"Three Hours Outside Myself" - Another Mother's Story

January 19, 2018

There's nothing like an ambulance ride to the emergency room to help you put life back into perspective. On Dec. 28, 2017, I experienced a sudden onset of symptoms that presented much like either a Panic Attack or a Stroke.

After three hours of terrifying symptoms, including the loss of feeling in my limbs as well as a brief spell of aphasia (speech disruption), my condition improved. I regained full use of my limbs and the ability to speak. It was like someone flipped a switch and turned me back on.

The final diagnosis, arrived upon through the process of elimination, was Migraine with Aura.

I'm not writing this post about Migraines or Panic Attacks or Strokes. Instead, I'm writing about what that near brush with death taught me.

I don't claim to understand what it feels like to truly face death, to be diagnosed with a terminal illness or to miraculously survive a catastrophic accident. Nope, I was just really sick for a few short hours. But the things I thought about, the things that swirled around inside my head for those scary hours, really impacted me. Actually, no, it wasn't the things I thought about. It was the things I didn't think about that really caused me to take note.

• I never thought about how much money I had made.
• I never thought about much I weighed or the size of jeans.
• I never thought about whether my purse or my shoes or my coat were this year's hottest trend.
• I never thought about whether or not any gray sprouts were peeking out of my hairline.
• I never thought about how many followers I had on social media.
• And I never thought about who the president is.
• Believe me.

No, for those few scary hours, I thought only about people, my people, the people in my life that matter most to me and how much I love them.

I thought about how my older son had been through so much and how proud I was of his journey. How much I wanted him to continue his recovery and eventually be out on his own.

I thought about my husband and, although we found each other late in life, how lucky we've been to have shared these years together.

And I thought about my younger son, and how proud I was of the young man he is becoming. 

Luckily, this frightening experience was brief and my symptoms subsided quickly. I had only about three hours to worry that my time was up. 

But it's taken me three weeks to get myself to write this. And it was watching the movie "Three Billboard Outside Ebbing, Missouri" that finally inspired me to open up at all. The mother in that movie was filled with such rage, such regret, such pain. And all she wanted was to feel some sense of resolution. She thought she knew exactly what would fix it.

If you've seen the film, you know if her efforts get her what she wanted. If you haven't seen the film, I won't spoil it for you. I'll just say watching that film inspired me to write about this. 

I'm grateful that I had those three hours, just long enough to remember the things that matter and the things that don't. Sometimes you need a few hours outside yourself to bring life back into perspective.

Happy 2018.

~SHM

A Quiet, Steady Hum: The Background Noise of a Mother's Fear

June 26, 2016

I recently read Kristin Hannah's The Nightingale, a wonderfully rich novel about two sisters in France during World War II. They each, in their own way, become heroes. While I don't have a sister, I could definitely relate to another strong theme of this book, the sacrifices of motherhood.

One part struck me as especially significant:


"The sound of his voice reminds me that I am a mother and mothers don't have the luxury of falling apart in front of their children, even when they are afraid, even when their children are adults."


While I have absolutely no experience struggling with the hardships of war, I do know a little bit about being a mother and being afraid. And I agree. We "don't have the luxury of falling apart in front of our children..."

These past few months have been challenging in our home. The newness of my 24-year-old son being released from prison has worn off. The "settling in" period has faded. And now we are faced with the "getting on with living" part of things.

And it hasn't been easy for him. He's had trouble finding consistent work and he's had trouble readjusting to daily life outside prison. He sacrificed so much and changed so much of himself just to survive almost three years behind bars, but it seems that the man he had to become when he was inside isn't the man he wants to be now that he's outside.

As his mother, it's so frustrating to see him frustrated. And I think that's what he is. Frustrated. He's definitely grateful, sure, because he's not in prison anymore. And he's more balanced, yes, because he's being treated with more effective medication. But he's still, from what I see, frustrated.

And, as his mother, I'm afraid. It's not the same kind of fear I used to have. It's not the kind of fear I had when he was unmedicated, when he was irrational and potentially dangerous. No, this fear is muffled, hushed. It's a quiet, steady hum, a muted background noise, swimming gently just below the surface of my mind. It's always there but I try not to hear it. I try to block it out or maybe even accept it as the new normal.

When I do acknowledge its existence, I ask myself what it is I'm afraid of.

I'm afraid of what happens next. I'm afraid of what may happen and of what may not. I'm afraid of unfulfilled potential, of dreams deferred. And I am afraid I may not see that son I once knew again. I am afraid he may fear this, too.

But, I'm his mother, and although I am afraid, I can't show it because I "don't have the luxury of falling apart..."

Renewed for Another Season, the Best One Yet

December 31, 2015

My husband and I enjoy binge-watching highly-rated TV series that we somehow missed. We've watched the entire series of 24 as well as Breaking Bad years past their air-dates. I love to analyze the story arcs, the characters, basically the writing itself, and so does my husband, whose first career was as a writer in Hollywood.

Our current series addiction is The West Wing and the writing of Aaron Sorkin.

I've decided two things based on my exposure to this incredible show. First, Jed Bartlett really SHOULD be our president. I love him. Seriously, he would be perfect, but that's a blog post for another time.

And second, our family's life could be re-written as a TV series.

No, really. Think about it. If you've ever watched an entire television series from start to finish, you'll see what I mean.

Season One of a TV Show: That's when you get to know the characters, learn about the setting, and you basically discover the main conflict, right?

So in our family, Season One would be all about my son's mental health crises and eventual diagnosis of bipolar disorder. There would be mis-diagnoses at first. Denial, misunderstandings, but by the season finale, you know the deal. Bipolar Disorder is the antagonist.

Second and Third Seasons of a TV Show: These are when the characters each take on their own mini-conflicts and the audience learns more about each character and how each subplot fits into the larger dynamic of the show itself.

So in our family, Season Two would be all about my older son's denial and self-medicating behaviors, my younger son's own denial (like his rebound to high-achieving academics despite his brother's struggles), and my own diagnosis and treatment issues. Season Three would be when my husband Tom comes into our lives, eventually moving in with us and his own story meshes into each of ours. Remember, the main conflict is still my older son's illness and how we are all affected by it.

Fourth Season of a TV Show: Here's where the television studios really start to take chances. The show has grown in popularity and they want to try some new things. Maybe some actors are demanding bigger paychecks or they're threatening to leave. Those who stay may decide they want to direct some episodes or they may suddenly appear with producer credits. Some are even killed off and replaced by different characters the audience must get to know. The writing takes some turns in the fourth season. There are flashback episodes, dream sequence episodes and maybe trips to Hawaii where the leads get lost in a cave. Some of these episodes may really suck. The characters may suffer and the audience may fear the series is doomed. And it may well be. Season Four is just about the time when risk becomes a player in the show's vitality. Sometimes the risks are worth it, and other times they lead to cancellation.

So in our family, Season Four has to be the Incarceration of my Son. Nothing more to say here. It's at least a season's worth of total setting shift, focus shift, attention shift. Risk. Pain. Fear. Conflict. You name it. We had it.

If you're lucky enough to make it past Season Four, there is a Season Five, maybe Season Six, and possibly even a Season Seven. These final seasons share one main thread: the search for resolution of the main conflict. Sometimes there are wild twists and turns, but you know if you've been on board since Season One, you're not giving up now. You're determined to see it through. As each character's subplots are stitched back up, the bigger conflict is slowly sewn together too. Season Finale: Resolution at last.

So in our family, our last few seasons would, of course, involve the resolving of our subplots: my younger son decides on a college and heads off to the freshman dorms; Tom and I return to Las Vegas for the third time and finally get married while we're there; and, after two and a half years, my older son is released from prison, committed to making a better life for himself.

I haven't actually seen the final seasons of The West Wing yet. 

And I haven't seen our series finale either. 

But there is good news on both fronts.

I trust in the writing of Aaron Sorkin. He crafts stories we can all understand. We feel inspired because, simply, his words capture the truth.

And I trust in the determination of my son. He envisions better days ahead. He is inspired to resolve his conflict. To take control of the writing; to take it away from bipolar disorder and bring it back to his eager hands so he may discover his own truth in the next season of his life.

Handcuffs Save Lives

Nov. 3, 2013

So much media attention has been given to the connection between crime and mental illness, but I am not here to join that fray. I am simply stating a fact: my 21 year old bipolar son is in prison.  Though he had no criminal record, he may serve more than 3 years for the crimes he committed. 

There are days when I barrage myself with questions, aching with anxiety over my son's new reality. Why him? Why us? Where did I go wrong? What did I miss? Why did he do it? And, Why didn't I just bail him out? Was I too upset? Too hurt? Too angry? Too frightened? Why didn't I just bail him out? 

There were so many factors involved in my decision not to bail him out. Not only was his bail set so high it exceeded the value of my home, I was standing behind something I'd been telling him—“If you get arrested, I am not bailing you out.” Tough love they call it. I'd been telling him this for over a year, “If you get arrested, I am not bailing you out.”

Today, seven months after his arrest, I definitely go through pangs of heavy guilt for not trying harder to gather the bail money. I probably could have done it with family and friends' help. But when I am really honest with myself, I know the truth: 

Being arrested saved my son's life.

During the time leading up to my son's arrest, he was a ticking time bomb. He self-medicated with drugs and alcohol, unable to hold down a job. He no longer lived with me, a choice he made when he refused mental health treatment the year before. Instead, he planted his belongings at his dad's house but more often than not, slept wherever his head hit a pillow or even floor. More than once, he was even kicked out of his dad's house for stealing, something he'd done to me too.

And the lies. The lies he told us just added to our pain. He had himself convinced that we didn't know about his lifestyle, but we knew. We all knew. In his own words, now seven months later, he calls himself “a lying, cheating, piece of sh*t con-artist.” I can't disagree. That's who he was. That's what his illness left untreated allowed him to become. So back then I was living day to day with this reality: I will someday get a phone call telling me one of two things—either my son has been arrested or my son is dead.

When I received the call in March, there were no theatrics. I didn't cry or yell. I simply sat down in a daze and thought, “At least he's not dead.” There were no tears that night, just a thick fog in my mind and a sick feeling in my gut, neither of which have subsided since.

These past seven months have been filled with a lifetime's worth of pain for our family. And the pain is not over yet. There will be years of it. But there is hope. Yes, there is indeed hope. On the day of his arrest, my son told the officers that he was bipolar and that he'd been off his medication. He asked if he could go back on it. So after a short bout of detox the hard way, cold turkey, my son began to take a prison prescribed regimen of bipolar medications. While these aren't the desired ones that his doctors would have prescribed, they are at least something in the right direction. His mania and depression are somewhat treated, though not completely. But in prison, mental health care is subpar, or at least that's what we've experienced.

Today, though, my son is a new man. Yes, he wears DOC whites and speaks to me through glass when I visit, but he is completely a brand new man. He has accepted the consequences of his actions. He is seeking forgiveness from all those in his life that he wronged. 

And he is himself again. He is the articulate, curious, clever, creative, witty, charming lover of life I knew before bipolar disorder took him from me. My son is back. And when he gets out of that cement hell, he will be a man whom people will respect and revere. 

Being arrested saved my son's life.