Exodus – Part IV & Conclusion

Posted on April 30, 2013 by Suzanne

Continuation…

My second day in the clink, I was sent through the rounds of meeting personally with a medical doctor, a leisure therapist, and an occupational therapist. The OT glowered at me at the of our interview: “I’ve seen people leave this place too soon, and they just end up back here in a week.” Madame, no matter how I feel, I’m not setting a toenail near this place again, ever! Count on it.

I was even more eager to see the psychiatrist who would be my ticket home, so I went to the nurses’ station and asked meekly: ”I’m sorry, I don’t mean to be pushy, but I was wondering if I was scheduled to meet with the psychiatrist today?” I was told I was going to be seen shortly. I thanked the nurse on duty and left.

Well, I did not see the psychiatrist. I saw a nurse practitioner psychiatrist. Her manner and appearance was that of a liberal ex-nun.  After introductions, I quietly explained my desire and reasons for wanting to be discharged. She became very abrupt and said, “Well, we can talk about that more after you’ve answered my questions.” My hopes sank. Her tone was all disapproval and control. But, naturally, I complied.

We went through the same medical history I had gone through at least four times prior to this in-take and would have to go through twice more. At the end, she told me: “Well, I can’t say we’ll release you today for sure. Maybe tomorrow, but I can’t promise today.” And, then, with the gravitas of patronizing superiority: “We take depression in pregnancy very seriously.” I angrily thought: “But do you care about the effects of sleep deprivation in pregnancy?!”

Later that day, I met with a very kind young man who was a social worker. Husband and I both talked to him separately and were each left with the impression that he was the only one we talked to from that place who seemed intelligent, personable and reasonable. When he interviewed me, he talked to me as though I were a real person and understood my plight. He was astounded that they had ever admitted me and was determined to have me released as soon as possible.

He tried as hard as he could to get me released that evening. But he ran up against the nurse practitioner who related reports that I had been “pushy” and moody throughout the day. The “pushy” really got me because it was a word *I* used when politely asking when I would meet the psychiatrist.  As for “moody,” I’m not sure upon what they were basing that judgment, but is it really abnormal for a nauseous, sleep deprived, pregnant woman to be moody? Really? For nearly an hour, he argued with her and lost. He brought me an extra mattress and pillow and apologies for not succeeding despite his best efforts. Bless him! His thoughtfulness and kindness alone made the verdict bearable.

But I worried about how in the heck I was going to pull off “normal” with another sleepless night. Fortunately, I did conk out for two or three hours that night. The kind social worker checked in to me in the morning to see how I fared. He was confident I would be released that day.

And, I was indeed given permission to leave after a five-minute conversation with the psychiatrist, who was very kind and understanding. He actually expressed great empathy at my having to have this experience during pregnancy.

None of the medical personnel, including another nurse practitioner psychiatrist and a psychologist with whom I followed up could believe I had been admitted. They simply did not understand it based upon my medical history, background, and social situation. It was clear to them that this was a pregnancy/hormonal, and not life-related, reaction.

My husband had asked the social worker why I had been admitted. It turns out that in my initial interview with the in-take nurse I shook my head “yes” to a leading question. “Any thoughts of suicide or hurting other people?” Definitely not. And, then compassionately: “You might not mind if you died, but you’re not planning to do anything about it, right?”  I nodded and consequently sealed my fate. For Pete’s sake! Christians don’t fear death, we know Heaven is without suffering, but that doesn’t mean we’re gonna off ourselves when we’re struggling!

Now, this series was not so much intended to be about me, or to make you feel bad for me. Honestly. I’m fine now. The medication is working well. I’m sleeping at night, and I’m only nauseous in the mornings from the pregnancy.

My point is to help illustrate the state of health care for those suffering from depression. My husband reminded me that mental health facilities of the past would have made this place seem like a paradise. I will grant that. I also know if you have the money, you can pay for better private care. I will also grant that some of the dehumanizing policies may have been grounded in very practical purposes and that limited funding keeps salaries low and the quality of support staff middling (at best).

However, it is my firm belief based upon my experience that true health and healing from depression depends upon true compassion and Christ-like love. One does not heal with group therapy sessions, doing crafts with tissue paper, or sharing feelings about what a “poem” means, or sharing your deepest, darkest shame and sorrow with a group of complete strangers caught up in their own suffering.

Love heals and restores. Faith heals and restores. Truth heals and restores. Being treated according to your personal dignity heals and restores. We desperately need Catholic facilities and religious to tend to depressed and mentally ill patients in need of care. I don’t believe the secular world and its methods of addressing psychological needs can offer all that patients truly need.

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Voluntary — I Don’t Think it Means What You Think it Means — Part III

Posted on April 29, 2013 by Suzanne

…Continuation

I got up from my bed determined. I was here by my own choice, I could leave by my own choice. I went to the nurses station and explained I didn’t think being there, away from my loving and supportive family and friends, was going to be very conducive to healing my anxiety. (Never mind that I’d never ever been separated from my children overnight before!) Moreover, I was suffering insomnia and I have never in my life slept well away from home — even in four star hotels!

They told me discharge was not possible until I had spoken with Dr. F. I asked when that would happen. He was already gone for the day. (This was around noon!) I was told he would be back in early the next day. I reminded them I was there voluntarily. The response was: “Once you’re here, you have to stay until you’re discharged by a psychiatrist for liability reasons.”

I went back to my room, shut the door and cried. At some point, I reminded myself of St. Maximilian Kolbe and bucked up a little. This place was surely better than Auschwitz. The bed was probably like the ones modern nuns sleep on in convents. And, much better than what more than half the world sleeps on. And, it was just one night. For some reason, this was God’s will for me right now. I tried very hard to accept all that in my heart.

I walked around the common area where the other patients were. Nobody regarded me — neither patients nor staff. Kind people to talk to, my left foot! A quick survey of the room told me this was a very different crowd from the one in which I have been happily ensconced (should I saw secluded?) for the last 20 years — conservative Christian academic types.

Yes, I get out into the world to go shopping and any number of other activities. But I’ve never had to spend much personal time with people very, very different from myself. The secular culture not informed by faith can be very ugly. I had forgotten what popular music and television and totally secular conversation was like. I cringe to remember it all.  But how will these folks ever know there can be a better existence if we do not share the Good News?

One woman did finally talk to me. She was suffering from dementia — she was only in her late fifties. I have no idea why she was placed in the depression unit. While we had a clear and meaningful conversation that first day, her lucidity got markedly worse from that first day I was there. And, no one on staff seemed to know how to respond to her. They didn’t not even seem to have natural kindness or common sense to guide them.

I went to a few group therapy sessions (we won’t ‘forced’ to — but if we wanted to leave…). Again, how they offer any real help to the severely depressed is beyond my comprehension. There was a “leisure therapist” who was there to help us discover interesting hobbies we could take up — but naturally, only once we were back in the real world, because there was nothing but a t.v. for recreation there!

One “therapist” read a rather insipid self-help poem and asked everyone to write how it applied to them. Then everyone had to share (you don’t get points toward your release if you don’t share!). I was heartbroken by the stories I heard from my fellow patients — suicide attempts, a clearly intelligent teen girl who cut herself, alcoholics, a paint sniffer, a man who boarded himself in to his mobile home to hide from the world.

That night I lay upon my bed thinking of those stories and how different that place would be if religious sisters ran it. I thought about this order of sisters. I thought of Mother Teresa’s Missionaries of Charity. The joy in the hearts of these sisters and the deep recognition and understanding of each human person’s value and dignity would be singularly transformative in any sort of mental health facility. Patients who suffer from depression could particularly benefit, even with every external hardness in the unit in which I was placed.

Speaking of some of the external hardness, I will say I understand the need for safety precautions in facilities for suicidal individuals. But too often measures and policies deemed necessary for “the patient’s own good” violate personal dignity. So many who are depressed need help realizing their personal dignity, not to have it stripped away. Might certain safety hazards be risked for the greater good of personal respect?

That night I did not sleep. And, everyone in the unit was awakened at 3:00 a.m. when one of the patients returned from dialysis at the hospital. Something happened while transitioning her into her bed and the mental health assistant or nurse on duty was in a great panic, yelling loud enough to wake the dead for assistance. And, everyone’s bedroom door was open because patients are peeked in on throughout the night.

Come morning, I was determined to see that staff psychiatrist and gain the necessary permission for my release!

To Be Continued…

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Part II — My Time in the Clink

Posted on April 26, 2013 by Suzanne

…Continuation

By the time the Husband and I got to the clinic, I couldn’t stop weeping. For me, the weeping was a release for the anxious feelings, but it was still annoyingly uncontrollable and not rooted in my thoughts or any authentic feelings. I think that was what was most frustrating about the anxiety and panic feelings. They, too, were completely unconnected to any real-life worries, so it was not as though I could just “think about something else” to relax.

The first in-take nurse we met was very kind. She asked me a number of questions and seemed to understand immediately what my problem was — wrong medicine. The very-safe-for-pregnancy anti-anxiety med was well known among professionals for making anxiety worse in some people. I was one of the lucky ones.

She was very confident that the psychiatrist on staff could simply write me a prescription for a med I had taken during a previous pregnancy (for moderate depression and anxiety — there is a strong correlation with pregnancy/hormones and anxiety/depression for me). She said I could just simply follow-up with my OB afterwards.

So, the Husband and I went back to the waiting room and walked around a bit. Blessed relief! I felt better knowing that I could take a med that had worked so well for me before. I felt better knowing something could fix the misfiring in my brain. Something simple could be done for me, and it would make life normal again.

Soon, the nurse called us back into offices. She looked nervous and rather discombobulated and distraught. Instead of bringing us to the office where she initially interviewed us, she brought us to a big empty room with a large bench in the corner.

Then she told us: “Well, I was wrong. Dr. F wants you to stay in the Depression Unit for 3-5 days.” The Husband and I looked at each other in shock. I was not suicidal. I had no inclination to hurt anybody. I was just a highly anxious and panicky insomniac.  I had also used the same medication before. Why did I have to stay?

She tried to reassure me that I would at least be getting some good rest, and I would have very nice people to talk to there, and that it was a unit for depressed persons, not psychiatric patients. And, then she encouraged me to tell the folks upstairs that childcare for my children was a major concern — so I could get out more quickly. That should have been a tip that it wasn’t going to be a lovely haven of happiness.

I really thought it might not be so bad. (Although, I had serious doubts about my ability to sleep away from home.) Perhaps, there would be pretty colors and beautiful paintings, soft lighting, and lovely music or relaxing ocean sounds. Maybe I could see a masseuse! (Hey, a girl can hope!) And, I would be relieved of childcare and household duties for a few days while I rested and recovered.

Moreover, not to consent to the proposed hospitalization meant no treatment, no prescription. I just wanted to feel well again, so I consented. Looking back, I should have gone home and called my OB for the prescription.

We got an inkling that it wasn’t going to be quite so homey and sweet when we were told no electronics, no cell phones, no money, no food and children were not allowed to visit. A burly security guard(!) did a metal detection scan and rifled through my purse to make sure I wasn’t carrying a contraband Kindle or any other comforts of home on their long list of no-no’s. He then escorted me to the unit and the Husband had to leave me at the elevators.

My impression of the place was sealed when I got off the elevator leading to the unit. As soon as I opened my mouth to talk to someone up there, I felt treated with indifferent dismissiveness. I felt like a criminal. Worse, like I wasn’t even a person. I was a “thing” to be managed.

After a very long intake, going over my entire medical history, two mental health “assistants” (not nurses, not medical personnel) made me strip down to inspect for scars. They asked me to show them my C-section scar. Really!? I was sent out of that room without my shoes, not permitted to have them again until I was released. None of the patients was allowed to wear shoes.

I was shown my room and my bed. The room was new and fresh if somewhat spartan. We, at least, had our own toilets and sinks. But showers were communal by sex, and taken under the watchful eye of a “mental health assistant,” not even at a scheduled time, but at their convenience.

I was so very tired. I sat down on the bed — a one inch, plastic mattress on a wooden platform. The sheets were so rough my knees were chafed and raw after one night. The television was blaring voices from an insipid daytime talk show in the open area next to my room. I shut the door. It was just as loud. This was a mistake. I wanted out. Now.

To Be Continued…

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Where, Oh, Where Has LKF Gone?

Posted on April 25, 2013 by Suzanne

If you’ve followed my blog since before Ambrose was born, you know my lengthy abandonment of this place means just one thing:

That’s right. This “infertile” woman is expecting Baby #3. Thank you, NaPro Technology.

As with my first two pregnancies, I suffered from morning all-day-and-night sickness. I also experienced something more debilitating. I didn’t know that there was anything worse than pregnancy nausea, but it turns out, at least in my case, there is.

(This is a very personal story in some ways. And, I hesitated for a long time before I decided to share it publicly. But because my experiences and conclusions based on those experiences have weighed heavily upon me these last couple of months, I felt I must share — and not for my sake.)

Soon after the nausea hit full force, I began to suffer from insomnia. And, when I say I suffered from insomnia, I don’t mean it took me an hour or two to fall asleep or that I couldn’t sleep for more than 4-6 hours. I mean UP. ALL. NIGHT.

The insomnia started the night my husband cooked bacon for supper. The smell of bacon sent me into fits of sickness, and the smell lingered in the house throughout the night. So, I figured I would just nap with my kiddos the next afternoon. But I couldn’t fall asleep at naptime, nor the whole next night — even with Unisom.

I had some typical pregnancy moodiness up to this point — easy to tears, irritable, and some mild anxiety. The insomnia sent my anxiety and irritability through the roof. I knew I needed help.

I called my midwife’s office. “We don’t recommend anything before ten weeks, except warm milk and a warm bath before bed. But if you really haaaave to, you could take Tylenol PM. But we prefer you don’t. Nothing before ten weeks. If you want to talk more about it, come in on Tuesday.” This was Friday. If I don’t sleep, I thought, I’ll be dead by Tuesday.

I called the OB who helped us overcome our fertility issues. He prescribed an anti-anxiety med that is considered very safe in pregnancy. (I’m not naming it because I don’t want Google searches for it directing here.) I was told it could take 4-6 weeks to reach full potency. It seemed to help — for a week.

Because I found my midwife so singularly unhelpful when I really needed her, I switched to a regular OB practice. Dr. K recommended melatonin. I was in the Emergency Room, at Dr. K’s suggestion, the next afternoon after experiencing full-fledged panic attacks and another night of total insomnia. I had gone two full nights without sleep and every time I started to drift off, my body startled me awake as though someone had just jumped out to say “BOO!”

The medical staff at the ER told me to increase the amount of anti-anxiety med I was taking, and Dr. K gave them permission to prescribe a strong sleep aid. I was told this was almost certainly caused by the hormonal fluctuations of pregnancy and was more common than people realized. I was also prescribed an antibiotic for a UTI, which had gone undetected. This plan worked — for four days (during which I also had the stomach flu — good grief).

On the fourth morning, I woke up at four a.m. and couldn’t stop shaking with anxiety. The husband and I decided I needed an immediate follow-up with a doctor or medical facility that could take me in the same day. Our local hospital has a psychiatric walk-in clinic, and the ER said to follow-up there if necessary, so there we went.

And, this is where life went off the rails.

To Be Continued…

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A Christmas Season Near Its End

Posted on January 12, 2013 by Suzanne

First real snowfall.

This Sunday’s liturgy commemorating (not sure if that’s the right word) the Baptism of Our Lord marks the end of the liturgical season of Christmas.

It was a very busy December with Advent preparations and feasts. January likewise has been filled with trips and visitors. Christmas with children is always joyful and bright.

St Lucy Day

St. Lucy Buns (a cheat with Pillsbury Orange Rolls). We’re gonna have to have a strict Lent to make up for a festive Christmas.

St John Cantius Parish in Chicago on Epiphany.

She couldn’t stand for the Baby Jesus to be cold and covered in snow.

Ambrose and Lily enjoy their doughnuts … Ambrose a little more expressively than Lily.

Trying out her new sled from Auntie.

And, it has been a season filled with prayers and anxieties for friends with serious health concerns and others who suffered losses and for my Mom.

Nothing makes me miss home like Christmas. Especially this year. Mom had a fall few days before Christmas. She was at the house for Christmas with the rest of my family. Truth be told, she likely forced herself to be home for everyone else.

A couple days later she went to the hospital for the pain she had been in since her fall. At her own request. So, I imagine the pain was a rather big deal. She’s not one to complain. She always muddles through.

So, she’s now in the nursing home going through rehab and hoping to return home in a month or so. Please keep her in your prayers, if you would.

 

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