Savant's mental pain has exceeded maximum capacity. A few days ago, on Sunday, he attempted to be permanently pain free. We had no idea. He didn't tell us until Monday evening that he wasn't sure if he was dead or not, because he overdosed on medication the night before.
Though I write about some little insights he has shared with me or that I have observed, and may delude myself into thinking that I know whether he is doing well or poorly, I have no idea. No idea what is going on in that handsome head.
Monday, if seen on a movie screen, would be surreal. Picture a kitchen at night with the father sitting at the table wearing protective goggles because he had Lasik eye surgery that morning. The 22 year old son is very confused about reality and he and his father have spent the previous half hour in his bedroom in private conversation. The son, Savant, has left the kitchen to check some medical information on the internet. He re-enters the room just before his mother enters the kitchen from a different door.
Father: What did you decide?
Son: I might be in a coma.
Father: This is quite a coma.
Mother: Thank you for letting us be in your coma.
He was actually more inclined to believe that he was dead. He asked me earlier if he was a ghost and I said no, that he was not dead. I didn't convince him.
Also earlier, just after they left Savant's room:
Savant: Did I hurt your eyes by making you cry?
Father: No. (followed by many assurances, meant to be comforting, that he had not hurt his eyes.)
-I was too upset to remember the many questions and answers we spoke. It is difficult enough to recall a regular conversation, but one with a person who is irrational and suffering and trying his hardest to make rational sense out of the faulty information his brain provides to him, can only be remembered in bits and pieces. Most of it is lost from memory because your own emotional overload of heartbreak and helplessness and fear for this lost boy, is so profoundly strong.
I did not sleep that night. My job is to keep the *elephants away. I would not be able to forgive myself if one got through. Savant did not sleep either. I crawled into bed at about 5:00 AM and his father got up soon after that. Savant took a shower; something we had not been able to do for a week. Our water heater was on the fritz and it happens to be one that has to have parts specially ordered. Due to a snafu, the parts were delayed in arriving. Husband and I heated water on the stove for bathing, but Savant turned down that method of getting clean.
So this is how Tuesday was spent. Savant's father left to see the eye doctor and then on to work. I spent the day trying to answer unanswerable questions as best I could. I telephoned his doctor's office from my closet so Savant wouldn't hear me. He would not have believed that I was making a harmless call. He is terrified of police, and fears they want him to spend his life behind bars. No amount of reassurance from us calms this fear. His doctor is on vacation for the next three weeks and I hoped to speak to whomever was on call for her. The secretary said that I was correct to think that an attempt at suicide was a huge justification for hospitalization and to check him in there, as soon as possible. Easier said than done.
An involuntary committal involves police, handcuffing the terrified Savant and being his escorts until he is admitted into the hospital. This process can sometimes take an entire day. I was not going to do that this time. So I spent the day trying to get him into the truck. To agree to go to the hospital. We made it into the truck once and sat there with the heater on, the engine going, Savant so frightened. Then back into the house... I think it was 4:00 PM when we finally left the house, with his consent. I had not realized, until he told me, that he was just as afraid of staying home as he was of going to the hospital. What did not sink in until he said that, was that he needed me to take control of the situation, be the parent, and say that he was going to the hospital and that was final. I'm not comfortable being bossy, so I had assumed that he would react badly if I made an ultimatum that he go with me to the hospital and the result would be that I'd never get him into the truck again. His paranoia makes him believe that he can't trust anyone. Everyone's motives for everything they say or do, are suspect in his eyes. Where would I really be taking him? What bad intent might really be motivating me to be so determined to take him somewhere in the truck?
So today, Wednesday, I hope the hospital and the staff can work some magic and take away his pain and fear and confusion. Help him find, in himself, a reason to stay alive. He says there is no hope for him, no need for him to go on living; he has become obsessed with the idea of his own death. It would break our hearts forever. I don't want it to happen. I'm too exhausted to write this out, any more, for now.
I just got a call from Savant. He didn't have anything to say, but it was good to hear his voice. (For those of you who do not know, Savant developed schizophrenia when he turned 18; and the name, Savant, came from his suggestion that his pseudonym for my blog could be: Idiot Like a Savant.)
* this is a reference to an old joke that goes somewhat as follows:
Person 1: What are you doing?
Person 2: Keeping the elephants away.
Person 1: That's crazy! There aren't any elephants around here!
Person 2: Then I'm doing a good job.
Monday, January 15, 2007
Tuesday, January 09, 2007
Let Past Pain Go and Thanks For Not Raping Me
from Sunday, May 01, 2005
You can't tell from my entries, but I'm trying to let the past go. This is my dumping ground. I've got to set this load down before it does any more damage to me. Have you heard the expression, "hurt in a moment, healed with time, scarred for life"? That is true for both body and mind.
They seem so petty, some of the things that I'm letting go of. (I can feel the "Proper English Police" writing me a ticket.)
When I was little, I tried to make sense out of things I didn't understand. Some of the answers didn't fall into place until I grew up; some are still a mystery.
Why did the Doberman always growl at us, we were just little kids looking for approval and love? Sure we played and got loud and rambunctious sometimes; WE WERE KIDS! He drank too much, still fond of the booze. The more he drank, the more annoying our presence became to him. I still become four years old if someone gets mad at me, when I haven't done anything wrong. I felt like I must have been a source of torment to the Doberman, just by the fact that I existed. If you saw his ears and scalp pull back you knew an attack was on it's way.
My siblings had the sense to keep out of his way and be quiet when he snarled. I, on the other hand, would sometimes try to return the growls. I figured if he was going to rip me to shreds, lets get it over with, now! I could hear my siblings yelling at me to shut up, I was just making him madder! He always won the growling matches.
He's an old dog now, but last time I saw him, after libations, he growled that we were all assholes. Wow! I had internalized that a long time ago; I believed it and knew it wasn't true, at the same time. Incongruity; try and figure out who you are in that kind of atmosphere.
I have had migraine headaches my whole life. Cigarette smoke, buss fumes, perfume, crying, stress.. trigger them. Our home and car were always filled with some of the above. Try to calm a baby like me with a cigarette in your mouth, it won't happen. I would feel so sick. I would beg to have a window opened and I would vomit, particularly on car and airplane rides, smoking was still allowed on planes back then and the windows on them don't open. My parents decided I had "motion sickness". I was told that I was a hypochondriac. My very real pain was dismissed as trying to get attention. My first therapist said, "What's wrong with giving a child attention? Isn't that what parents are supposed to be doing?" I'd really never thought of it that way, even though I tried to be compassionate with my own children, so they would grow up feeling that they had been heard, loved, and any invisible pain was taken seriously.
I gave birth naturally, meaning, without pain medication, to three children; so I can say for a fact that the cramps I had as a teenager, with my period, were worse. The cramps were like one horrible contraction that did not stop all day and into the night. This was pain that aspirin had no power to weaken. I guess it was another of those "character building experiences" to be made to go to school when I was in this condition. If I went to the school Nurse, my mother would not let her send me home. Give her some aspirin and send her back to class! I was never taken to a doctor for my cramps or migraines. I also had another invisible illness, Depression. I knew that something was wrong from an early age. I just felt awful so much of the time. Everyone else seemed happy more of the time than I did. At home a swift kick in the pants was suggested, but not delivered in that fashion. One parent said, "You think I don't feel like shit sometimes? You just do what you have to do, you can't curl up in a ball and feel sorry for yourself!"
When I was old enough to see a Doctor on my own, I got the "life's rough, Honey, get used to it!" speech. My next try to get help (I was fairly pretty back then and extra stupid) was met with the, "Yeah, I'd like to have your problems." speech. Then there was the doctor who decided that fondling my breasts and crotch must be done, by him, immediately. He was shaking and breathing funny during the exam - I was there to get a mole removed.
My broken "People Radar", was my faithful companion. I was nearly raped in Chapel Hill, NC. I was on campus, very "flower childy", peace, love your fellow travelers on this plane of existence, etc...I was on The University campus there, not as a student, just enjoying it's beauty and marveling at their lovely collection of trees.
A nicely dressed, polite, young man sitting on a bench says Hi, and we start up a conversation. He said he was a graduate student and teaching assistant and these responsibilities were causing lots of stress for him. I asked him if he had tried Yogic breathing; it has a relaxing effect. He said No, but , could I show him how to do it? Behind the bench were trees and shrubs, he suggested that I teach it to him, there. Sure. So I show him how to sit in the Lotus position, close his eyes, and begin to talk him through a relaxing technique. Before I knew what was happening, he was on top of me, one hand down my pants and the other grabbing my breasts! I freaked! I did NOT see that coming! I struggled to get away. I kept saying, over and over, "You do not want to do this! You don't want to do this!"
I got to a semi-standing position and he was still hanging onto one of my legs, but I was beginning to drag him out into the open away from the trees, and he let go. I RAN! When I got to a place of safety, I was having trouble wrapping my mind around what had just happened. He had seemed so nice before.
I thought about reporting it to the Police. I pondered that and decided that what they would do to a black man in the South, in the early 1970's, would be much worse than what he had done to me. It never occurred to me, then, that I may not have been his first or last try. I've always hoped he became a good person, as frightened by the incident as I was.
Any ability to trust people, that I had built for myself, suffered a huge blow that day.
You can't tell from my entries, but I'm trying to let the past go. This is my dumping ground. I've got to set this load down before it does any more damage to me. Have you heard the expression, "hurt in a moment, healed with time, scarred for life"? That is true for both body and mind.
They seem so petty, some of the things that I'm letting go of. (I can feel the "Proper English Police" writing me a ticket.)
When I was little, I tried to make sense out of things I didn't understand. Some of the answers didn't fall into place until I grew up; some are still a mystery.
Why did the Doberman always growl at us, we were just little kids looking for approval and love? Sure we played and got loud and rambunctious sometimes; WE WERE KIDS! He drank too much, still fond of the booze. The more he drank, the more annoying our presence became to him. I still become four years old if someone gets mad at me, when I haven't done anything wrong. I felt like I must have been a source of torment to the Doberman, just by the fact that I existed. If you saw his ears and scalp pull back you knew an attack was on it's way.
My siblings had the sense to keep out of his way and be quiet when he snarled. I, on the other hand, would sometimes try to return the growls. I figured if he was going to rip me to shreds, lets get it over with, now! I could hear my siblings yelling at me to shut up, I was just making him madder! He always won the growling matches.
He's an old dog now, but last time I saw him, after libations, he growled that we were all assholes. Wow! I had internalized that a long time ago; I believed it and knew it wasn't true, at the same time. Incongruity; try and figure out who you are in that kind of atmosphere.
I have had migraine headaches my whole life. Cigarette smoke, buss fumes, perfume, crying, stress.. trigger them. Our home and car were always filled with some of the above. Try to calm a baby like me with a cigarette in your mouth, it won't happen. I would feel so sick. I would beg to have a window opened and I would vomit, particularly on car and airplane rides, smoking was still allowed on planes back then and the windows on them don't open. My parents decided I had "motion sickness". I was told that I was a hypochondriac. My very real pain was dismissed as trying to get attention. My first therapist said, "What's wrong with giving a child attention? Isn't that what parents are supposed to be doing?" I'd really never thought of it that way, even though I tried to be compassionate with my own children, so they would grow up feeling that they had been heard, loved, and any invisible pain was taken seriously.
I gave birth naturally, meaning, without pain medication, to three children; so I can say for a fact that the cramps I had as a teenager, with my period, were worse. The cramps were like one horrible contraction that did not stop all day and into the night. This was pain that aspirin had no power to weaken. I guess it was another of those "character building experiences" to be made to go to school when I was in this condition. If I went to the school Nurse, my mother would not let her send me home. Give her some aspirin and send her back to class! I was never taken to a doctor for my cramps or migraines. I also had another invisible illness, Depression. I knew that something was wrong from an early age. I just felt awful so much of the time. Everyone else seemed happy more of the time than I did. At home a swift kick in the pants was suggested, but not delivered in that fashion. One parent said, "You think I don't feel like shit sometimes? You just do what you have to do, you can't curl up in a ball and feel sorry for yourself!"
When I was old enough to see a Doctor on my own, I got the "life's rough, Honey, get used to it!" speech. My next try to get help (I was fairly pretty back then and extra stupid) was met with the, "Yeah, I'd like to have your problems." speech. Then there was the doctor who decided that fondling my breasts and crotch must be done, by him, immediately. He was shaking and breathing funny during the exam - I was there to get a mole removed.
My broken "People Radar", was my faithful companion. I was nearly raped in Chapel Hill, NC. I was on campus, very "flower childy", peace, love your fellow travelers on this plane of existence, etc...I was on The University campus there, not as a student, just enjoying it's beauty and marveling at their lovely collection of trees.
A nicely dressed, polite, young man sitting on a bench says Hi, and we start up a conversation. He said he was a graduate student and teaching assistant and these responsibilities were causing lots of stress for him. I asked him if he had tried Yogic breathing; it has a relaxing effect. He said No, but , could I show him how to do it? Behind the bench were trees and shrubs, he suggested that I teach it to him, there. Sure. So I show him how to sit in the Lotus position, close his eyes, and begin to talk him through a relaxing technique. Before I knew what was happening, he was on top of me, one hand down my pants and the other grabbing my breasts! I freaked! I did NOT see that coming! I struggled to get away. I kept saying, over and over, "You do not want to do this! You don't want to do this!"
I got to a semi-standing position and he was still hanging onto one of my legs, but I was beginning to drag him out into the open away from the trees, and he let go. I RAN! When I got to a place of safety, I was having trouble wrapping my mind around what had just happened. He had seemed so nice before.
I thought about reporting it to the Police. I pondered that and decided that what they would do to a black man in the South, in the early 1970's, would be much worse than what he had done to me. It never occurred to me, then, that I may not have been his first or last try. I've always hoped he became a good person, as frightened by the incident as I was.
Any ability to trust people, that I had built for myself, suffered a huge blow that day.
Sunday, January 07, 2007
Health and That Other Thing
Back at the end of November, I wasn't sure that December would be any easier to get through, but December wasn't as bad. Even if I did have to spend part of it in the hospital with a kidney and bladder infection. Four days in the hospital and a week or so of bed rest at home. I'm kind of surprised by how weak I am, even now.
So I spent the holidays in bed. The family decorated the tree, bought the gifts, prepared the meals, etc., which was nice and made me feel like a little kid. Other than being sick, I really loved having the house full of family and happiness.
I have always known that pain medication doesn't work on me the way it does for other people, but I haven't ever been able to get doctors or hospital staff to believe me. I would be asking for more morphine or what ever they were giving me, not because it felt so good, but because it wasn't killing any pain and I thought maybe the dose was too low. This kind of behavior gets you nowhere with the staff. I was once told that I was not there for a pill party! Party!? I was in serious pain.
In the emergency room, when the doctor was telling us that I would be staying, he said they would give me some morphine to make me more comfortable. I said, "Good luck with that." And got those familiar, skeptical looks from everyone when I said that morphine doesn't work on me. Over the next four days they tried all the big guns on me and none of them killed pain. At all.
They tried the morphine first, even though I'd told them not to bother. No pain was killed. I already know that I am allergic to codeine so they skipped that one, and tried demerol next. The nurse, I had most often, was great. She was blown away after she gave me the demerol and we kept chatting as if she'd given me nothing. I felt warmth spread out over my body and my muscles relaxed slightly, but that was it. No pain relief. She said she would have been unconscious with a third of the dose. I was really happy to have someone witness that I'm not making this up.
Over the next few days they tried something called toradol -nothing, again. Then the doctor said they would try something else, fentanyl or dilaudid or something, I don't remember anymore, but I told him I didn't think I'd bother with taking it if it came from the same poppy the other stuff came from. He said he hoped I would take it to see if it worked as a pain killer for me, so I did. It made me feel sleepier, but not only did it not kill the pain, it made me itch like mad, the way codeine does.
The only good thing that the narcotics did was slow my always busy mind down to one thought at a time! My thoughts always happen in a barrage formation, all interrupting each other. It was so different to have them so well behaved. Well, now I'm back to "normal" with a brain that functions like a rowdy preschool class. I'd much rather have my thoughts stand in line until I finished with one, and wait for me to say, "Next".
If someone, somewhere, is studying people who think pain killers are misnamed, I'd like to know what does work for a person like me, because if I ever get cancer or any other painful condition, I'm screwed. A morphine pump won't make any difference to me. Once in the past, after I had surgery below the waist, they used a spinal block to control the pain, and that worked until the needle fell out and they wouldn't put it back in. I'm really kind of frightened, to finally know for sure, that I will always continue to experience life "cold turkey".
Hoosier Student Nurse and Too Fat For Ponies crossed my mind when I was in the hospital. I was sure they would be great nurses.
So I spent the holidays in bed. The family decorated the tree, bought the gifts, prepared the meals, etc., which was nice and made me feel like a little kid. Other than being sick, I really loved having the house full of family and happiness.
I have always known that pain medication doesn't work on me the way it does for other people, but I haven't ever been able to get doctors or hospital staff to believe me. I would be asking for more morphine or what ever they were giving me, not because it felt so good, but because it wasn't killing any pain and I thought maybe the dose was too low. This kind of behavior gets you nowhere with the staff. I was once told that I was not there for a pill party! Party!? I was in serious pain.
In the emergency room, when the doctor was telling us that I would be staying, he said they would give me some morphine to make me more comfortable. I said, "Good luck with that." And got those familiar, skeptical looks from everyone when I said that morphine doesn't work on me. Over the next four days they tried all the big guns on me and none of them killed pain. At all.
They tried the morphine first, even though I'd told them not to bother. No pain was killed. I already know that I am allergic to codeine so they skipped that one, and tried demerol next. The nurse, I had most often, was great. She was blown away after she gave me the demerol and we kept chatting as if she'd given me nothing. I felt warmth spread out over my body and my muscles relaxed slightly, but that was it. No pain relief. She said she would have been unconscious with a third of the dose. I was really happy to have someone witness that I'm not making this up.
Over the next few days they tried something called toradol -nothing, again. Then the doctor said they would try something else, fentanyl or dilaudid or something, I don't remember anymore, but I told him I didn't think I'd bother with taking it if it came from the same poppy the other stuff came from. He said he hoped I would take it to see if it worked as a pain killer for me, so I did. It made me feel sleepier, but not only did it not kill the pain, it made me itch like mad, the way codeine does.
The only good thing that the narcotics did was slow my always busy mind down to one thought at a time! My thoughts always happen in a barrage formation, all interrupting each other. It was so different to have them so well behaved. Well, now I'm back to "normal" with a brain that functions like a rowdy preschool class. I'd much rather have my thoughts stand in line until I finished with one, and wait for me to say, "Next".
If someone, somewhere, is studying people who think pain killers are misnamed, I'd like to know what does work for a person like me, because if I ever get cancer or any other painful condition, I'm screwed. A morphine pump won't make any difference to me. Once in the past, after I had surgery below the waist, they used a spinal block to control the pain, and that worked until the needle fell out and they wouldn't put it back in. I'm really kind of frightened, to finally know for sure, that I will always continue to experience life "cold turkey".
Hoosier Student Nurse and Too Fat For Ponies crossed my mind when I was in the hospital. I was sure they would be great nurses.
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