Getting Used to the Asylum

Well...I had another great day today. Richard wanted to go fishing early this morning and asked if I could take Nick to school. Of course, because he is the best husband in the world, said he could meet up with the guys later if I didn't think I could do it, but I owed him this. At the very, very least. And so, I got up early to take Nick to school.  Richard has been taking Nick to school ever since my illnesses began in December. It is especially hard for me to get going in the morning - this has always been the case, but it seems even more so as I struggle to come out of this depression. It felt great to take him to school. He sits in the front seat now, and he and I sang songs off my iPod the whole way in. He was excited about a field trip to the Capitol building for Earth Day. Richard had taken him up to the store last night to get sack lunch goodies, and he had packed his whole lunch himself. This in itself is a treat, as he never gets to take a lunch to school. He said, "I brought a ham sandwich with cheese, some of those really great ranch crackers  and strawberries." Before I could comment on how good the strawberries looked, he added, "Richard said the strawberries seemed awfully high, but I wanted 'em pretty bad, so I spent my own money on them."

I almost cried, but knew he would be terribly annoyed if I did, so I choked out, "I think it will definitely be worth it!" 

When I was at the asylum, I just could gather that no one else had a child and husband like mine to go home to. While that made me extremely proud and satisfied, I also felt guilty. If I have it so damn good, why am I here? The others looked like they belonged here, which is terrible to say, but it my honest opinion. I did not feel I fit the part, whatever that means. I quickly began to fit in, however, as the following story will illustrate.

I found out that one of the morning routine included stating our goals and telling our overall feelings to the group. I enjoyed hearing about others immensely, and I found it incredibly easy just to speak my mind. The first morning I was somewhat reserved and stated that I was just trying to get used to everything. 

When lunch came that day, I noticed that others had items on their plate which were not on the menu....chocolate cake, for example. I was sitting with a gal who was probably fairly close to my age but who looked hardened by life's difficulties. I knew she would know what was going on. I also knew that if I befriended her, she would be the kind of person who would kill for you.

"So what's the deal with that cake last night and the pancakes this morning?" I questioned. 

"Oh, you can write in items on the menu," she said. "I don't suppose THEY told you that," she said nodding to the staff, who sat in an office with a huge glass window so they could see us. It was an obvious us vs. them environment. As a counselor all I could do was think of ways I could/would make this better.

"No, no one told me. Do they have chicken strips?" 

If you know me, you know that when in doubt at a restaurant or place of dining, I always, always, always choose chicken strips - with ranch.

"Yeah," she said excitedly, "and their pizza is pretty good."

Yes! This was a major move in the right direction. I was ravenously hungry, maybe from the medicine or something. My next question was about the soda. Again, if you know me, you know that I begin each day with a soda - I know it's bad; I frankly don't care. 

"Well, we'll get some soda at break time."

"Okay, I thought, I can handle this. I can wait until break. So when it came time for break, the others lined up like cattle at a watering tank. I really wasn't paying attention to the others because I was distracted by my thoughts of a delicious soda just moments away. And then it was my turn.

"What would you like to drink?" the nurses aide asked.

"What do you have?" I felt like I was in a bar.

"Diet Cola or Lemon Lime soda, orange juice, or apple juice." This was my first warning. When they don't say diet coke or pepsi or even 7up, you know it's going to be some off brand nasty shasta something or other. I quickly calmed myself down in my mind. At least it's a soda.

"Diet," please I replied.

I remember this next traumatic moment as if it were in slow motion. She took out a styrofoam cup - you know the small ones they serve coffee in at wedding receptions. She put three ice cubes in it which I am sure you can imagine left very little room in the cup. She opened a diet shasta and poured the soda into it. I practically snatched it out of her hand (although I did say thanks), and threw back the soda as if it were a shot...not that I've done many shots, just a few. And in that one swift move, it was gone, and I held out my hand for her to hand me the can.

"Oh, that's all you get," she replied nervously.

I did not go off. I did not throw a fit. I sat my cup down, proceeded to my room, put my pillow over my face and cried myself to sleep - AGAIN.

I was quiet the rest of the day. Not really angry, just sad.

I don't know what happened over night, but when I woke up the next morning I was madder than a hornet over that soda. I NEEDED a soda this morning. I am supposed to be here getting help, and how am I going to address these issues without my morning soda? HOW?

So, I trodded down the hall and saw no one was on the community phone, so I made a phone call to Richard and explained my new problem to him. He had a logical, calm answer which pissed me off even more.

"I have to go," I quickly ended the conversation. "Some group is starting or something."

"I love you," he sounded concerned.

"Thanks," I responded. "Will you bring me a soda tonight?" I cannot believe I was this awful. Unfortunately, it gets worse.

We are all sitting around eating breakfast, and I am seething mad, creating my argument in my head. Immediately after breakfast, we go into our "goals and state of mind meeting." I could not wait until it was my turn. I sat with my arms crossed over my chest, anxiously awaiting my chance to pounce.

"So, Angie," the nurse began. "How are you today?"

"Let's see," I began in an extremely sarcastic tone. "I am a counselor, and I just can't figure out why we have to live like prisoners in here when we voluntarily came here to get help!"

She was immediately defensive and nervous. "I'm not sure what you mean."

"What I mean is why we have to give up everything we love because we are sick."

"For example?" she acted like she had NO idea what I could possibly be talking about.

"Okay, I gave over my phone, and I get that. You don't want us in our rooms talking or texting or whatever. But soda? What is the problem with soda? I drank my "portion" (and I gestured the quotation marks) in one swig yesterday." I was getting louder and angrier as I went on. She started to respond, but I cut her off. "Now I know there is a cafeteria in this place, because we've all had our meals, and I've been in lots of hospital cafeterias. I DO NOT UNDERSTAND why someone can't go down there and get us each a nice fountain soda for God's sake. I'm telling you that my state of mind right now is shitty because I need a fucking soda!"

Even I cannot believe my nerve at this point. The rest of the gang is staring wide-eyed at me. Other than one woman who screams and cries all day long, the rest of us had been mild mannered up to this point.

The nurse was obviously, obviously annoyed. Not sympathetic. Annoyed. Even worse, I saw a diet coke sitting on her desk that morning when she gave me my medicine. The battle lines had been drawn between us in that instant.

"I'm sure you understand there is a reason for everything we do here."

That was her answer. Her complete answer. She might as well have said, "Because I said so." Plus, the way she said, "you," as if she was mocking the fact that I said I was a counselor and what would a counselor be doing on the other side of the desk?

"Whatever," I responded (how mature, I know), gathered my crutches and stomped out of the room....as much as a one legged person can stomp, anyway. I had a feeling I had just earned myself a few more days in the asylum. But damn it, it was worth it!

The Scoop

I took a deep breath, trying to decide which version of my story to give...I have several: the short version, the inspiring version, the sad version. Depending on my mood or who I'm telling it to, determines my version. They are all basically the same facts, but my voice inflection and added details determine the version. Today, I decided I would present a new version: the no bullshit, this is how it is version.

I began, "Do you want to know my background or what happened most recently to get me here?"

"Both," she smiled. "Definitely both."

"Well, it began in 1977. I was diagnosed with Ewings Sarcoma," I stated matter of factly. I left out the whole story I told you about how I was diagnosed. I went on. "I had two years of chemotherapy and radiation. They didn't really think I would survive. Ewings is a bone cancer and in 1977 had a fairly low cure rate. Mine had already spread to my lungs when I was diagnosed."

Already she was shaking her head in empathy and disbelief. I could tell this part of the story easily because I barely remember the details and only tell what has been told to me. I was only four years old at this time.

"After my treatment was over, the x-rays looked good, and I was really fine for almost five years. Then my leg started hurting, and I didn't tell anyone. I felt bad, ya know. Guilty. Not as guilty as I feel now but guilty."

She wrote something in her notes and nodded for me to continue.

"So, it ended up it was Ewings again, and so I had to have my left leg amputated all the way to my hip," I looked down, as if to say, "see."

"Even though that took care of the cancer, they wanted to do chemo just in case, so I had chemo for two more years. This I remember well. I was sick for 12-14 hours. Vomiting and vomiting and vomiting. And there were sores in my mouth. Hundreds and hundreds of them. It took so much time for my parents. I was treated at the Mayo Clinic, so they were away alot, from each other and my brothers and sisters. I'm a twin, you know. It was so hard on her."

"I can't even imagine," she interjected as if lost in her own thoughts. I sat there looking at her, and she kind of shook herself out of her thought and said, "Sorry, go on."

"Then," I took a deep breath (this is usually where people really ooh and aah), "I had another recurrence when I was 14, this time in my left lung. At this point we lived in Missouri, so I was treated in Columbia at the University."

As I went on I was getting more and more annoyed with telling this damn story - AGAIN. Telling it is itself annoying, on top of whatever reason I'm telling it. 

"How did you deal with this?" she seemed truly stumped.

"Well, up until about two years ago, really well. I was all about advocacy and getting involved, and then I just got sick of it. I withdrew. I couldn't even do my job. I was sick all the time with stuff. I guess I should tell you that I have lots of health issues - heart and lung issues - because back in the day they had just a small idea of what they were doing, and they are now learning I received too much chemo and radiation. I'm glad they know now, but I'm screwed."

"And what has been going on lately?" 

"Oh, lately. Let's see. In the last two years this is what has happened to me: I've had pnuemonia three times; I fell and broke my collarbone; my husband had quadruple bypass surgery and seven months later learned two of the bypasses had closed, so the put stents in; I quit my job; I started a new job where I had a terrible experience and had to file a formal grievance; I got another job (the same one I quit previously) and had to promise I would "screw up" up like I did last time; I had my gallbladder out and learned my stomach doesn't empty correctly; my husband retired from a long, valued career; and most recently, this pain in the ass shingles."

Her mouth hung open.

"I know. I wouldn't even believe it if it was my life. They know me at the ER by name. It's embarrassing, and I feel like some kind of weirdo psycho all the time. There is something wrong ALL THE TIME. I've had it. I don't want this body anymore. I'm tired of being strong and brave and all of that crap that everyone seems to adore." I paused. "So that is why I'm here. That is why I figured heaven seemed like a damn good option over the hell I've been living through."

Again, I thought she was going to cry. "If she cries," I thought to myself, "I am literally going to slap her across the face. I need help. I don't need her to be touched by my sad story. I need someone else to be strong."

She gained composure (thank goodness for her and me), "But you are here and that in itself shows strength and amazing courage. Your not our usual 'type,' and I bet it was hard to come here. So I hate to disappoint you, but you are still showing signs of strength."

She was right but even today - several months down the road - I struggle and will write more about that as I go. Today, however, was a great day. I was up and about all day and working on my art pieces and website. I finally came up with a logo - pretty good for a beginner, I think. Oh, and I announced my blog on facebook, so there might actually be people reading this now - YIKES!

Getting Help

So, I would like to write tonight about how afraid I am that I've completely screwed up my son by my recent "illness," but I don't have my thoughts together on that, and it would probably come out as complete and utter complaining, self-pitying, irrational babble. And, alas, I must continue with the "adventure" I began describing yesterday.

I'm not sure what time it was when I arrived at the hospital. I did manage to sleep most of the way, which was good, because the man sitting in the back of the ambulance kept giving me this really sad, desperate, surprised look. As if to say, "You don't look like most of the crazies we haul around, but please don't freak out on my watch."

When we arrived at the hospital, I kept my eyes closed, partly because it makes me sick to ride on a gurney with my eyes open, and partially because I was scared to see what was ahead. The hospital was deadly quiet, as it was the middle of the night. In a few short hours it would be bustling again.

Since my eyes were closed, the driver of the ambulance must have thought he was sleeping. When we approached "THE WARD," the doors were locked, and they had to be buzzed in. "Wow! Locked doors, even," the driver exclaimed, laughing. If I wasn't at rock bottom, I probably would have told him where to go, but as it was I just sighed, opened my eyes, and stared directly at him. I think he got the message.

A nurse quickly approached and was obviously awaiting my arrival. They were all helpful and amazed when I sat up, hopped off the gurney, and stood there with one leg.

"Well, you get around well," said the nurse. People are always surprised at my mobility.

No reply from me. Not even the usual smile and canned response, "Yeah, I'm pretty used to it."

"You must be really tired. We aren't going to do the normal check in tonight. I'm just going to give you your meds, get your clothes changed, and hopefully you can get some sleep."

Still not a word from me. Just a nod.

She proceeded to give me my medicine with a tiny cup of water. Was there a danger in giving me a larger cup of water? Could I drown myself in a cup? These were my sarcastic, bitter thoughts. I couldn't stop them from filling my head.

Just then my iPhone signaled a new e-mail from my pocket.

"Oh," she cheerily replied as she held her hand out. "I'll take that phone, put your name on it, and leave it right here where we put all patient valuables."

I could feel the lump forming in my throat. How would I get to sleep without playing text twist on my phone?

She handed me a set of scrubs and said I could sleep in them and wear them during the day if I wanted to.

"I'll have to keep those," she said pointing to my sweats. "They have a drawstring."

Holy shit. What have I done? I am sure she could see the fear in my eyes and notice the reddening of my face as I tried to keep the tears from forming in my eyes. My throat was killing me, as I tried to swallow the huge lump that was stuck there.

She showed me a restroom where I could change. I did, still trying not to cry.

When I came out, she smiled, as if I was the most beautiful looking one-legged suicidal girl she had ever seen. I didn't buy it. "Get real," I wanted to scream, but if I let one single word out, in fact even a tiny sound, the flood gates would open. I just kept my mouth shut and my head down.

She led me down a dismal hallway - mint green on the walls, grey carpet on the floors. We entered a room that looked more like a dorm room than a hospital room. The only light coming in the room was from the hallway.

"We don't want to wake your roommate," she whispered cheerily.

That was all it took. The tears started coming, but it was dark enough, that I don't think she could see them. A roommate? I had to share this experience with a stranger? The bed was a wooden structure that went all the way to the floor, and it had a mattress on top.

I did bring my favorite pillow. It is one I don't lay on. I hold it. It is an old feather pillow, and it is my "blankie," my "binkie."

I quickly laid down on the bed, turned on my side, and pulled the pillow to my chest. The tears were burning my eyes, and my throat was aching from trying not to sob.

"Is there anything else you need?" she asked.

Is there anything else I need? Hell yes. I need my mom, my husband's back rub, the sound of my TV lulling me to sleep, my sanity. I need my sanity.

But instead of spewing my thought I simply choked out a "no thanks." As soon as she left the room, I let out a sob and cried and cried.

"This is getting help?" I thought desperately. "I want to go home."

Letting Go

I am confessing (to myself), that I have not told a single soul about this blog thing. Well, I asked my family if they cared if "aired" some of my business - which indirectly and directly - becomes their business, and they agreed, but technically, I have told no one. Tomorrow. That's what I keep telling myself. Tomorrow. I want survivors to read the blog more than anyone. Those closest to me, well I'm not so sure.

It is hard for me to let go. I can go to big conferences, speak at grand rounds, but when it comes to actually one-on-one letting go of my emotions, letting my "tough" wall down, that is very hard for me to do.

It was one night in January that I knew I could not hide any longer. The thought in my head was becoming more prominent - the one telling me things would be better off without me. I was struggling, and had been struggling for over a month, with shingles. I was in terrible, terrible pain. I felt I had no one single ounce of fight left in me. I even started to develop a plan in my mind. That, I knew, was not good. I'm a counselor for goodness sake. I know these things. The signs.

The thing I kept coming back to was my son. He is my son from a previous marriage (that will take another post entirely, trust me), and I know if something happens to me, he has to go live with his dad. He does see his dad every other weekend, but Richard is his DAD. Richard teaches him, loves him every day and night, pays for his expenses, and it would KILL him to lose Nick. So what prompted me to ask for help was the fear that I might eventually not be able to fight off the urge.

One of the things I was afraid of in asking for help was the simple fact of what it was going to be like. It seems silly, but I wondered if it would be like a bunch of crazies walking around screaming and crying. Would I be able to have my cell phone? These are the things I cried to Richard about after I admitted to him that I thought I needed to go to the hospital.

He calmly and obviously stated, "I think we're beyond worrying about those things. Don't you?"

And the reason I'm writing about this is because I thought other people who read this blog might also feel some of the same things. They seem silly, but I honestly think they are the things that sometimes keep people from jumping off that ledge for help.

Nick was already in bed when this was taking place, and I didn't want to wake him up. I called my sister, Amy, my twin, and she came and got me. I had her call my mom and my other sister and they met us at the hospital. That is how our family does things. I groups. Together. By then, I was more under control. I was worried, terrified really, but tried to act like my old self.

It was really, really, really hard to admit to that doctor that I thought about killing myself. Saying those words was to me embarrassing and shameful and weak. He was very straight forward with me. We talked about the reasons why that would not be a good idea. He said he still thought, even though I was calm, I still needed a good "time out." I agreed.

He left the room to make the arrangements, and came back quickly to report that all the beds in their unit were full. The next closest "facility" was an hour away. I took a breath, but before I could say anything, he said, "This doesn't mean your issues are solved. I still think you need to be admitted."

He had me there. Through tears, I agreed. It took FOREVER, for them to get it arranged. Amy stayed with me..... And at 3 am, they put me in an ambulance to take me to a facility that had less crazy people in it. Wait, I'm one of those crazies now. I closed my eyes, took a deep breath, and tried to sleep instead of thinking about what awaited me.