Living on a Prayer

Growing up as a kid, I never anticipated the life I would eventually lead; I hoped for much, but like everyone, I simply followed a path--how that path unfolded had smooth zones for sure, but it definitely had major bumps. Today is the story of a "bump," revealing yet perhaps another side of this writer. While teaching high school, I always taught my students that the best writing is that which comes from the soul--what follows is from the deep soul, my friends.

Like most kids, I had what I would consider a strong upbringing; as described in earlier blogs, my family certainly was nowhere near wealthy, but we survived on strong caring and love. Friends were many, memories were plentiful, and smiles were rampant . . . until our lives changed.

In 1961, my mother entered the Cleveland Clinic for what was then a rare surgery--she was getting a heart valve replaced with what I remember as being a pig valve. Being six, I really had little understanding of what that entailed; all I knew was that my sister and I were shipped out to relatives' and friends' houses for about a month because my dad was either with my mom or he was working. Occasionally, we saw him, but those times were sparse. After a month, my mom returned home, but my sister and I had no idea that she was arriving. I clearly recall opening the back door of my dad's Mercury and seeing my mom lying on the back seat, so thrilled to be home yet so tired that she immediately went inside on the bed and went to sleep. For the next several months, she recovered and ultimately led a healthy life. As this story unfolds, this is an important event.

Life moved on for decades; however, on the day before Thanksgiving 1977 as I arrived home from college, my dad met me as I pulled my car into the driveway. That greeting was quite strange, but I soon discovered that what he was sharing was to be a life-altering experience for my family. He explained that the company he worked for (U.S. Concrete in Uhrichsville) had announced the day before that it would be closing at year's end. Shocking, yes, but he went on to explain that when he had told my mom the news, almost an immediate change had occurred in her. That was my introduction to dealing with the ravages of mental illness.

I certainly am not an expert on any facet of the disease, but I can emphatically state that I have a first-hand understanding of its terror. Selfishly, I will confess that after witnessing my mom's deterioration, I was glad I had been adopted--that gene would not be part of my life. In the years that followed, I saw behavior from my mom I never would have imagined. From incessant talking to dark periods of depression to erratic acts to sudden flips of emotion, I witnessed a sad downward spiral interrupted by periods of occasional normalcy. The trip to her ultimate passing many years later is not one I recall with enthusiasm; in truth, I would like to forget that it ever happened, but I know it is too ingrained to ever forget.

Any time a writer reveals a personal side, the wonder is why . . . why would he or she reveal such a private part of life? My answer is quite simple: If my revelation can align with others' situations, then I, at the least, am helping them cope. You see, when mental illness hit my home, I was embarrassed, embarrassed because I had no knowledge of what it was, afraid that others would laugh and ridicule me--I simply was operating in a fog with no knowledge. As with most situations in my life, however, I realized my key to understanding was to read what I could find and to learn as much as possible about this illness. What I learned is that mental illness is far more rampant and misunderstood than most people will ever acknowledge. It is a disease. In the case of my mother, it was brought about by a cocktail of occurrences: the shock of the major breadwinner losing his job, the female's chemical reactions to menopause, and, evidently, a "predisposal to strange brain activity."

You recall my story of the heart valve replacement mentioned earlier? Well, as time unfolded, the family secret was finally told to my sister and me. Following my mom's surgery in '61, she had experienced a mental breakdown--what caused that I have no idea, but what I learned when the "secret" was revealed was that she had dealt with a mental irregularity in '61. In short, a "predisposal to strange brain activity" had reared its head previously . . . and it had returned.

This writing is not a sympathy plea--no way. Rather, it is an attempt at providing understanding for something few of us truly understand. It is heartbreaking, for sure, but it becomes a true test of one's character. When I began to understand the illness, the effects, and the confusion, I became a better person simply because instead of ignoring or occasionally laughing at those who could not help themselves, I understood the impact it could have. At various times, I visited my mom in the mental ward at Union Hospital, in the emergency room where she was strapped to a table, in our home where she sat with a flat demeanor staring straight ahead never acknowledging anyone's presence but for an occasional smile. Like so many others suffering from this illness, she was fighting a battle she would never have dreamed.

(Not wanting to belabor the readers with more stories, I will provide the ending: my mother lived for several years with her illness. At times, she was so strong--particularly during my sister's battle and demise with cancer--but the illness consumed her until her death from congestive heart failure.)

Here is my teaching point: As we venture through life, we never know the path we will take. In my case, I became exposed to mental illness. I educated myself about it, I saw and heard much I would like to forget, but I developed an appreciation for its power, and, most of all, I became so much more understanding of the battles others face. It is funny how the old clichés that I have heard numerous time throughout my life continue to resurface, but so many are spot on: Don't ever criticize others until you have walked a mile in their shoes. This boy learned that lesson the hard way, but, oh, what a lesson it was.