"You
can wait in here." The nurse showed us into a small office, smiled
cheerily, and left us alone. For a few seconds I lost control, clung to
my husband, and cried. Then I pulled away, wiped my face, sat in one
of the blue vinyl chairs, and stared at the wall.
It seemed my whole life was spent
studying walls. Counting nails or tacks, bricks, concrete block, or
following the flower patterns in wall paper. And now I was studying
another wall, nubby plaster painted an institutional green, willing
myself to be somewhere else, to not think about what was happening, to
not feel.
My husband stood behind the chair and put his arms around me. "Please try to relax, Cary. It'll be OK. You'll see."
I couldn't say anything. So I
didn't. But I sure thought a lot. Mostly questions. How did this
happen to me? I had always been strong, surviving hell first as a
child, and then again in a disastrous first marriage. Now, for the
first time, life was good -- and I was falling apart.
The crisis reached a peak two
days earlier. Dave and I were attending an outdoor concert on one of
those hot, humid late- summer days. Suddenly my heart started racing
and I had the sensation of my body separating from my "self." Never
having died before, I wasn't certain, but I was pretty sure that was
what was happening. My mind flooded with insane, inane thoughts.
"I
can't die here. It would be so embarrassing. It would ruin the
concert for everyone else." I willed myself to pull back together, but
the line between life and death seemed very fragile.
That evening I tenuously
suggested I might need "a little outside counseling." Relief flooded
Dave's face and he said quickly, "We can check out some hospitals next
week." Inside, I panicked! "Hospital?! I don't need a hospital. Just
a little help."
Sunday morning started out OK. I
felt rested. Half way through the church service, though, I lost
control again, and ran out of the sanctuary crying. I sat outside on
the step and sobbed. Dave followed me out and held me. All I could do
was ask over and over, "What's wrong with me? What's wrong with me?"
He didn't answer, because, of course, he had no answers.
And now it was Monday morning,
Labor Day, and I was staring at a wall. In a hospital. Earlier that
day, one of the hospital's nurses, our friend, had suggested, rather
casually, that I come over, even though it was a holiday. "One of our
counselors will be there and he can talk to you." She revealed later
that she knew what was happening and I needed help desperately. She
didn't want to risk losing me.
A short rap on the door was
followed by a soft "Good morning." I turned to look in the direction of
the voice and saw it belonged to a pleasant middle-aged black male
face. He shook hands with us and slouched comfortably into his chair,
sifted through some papers on his desk, and brought out a file with my
name printed in the corner. All I could think was, "They're quick.
Doesn't take long to become a number in the computer."
He looked
at me. I tried to maintain eye contact. I wanted to at least look
like I had some volition in this decision. But, seeing the compassion
in his eyes, mine filled with tears and I immediately shifted my focus
to a point just south of his chin. "Cary, your intake information and
evaluation indicate you are in the midst of a severe depressive
reaction."
I shot a sharp glance up to his face and thought rather than said, "Bright deduction. I knew that much."
He continued. "We will be exploring several areas during your stay, not the least of which is the abuses of your childhood..."
I interrupted. "What possible bearing can my childhood have on this situation? I handled all that a long time ago."
He smiled indulgently and I could
almost feel him patting my head. "Cary, I think you're wrong. I
believe you'll discover your childhood is handling you." He paused. I
clenched my teeth exhibiting the characteristic "tight jaws" defense I
used when I felt backed into a wall.
"Anyhow," he said, "we'll find out in time."
"How much time? My daughter is singing in a program in ten days and I need to be there."
"I'm sorry, but I think you need to stay here for four weeks. Minimum."
Once
again panic struck. "Four weeks? Oh no, I can't possibly be here that
long. I have a house, you know, and responsibilities." I stood up.
"We'll go home and talk about it."
Dave stood then, but did not start
for the door. He reached out his hand and touched my arm. I turned and
saw his eyes flooded with tears and anguish in his face. "Cary.
Please. Please stay. If not for yourself, do it for us."
I cried then. How could I refuse
him? Dave loved me. He was one of few people in my whole life who
treated me kindly and with respect.
"I'm so scared...so scared," I
sobbed out.
Our tears mingling, he kissed me gently and said again, "It'll be OK, Cary. It'll be OK."
I stayed.
======================================
This is a story I wrote a number of years ago for a writing group. It's almost
exactly what happened at the hospital entry stretch, and it IS exactly
what occurred during the previous weekend at a concert and church. I
entered the hospital/treatment center on Labor Day, 1987, 3 weeks before
our 2nd anniversary. I would never have expected my body to explode
from the goodness of life, but, according to the psychiatrists and
counselors, that is exactly what happened. I was the first person who
had ever been admitted to this hospital/addiction location as a
codependent with a straight-line heart, indicating I was dying.
Alcoholics and drug addicts sometimes had it; no one like me ever had. I
was a "shocker to even them.
Their description: For years I had
been in, or ready for, a battle, needing to fight for myself or others.
When being with Dave, I had entered an R & R phase of life and rested and
enjoyed myself. Then, suddenly, my system "needed" to jump back into
battles. My internal system "said" the R & R was over. But there
wasn't a battle, so "I" was falling apart.
Can I say even now that my month there was a blessing? On God's side, yes. On my
side I struggled with nearly every minute, hour, day. But, between
that several-week stretch and a couple years of Christian group meetings
re: Adult Children of Alcoholics and other basic counseling, I
improved. Significantly.
Now,
26 years later, I'm still a "battler", but, instead of family and
cultural conflict, it's almost always connected to spiritual warfare.
So, in spite of the fact that I didn't want to deal with those mental
and medical issues, I am now freer than ever to simply focus on and
serve our Lord and obey Him when He directs me to His battle sites.
HALLELUJAH!!
Joseph took a sweatshirt and sweatpants out of a bag and set it aside for now. He also showed him the toothbrush and a toothpaste. Ipullet jumped by him and showed him a piece of dish soap and body soap. She was filled with joy.
To help him sit up, Ipullet held his hand and drew him up. Joseph said he would take a photo of Boniface and Ipullet and Jill and Cary. The only place it could be taken was on his bed-sitting position. Cary, sitting next to Ipullet, and not right by Boniface, she felt the heat radiating from his body. Boniface looked very painful and leaned and bent and groaned. 
