Mother's Nature

I don’t need an amusement park to go on a roller coaster ride.

I just need to call my mom.

That ride is enough to make anybody nauseous.

Especially her.

My mom has battled mental illness for most of her life.

And all of mine.

Throughout her 81+ years she’s seen more doctors than Grey’s Anatomy.

She’s been labeled more times than the clearance rack at Bed, Bath and Beyond.

Manic/Depressive.

Chemical imbalance.

Crazy.

Several years ago she got a new title.

Bipolar Disorder.

According to webmd.com:

Bipolar disorder is a serious mental illness that is characterized by extreme changes in mood, from mania to depression. It can lead to risky behavior, damaged relationships and careers, and even suicidal tendencies if it's not treated.

Thankfully the last part has never been an issue for us.

I mean, for her.

5.7 million adults in the United States are living with Bipolar Disorder.

If you call it “living”.

I wasn’t really made aware of her condition until I made it through college.

Sure, I knew she was a little off-center.

But I thought it was just mom being mom.

Well after two husbands tried.

And moved on.

And after my brother gave her everything he had.

My mom was left on my front doorstep.

Literally.

She moved in with us a couple of years ago after she fell, while living on her own.

1000 miles away.

We tried our best to bring her into our home.

But it just didn’t work out.

For us.

Or for her.

Thankfully, I found a beautiful assisted living facility not too far from our home, which had an opening.

I stumbled and fumbled my way through the reams of Medicare paperwork.

But eventually we got the right signature on the right dotted line.

She’s been there for two plus years now.

They feed her.

They bathe her.

They pamper her.

They give her the medication she needs.

And best of all, they give her the attention she deserves.

But even with all of that, they haven’t found the magic potion to keep her moving forward.

Sure, there are stretches.

Long stretches.

Where she is doing well.

Living her life.

But like the four seasons, change is always coming.

The last few years she’s battled a lot more manic than depressive.

And in those manic episodes, it’s usually fine tuning her medication.

Sometimes at home.

Sometimes at the hospital.

But thankfully, we’ve made it through them all.

I mean, she's made it through them all.

Good or bad, right or wrong, I’ve become completely desensitized to the mania.

I have completely accepted the person I’m talking to is not my mom.

But rather some altered state inside her head.

I wish I was more sympathetic.

I really do.

I just can’t do it.

I’ve accepted that with the right adjustment in her meds my mom will return.

And she always does.

But I know that phone will ring again.

I just don’t know when.

Well it rang this morning.

And when I saw it was the assisted living facility, my heart stopped.

Again.

It took them  f i v e   a g o n i z i n g i n g l y   l o n g   s e c o n d s  to notify me that my mom was back in the hospital.

This morning one of the workers went into her room and found my mom shaking uncontrollably.

So they called the paramedics, who took her to a local hospital.

That’s where I spoke with her a couple of minutes ago.

She told me the doctors were not sure what the issue was, but that she hadn’t been sleeping “for a few weeks.”

She would stare at the ceiling throughout the night.

Get up in the morning.

Go to breakfast.  Eat half her plate.

Then go on with her day.

And then collapse into a short nap in the late afternoon.

All while battling a severe depression.

From what, who knows.

Not her.

Not me.

Not her.

I've spoken with her several times over the last few weeks.

And I could tell she was not her best.

But I had no idea how bad it had become.

I must admit my patience in dealing with her disease has worn me out.

Like husband 1.

And 2.

It breaks my heart to think that.

I’m ashamed to say that.

But it’s the truth.

I wish there was something I could do for her.

But I don’t know what it is.

And I don’t know that I have it in me to do it.

Maybe the best thing I could do.

Is what I did.

Deliver her to a fresh new group of caring people at her assisted living facility who want to help.

And thankfully help is what they have provided.

The conversation with my mom today really broke my heart.

I’m sure the guilt of not being there for her was part of it.

But this was not the same mom I’ve spoken to before from the hospital.

She had no explanation on why she hasn’t been sleeping.

Or why she is depressed.

She was plain confused by the entire situation.

But she was not delusional.

She was frustrated.

But not mad.

This was not some whacked out weirdo nut acting crazy.

This was my mom.

Speaking well.

Thinking well.

Acting well.

She was all there.

She just couldn’t figure out what was wrong.

And neither could I.