of us.

He had been taking Xanax to manage breakthrough anxiety. He was started at a small dose of 0.5 milligrams. The trouble was, he was quick to develop tolerance. And this drug was a part of a drug class called benzodiazepines, known to create tolerance with regular usage. And so, to obtain the same desired effect, his dosage was increased. And increased again.

I didn’t know it at the time, but that evening he had taken 12 milligrams. Well exceeding any recommended dosages. Anything to quiet the noise. Anything to get his mind to slow down. Anything to feel normal again. Or maybe just not feel at all for a while.

He was in a stupor.

The following week I got a call while at school from my mom. It was about my dad.

He had admitted himself to the psych ward at the VA Hospital.