Tuesday, December 30, 2008
Now That Luke Has Moved In.......
Now, let's return to the saga of Colette's boyfriend, Luke, who, when I left you before Christmas, was suffering from a mental illness crisis.
Bernie had settled Luke’s parents down, and was explaining to them that they had a very sick son, and that if they wanted to throw him out of the house that they could potentially be guilty of child abuse, for which they could go to jail. I doubted that would actually occur, but Bernie is a police detective, so she knows better than I, or at least can threaten with more authority. When I caught Bernie’s eye, she asked me, “How is he?”
“Quieter,” I said. “But he needs help, now.”
Bernie started to follow me back to Luke’s room, and his parents began to follow. “Stay there,” she ordered.
“That’s my son!” responded his father, with some vehemence.
“Right now,” Bernie shot back, “he’s in my custody.”
“You can’t take him to jail!” his mother screamed.
“He’s not going to jail,” Bernie told her. “He’s going to the hospital.”
Luke’s parents stayed behind with Angela, and Bernie and I went back to see Luke. He and Colette were still holding hands. “Luke,” I said when we got there, “This is Bernie. She is with the state police. Colette’s mom and I have known Bernie for a long time. She’s going to help you.”
Bernie said, “Luke, you appear to be having a health crisis. You are showing severe symptoms of what is known as bi-polar disorder. Do you understand what I am saying?” Luke nodded. “If it is okay with you, I’d like to take you to the hospital.”
Luke stiffened considerable. Colette put her arm around him and told him, “It’s okay, Lukey. I’ll be with you the whole way.”
“Is it okay with my parents”? Luke asked.
Bernie responded, “It’s not up to them, it’s only up to you.”
After a brief pause, Luke said, “If they can make not feel like this, I’ll go with you.”
Normally, when a police officer takes a person having a mental illness crisis to the hospital, they will put that person in handcuffs, both for the officer’s protection as well as the person in crisis. If the officer is properly trained, his is all explained to the person in a slow, non-threatening manner. However, because we all knew Luke so well, and because Bernie was not actually on an official police call, Bernie decided that the restraints were not necessary. We helped Luke to Bernie’s car, and, with Colette accompanying, he was driven to the community mental health facility.
Fortunately, I was acquainted with the intake person at our local mental health facility (you’ll forgive me, but I hate the term “mental hospital”), so it was not necessary to resort to fisticuffs this time. To show you the stigma that inpatient mental health facilities have acquired from nightmares of the past, when Luke discovered that the building was basically a hospital, like any other hospital, with small, antiseptic rooms, white sheets, white walls, and such, he relaxed considerably. He later confided to me that he was afraid the place would be filled with padded rooms, strait jackets, chains, and large, thug-like orderlies.
I left Bernie and Colette with Luke and returned alone speak with Luke’s parents. This time they let me in without requiring a police escort. I explained, again, that Luke had a brain disorder, that he was ill, that he was not going to turn into a drooling, psychopathic lunatic, and that he could still lead a decent, productive life, but that it would take lots of time for him to heal. His mom sat and listened silently, but his father looked positively uncomfortable. I was afraid that he still thought that Luke was just rebellious and lazy, and could simply get better by changing his attitude. When I asked him if that was what he was feeling, he said nothing, but got up and left the room.
When he was gone, Luke’s mom told me what I had kind of guessed. Luke’s father had an aunt who had committed suicide when he was a lad. This lady was always considered that crazy relative who never went out and always stayed in her rooms with the lights off and the drapes drawn. One day, Luke’s father and his parental units were visiting this aunt. Before leaving, the woman was told that she would feel better if she just took a nice, hot shower. Two days later, the poor woman was found dead, hanging from her shower head with a cord around her neck. Luke’s father always blamed his parents for his aunts death. I also suspected that Luke’s father was in denial about Luke’s illness because he feared that it was the fault of his genes that his son was ill.
Now, there definitely is a hereditary component to mental illness. However, I would never consider that this was anyone’s “fault.” We know that there are hereditary predispositions to other diseases as well, such as diabetes and some types of cancers, but we don’t blame the parents for those disorders.
At this point, I brought up my feelings that Luke should live with us for a while as he was recovering. Luke’s mom was quiet for a long time, and then told me that she would discuss this option with her husband. I told her that she did not have to make a decision right away, but would need to let me know before Luke was released. I left shortly thereafter, knowing what the answer would likely be.
Luke’s mom called the next day and confirmed my suspicion. Luke would come home with us.
Luke spent about a week in the hospital. He was diagnosed with not a bipolar disorder, but with a schizoaffective disorder. This is sort of like a combination of bipolar and schizophrenia. Luke had told the doctors that sometimes his thoughts were confused and jumbled, and that they would coalesce into strange sounds. This, in combination with his symptoms of depression and mania, led to his diagnosis. He was given medications and a referral to a therapist, and, with his parents written permission, was discharged to me. I won’t mention the pathetic lack of supportive care that Luke or I were offered, the absence of any information about his disease, and no discussion as to what to expect as the disease ran its course. This is a universal failure of our health care system, and something that I suspect that I shall rant about another time.
So Luke has moved in and taken up residence on the third floor of the barn. Our new resident has presented a number of challenges, not the least of which is the fact that his girlfriend sleeps in the same house, one floor below. So far, the medications have kept Luke stable, but he is still growing, so his brain will change considerably for a few years yet, so we are on the lookout for signs of relapse. There are no support groups for adolescents with mental illness in our community, which is also not unusual, so we are trying to start one. Luke seems accepting of his disease. Angus has paid us a visit and spent a lot of time talking to Luke about what he went through when he was first diagnosed. It is very difficult for Angus to travel, yet when I first told him that Luke had taken up residence with us, he immediately offered to come and meet Luke. Angus is a good soul.
Luke’s parents have been quiet so far, which is to be expected. There is a period of anger and grief that everyone has to go through when they find out that a loved one, especially one of their children, has a serious illness. Further, it is very hard to admit that sometimes you are not able to properly care for a sick child. I think they will come around in time. I have not put a timetable Luke’s stay. At this point, I am considering Luke a member of the family.
Another challenge that I have faced has been with my employer. I have had to miss some time from work in order to get Luke settled and cared for, and this has not pleased my employer. I was not on this imaginary earth to make a corporate entity, who really does not give a shit about me except as far as I can used to make them money, especially happy. Besides, I have made them considerable money. I was not averse to pointing both of these items out to my slave masters. When they ordered me to spend more time with them and less with Luke, I told them exactly which small, dark, smelly orifice they could insert their pointy little heads into.
And then I quit.
But that is a story for another day.
Bernie had settled Luke’s parents down, and was explaining to them that they had a very sick son, and that if they wanted to throw him out of the house that they could potentially be guilty of child abuse, for which they could go to jail. I doubted that would actually occur, but Bernie is a police detective, so she knows better than I, or at least can threaten with more authority. When I caught Bernie’s eye, she asked me, “How is he?”
“Quieter,” I said. “But he needs help, now.”
Bernie started to follow me back to Luke’s room, and his parents began to follow. “Stay there,” she ordered.
“That’s my son!” responded his father, with some vehemence.
“Right now,” Bernie shot back, “he’s in my custody.”
“You can’t take him to jail!” his mother screamed.
“He’s not going to jail,” Bernie told her. “He’s going to the hospital.”
Luke’s parents stayed behind with Angela, and Bernie and I went back to see Luke. He and Colette were still holding hands. “Luke,” I said when we got there, “This is Bernie. She is with the state police. Colette’s mom and I have known Bernie for a long time. She’s going to help you.”
Bernie said, “Luke, you appear to be having a health crisis. You are showing severe symptoms of what is known as bi-polar disorder. Do you understand what I am saying?” Luke nodded. “If it is okay with you, I’d like to take you to the hospital.”
Luke stiffened considerable. Colette put her arm around him and told him, “It’s okay, Lukey. I’ll be with you the whole way.”
“Is it okay with my parents”? Luke asked.
Bernie responded, “It’s not up to them, it’s only up to you.”
After a brief pause, Luke said, “If they can make not feel like this, I’ll go with you.”
Normally, when a police officer takes a person having a mental illness crisis to the hospital, they will put that person in handcuffs, both for the officer’s protection as well as the person in crisis. If the officer is properly trained, his is all explained to the person in a slow, non-threatening manner. However, because we all knew Luke so well, and because Bernie was not actually on an official police call, Bernie decided that the restraints were not necessary. We helped Luke to Bernie’s car, and, with Colette accompanying, he was driven to the community mental health facility.
Fortunately, I was acquainted with the intake person at our local mental health facility (you’ll forgive me, but I hate the term “mental hospital”), so it was not necessary to resort to fisticuffs this time. To show you the stigma that inpatient mental health facilities have acquired from nightmares of the past, when Luke discovered that the building was basically a hospital, like any other hospital, with small, antiseptic rooms, white sheets, white walls, and such, he relaxed considerably. He later confided to me that he was afraid the place would be filled with padded rooms, strait jackets, chains, and large, thug-like orderlies.
I left Bernie and Colette with Luke and returned alone speak with Luke’s parents. This time they let me in without requiring a police escort. I explained, again, that Luke had a brain disorder, that he was ill, that he was not going to turn into a drooling, psychopathic lunatic, and that he could still lead a decent, productive life, but that it would take lots of time for him to heal. His mom sat and listened silently, but his father looked positively uncomfortable. I was afraid that he still thought that Luke was just rebellious and lazy, and could simply get better by changing his attitude. When I asked him if that was what he was feeling, he said nothing, but got up and left the room.
When he was gone, Luke’s mom told me what I had kind of guessed. Luke’s father had an aunt who had committed suicide when he was a lad. This lady was always considered that crazy relative who never went out and always stayed in her rooms with the lights off and the drapes drawn. One day, Luke’s father and his parental units were visiting this aunt. Before leaving, the woman was told that she would feel better if she just took a nice, hot shower. Two days later, the poor woman was found dead, hanging from her shower head with a cord around her neck. Luke’s father always blamed his parents for his aunts death. I also suspected that Luke’s father was in denial about Luke’s illness because he feared that it was the fault of his genes that his son was ill.
Now, there definitely is a hereditary component to mental illness. However, I would never consider that this was anyone’s “fault.” We know that there are hereditary predispositions to other diseases as well, such as diabetes and some types of cancers, but we don’t blame the parents for those disorders.
At this point, I brought up my feelings that Luke should live with us for a while as he was recovering. Luke’s mom was quiet for a long time, and then told me that she would discuss this option with her husband. I told her that she did not have to make a decision right away, but would need to let me know before Luke was released. I left shortly thereafter, knowing what the answer would likely be.
Luke’s mom called the next day and confirmed my suspicion. Luke would come home with us.
Luke spent about a week in the hospital. He was diagnosed with not a bipolar disorder, but with a schizoaffective disorder. This is sort of like a combination of bipolar and schizophrenia. Luke had told the doctors that sometimes his thoughts were confused and jumbled, and that they would coalesce into strange sounds. This, in combination with his symptoms of depression and mania, led to his diagnosis. He was given medications and a referral to a therapist, and, with his parents written permission, was discharged to me. I won’t mention the pathetic lack of supportive care that Luke or I were offered, the absence of any information about his disease, and no discussion as to what to expect as the disease ran its course. This is a universal failure of our health care system, and something that I suspect that I shall rant about another time.
So Luke has moved in and taken up residence on the third floor of the barn. Our new resident has presented a number of challenges, not the least of which is the fact that his girlfriend sleeps in the same house, one floor below. So far, the medications have kept Luke stable, but he is still growing, so his brain will change considerably for a few years yet, so we are on the lookout for signs of relapse. There are no support groups for adolescents with mental illness in our community, which is also not unusual, so we are trying to start one. Luke seems accepting of his disease. Angus has paid us a visit and spent a lot of time talking to Luke about what he went through when he was first diagnosed. It is very difficult for Angus to travel, yet when I first told him that Luke had taken up residence with us, he immediately offered to come and meet Luke. Angus is a good soul.
Luke’s parents have been quiet so far, which is to be expected. There is a period of anger and grief that everyone has to go through when they find out that a loved one, especially one of their children, has a serious illness. Further, it is very hard to admit that sometimes you are not able to properly care for a sick child. I think they will come around in time. I have not put a timetable Luke’s stay. At this point, I am considering Luke a member of the family.
Another challenge that I have faced has been with my employer. I have had to miss some time from work in order to get Luke settled and cared for, and this has not pleased my employer. I was not on this imaginary earth to make a corporate entity, who really does not give a shit about me except as far as I can used to make them money, especially happy. Besides, I have made them considerable money. I was not averse to pointing both of these items out to my slave masters. When they ordered me to spend more time with them and less with Luke, I told them exactly which small, dark, smelly orifice they could insert their pointy little heads into.
And then I quit.
But that is a story for another day.
