Discovery Part 11
Story resumes from here...
I think this will be my final "Discovery" installment..."Advocacy" series is up next.
Our son's diagnosis has moved to schizoaffective disorder. I'm not much for labels, but he basically has all of the symptoms of bipolar and schizophrenia. And he's home. Again.
Honestly I'm having a hard time recalling this part of our story. We've attempted 3 long term (more than a week) hospitalizations to no avail. Our son is home and still in psychosis. With each successive hospitalization and return to home we notice that we lose part of our son. Literally. It is now October and he's been in a continuous decline. Even with the ACT team, we are finding stabilization to be elusive.
By now I've enrolled in a NAMI (National Alliance for Mental Illness) "Family to Family" class. I find it helpful as well as disturbing at the same time. The teacher of the class has kind things to suggest about homelessness. Almost to the point of making it a viable option for treatment. Yet, the material is good and I find a friend in one of the teachers in training who also has a son with schizoaffective disorder. It's through her that I learn I should not tell the hospital that our son can come home. And, after describing to her the symptoms our son is exhibiting, she confirms our resolve to have him hospitalized.
My husband and I document everything our son says and does, we are communicating with the ACT team. Sometimes in the the middle of the night and sometimes with anguished screaming. I'm not exaggerating (poor ACT team).
Finally we have enough information for the ACT team to petition again for involuntary treatment. This time he is taken to what has become our favorite psychiatric hospital in Phoenix (if there can be such a thing)...St. Luke's. After unsuccessful attempts on differing medications his psychiatrist decides to try Clozaril. The last chance drug of choice with dangerous side effects, only used if nothing else is working (though we didn't know at the time, other drugs had not been tried yet)...
Our son is placed on a regimen of Clozaril. He quickly reacts with fever and tachycardia. Clozaril is not for him. It's Thanksgiving now AND my birthday. I go to visit him with one of my older sons. By now my anger towards God is beginning to bubble to the surface...I try to suppress my thoughts with thankfulness, but they bubble nonetheless...REALLY!! My birthday, God?!?
It doesn't help that when I visit my son, sitting on those ugly, cold plastic chairs again, that he is angry with me, blaming me. Another patient who is also there involuntarily chimes in with the blaming (anger, gurgle, bubbling...inside) I give our son some homemade pumpkin pie from our meal that we brought and notice that the patients aren't receiving anything related to Thanksgiving...I think it was hamburgers or something of the sort...then a woman comes out of nowhere, she is burnt from head to toe (maybe she did it to herself??)...she's so burnt, she can't even bend her arms...she comes out of nowhere to say hello to me and I am startled by her horrific state o.k., God, seriously?!?...is there anything more pitiful than this?...Happy Birthday to me...
Yet, now I am shaken to the core at the sight of this lady. My anger turns a little, I think to God, "why are you allowing me to see this scene...to be here on my birthday and Thanksgiving? I want to be home playing with my grandson and laughing and drinking wine with my husband and all of my kids....but I'm here. This scene is forever cemented in my heart and brain...seered. I will never forget this. How can I now?"
I leave with my older son, with the deepest sorrow I've known...so far. God?!? A mental illness?!? Can anything be more cruel?? Obscure?? Couldn't it be cancer?? At least we would know how to treat it?? There would be happy nurses trying to bring comfort...no plastic cold chairs and hamburgers. And sympathy! Yeah, sympathy! At least some comfort...really God?!?
I go home to a kind daughter in law who gives me a back massage (did I mention how grateful I am that she is a massage therapist?).
I am exhausted with a bitter mix of grief and anger. I fall asleep (collapse) on the floor.
I think this will be my final "Discovery" installment..."Advocacy" series is up next.
Our son's diagnosis has moved to schizoaffective disorder. I'm not much for labels, but he basically has all of the symptoms of bipolar and schizophrenia. And he's home. Again.
Honestly I'm having a hard time recalling this part of our story. We've attempted 3 long term (more than a week) hospitalizations to no avail. Our son is home and still in psychosis. With each successive hospitalization and return to home we notice that we lose part of our son. Literally. It is now October and he's been in a continuous decline. Even with the ACT team, we are finding stabilization to be elusive.
By now I've enrolled in a NAMI (National Alliance for Mental Illness) "Family to Family" class. I find it helpful as well as disturbing at the same time. The teacher of the class has kind things to suggest about homelessness. Almost to the point of making it a viable option for treatment. Yet, the material is good and I find a friend in one of the teachers in training who also has a son with schizoaffective disorder. It's through her that I learn I should not tell the hospital that our son can come home. And, after describing to her the symptoms our son is exhibiting, she confirms our resolve to have him hospitalized.
My husband and I document everything our son says and does, we are communicating with the ACT team. Sometimes in the the middle of the night and sometimes with anguished screaming. I'm not exaggerating (poor ACT team).
Finally we have enough information for the ACT team to petition again for involuntary treatment. This time he is taken to what has become our favorite psychiatric hospital in Phoenix (if there can be such a thing)...St. Luke's. After unsuccessful attempts on differing medications his psychiatrist decides to try Clozaril. The last chance drug of choice with dangerous side effects, only used if nothing else is working (though we didn't know at the time, other drugs had not been tried yet)...
Our son is placed on a regimen of Clozaril. He quickly reacts with fever and tachycardia. Clozaril is not for him. It's Thanksgiving now AND my birthday. I go to visit him with one of my older sons. By now my anger towards God is beginning to bubble to the surface...I try to suppress my thoughts with thankfulness, but they bubble nonetheless...REALLY!! My birthday, God?!?
It doesn't help that when I visit my son, sitting on those ugly, cold plastic chairs again, that he is angry with me, blaming me. Another patient who is also there involuntarily chimes in with the blaming (anger, gurgle, bubbling...inside) I give our son some homemade pumpkin pie from our meal that we brought and notice that the patients aren't receiving anything related to Thanksgiving...I think it was hamburgers or something of the sort...then a woman comes out of nowhere, she is burnt from head to toe (maybe she did it to herself??)...she's so burnt, she can't even bend her arms...she comes out of nowhere to say hello to me and I am startled by her horrific state o.k., God, seriously?!?...is there anything more pitiful than this?...Happy Birthday to me...
Yet, now I am shaken to the core at the sight of this lady. My anger turns a little, I think to God, "why are you allowing me to see this scene...to be here on my birthday and Thanksgiving? I want to be home playing with my grandson and laughing and drinking wine with my husband and all of my kids....but I'm here. This scene is forever cemented in my heart and brain...seered. I will never forget this. How can I now?"
I leave with my older son, with the deepest sorrow I've known...so far. God?!? A mental illness?!? Can anything be more cruel?? Obscure?? Couldn't it be cancer?? At least we would know how to treat it?? There would be happy nurses trying to bring comfort...no plastic cold chairs and hamburgers. And sympathy! Yeah, sympathy! At least some comfort...really God?!?
I go home to a kind daughter in law who gives me a back massage (did I mention how grateful I am that she is a massage therapist?).
I am exhausted with a bitter mix of grief and anger. I fall asleep (collapse) on the floor.
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