It was a dream that woke us both in a panic, and I realized it had been a year.
He has severe chemical depression. I just didn't understand the complexities of "severe". I saw the movie people speak of when mental illness comes up in conversation, "One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest". It was different for him; his isn't the same.
This time he was willing to get help, he would admit himself to the hospital and give up patient rights for 72 hours, which the State deems is the appropriate time for someone who wants to kill themselves (or something like that), also known as "5150". Last time we ended up in the ER as a result of a failed attempt, which meant the trauma unit, ICU, a room where he recovered strength in his lungs with breathing treatments, always monitored by a staff in case he tried to take his life again. He didn't know why he was restrained in the bed that time, tubes going down his throat to breath for him. It was hell that time.
This time was different. He agreed to have help before it got as bad as last time. A hard thing to learn is when your loved one needs more help than you can provide. Knowing in the possibility of moments when he's in the bathroom he could be choking down pills. If I take a shower he could leave. While I'm asleep what is he doing? Will he be okay? I had to hide his pills so that he wouldn't take too many. I was on a mission, a suicide watch.
The doctor was an asshole, a real jerk. I yelled at him once in the hospital. It was 7am and he just finished his 3rd ECT treatment (electroconvolsive therapy), the one like in that movie people talk about. The headaches were bad, nothing was alleviating the pain. "It was his choice to have this treatment," was the doctors response to my advocating for my patient. That was it. I laid in to him, enlightening him to the effects of severe depression, to have elective shock therapy. There is no other choice. The nurse came in, probably sensing my desperation as well as saving me from myself. She told the doctor the next patient was there. Then she hugged me. She was compassionate. It was the first I experienced that in this situation. She was kind.
Tom got to know my car in the parking lot. He would wave every morning, such a sweet man. I hoped he was strong enough to use his billy club if he had too. Wondered if he'd let me borrow it next time I saw the doctor. Treatments were at 6am, alternating days everyday Monday through Friday. "Hi Mrs Hamer, how's your husband?", he was kind. I saw Tom 16 mornings. That's a lot. 16! Haha! How on earth did I get him to the hospital on time, 16 times, at 6am? How did that happen! If you know me, you are probably laughing too. I'm never on time, let alone at 6am!
By the 16th time I had enough. He didn't know where we lived anymore. He knew who I was, but he was different. Ordering food was frustrating. We'd go get a burger and words escaped him. What did he like to eat? He would shampoo his hair several times each shower, not knowing if he'd completed the action already. There's that other movie, "The Notebook," where she can't remember because of alzheimers. He couldn't remember because his brain had been shocked in combating the depression. You know they torture people with ECT? It brings a person to a state of submission. Unless they do it too many times where they can't remember anything. But he didn't want to kill himself anymore; actually didn't remember he had ever wanted to.
I remembered everything. Every day he had a treatment he would come home, take a nap while one of his parents took turns flying down to care for him while I went to work. My lifegroup brought us meals and groceries. For 6 weeks we were provided for. God is good. Even in hell, with misery and witnessing devastation, God was good. He held my hand, and He protected my husband.
I called the asshole and said no more ECT. "There's this other thing we can try." Are you fucking kidding me? I just trusted you with the life of my husband, the only option being torture, and now he resembles a 3 year old. "It's new, insurance might not cover it, but its great. No side effects. Bring him into the office and I'll tell you about it." I had no strength left to yell at him, so we made an appointment.
TMS is what worked, Trans-cranial Magnetic Stimulation. He had to do 80 treatments. But it worked. No more pills, no more suicide watch. His memory is back now too, Praise The Lord.
I woke up screaming "EARTHQUAKE!", he woke up consoling me. He was startled in his sleep from a bear attacking him, and woke up in panic shaking the bed... and so it wasn't an earthquake. We laughed and went back to bed.
There is hope when all hope escapes us.
