by Mike McCarthy
Note: I'm not a real writer and don't claim to be. These are just my thoughts about my life.
The reason I tell my story now is because I'm unable to live my life in silence anymore. Growing up with a father with schizophrenia, I never talked about. Never once. In fact, I spent most of my life hiding the fact that my dad had a mental illness, but my life was turned upside down on December 11, 2011. My mother died suddenly of a massive heart attack that day. Never in a million years would I think that my mom would die before my dad, my mom was so healthy and my dad was..well, not. He smoked three packs a day, survived a suicide attempt from a parking garage that broke his back, a house fire and cancer on his back. My mom on the other hand, never smoked, drank and walked close to a mile a day on her lunch break. As a kid I always checked on my dad to make sure he was breathing when he would fall asleep on the couch, but it was my mom that would die before my eyes.
I remember the day. I returned home after an acting performance. I remember thinking to myself that something was just a little off about her that night, maybe that's just my wishful thinking that I could have done something different, The last thing I said to my mom was, " oh, I think I hurt my ankle acting", she smiled and I went upstairs to bed. The next thing I remember was my dad calling me. As I played the events back in my head, I remember hearing a thud. That was my mom collapsing. I heard my dad say, "Michael, Michael." He never called me Michael, always Mike, so I thought he was delusional, as he often was late at night. I finally went to the steps and said, "Yes", he said, "mom just fell over." I rushed down the steps, screaming, "MOM" "MOM" "MOM." She was on her side, I thought she hit her head or had some type of head trauma, never did I think it was her heart. I was afraid to roll her over thinking it could damage something. I screamed to my dad to call 911, my mom was breathing but it was just final gasps, seconds later she stopped. The next thing I remember was rage, I punched the floor, the refrigerator and knocked over our Christmas tree that she put up hours before. I couldn't understand how this could happen, so suddenly, without warning. I knew she was gone and she was. They couldn't get her heart to start again. The EMT tried. the doctors tried but she died on our kitchen floor shortly after midnight. I already started to plan on what I would do, where would I go, where would my dad go? Those were my next thoughts after the rage wore off.
I would never sleep another night in my bed, a house that my grandparents lived in for decades and that I lived in for nearly 13 years. That night I left my dad alone, I couldn't stay there, not without her. I remember him asking my uncle, "can you teach me how to do the bills?" my mom was everything to us, my parents were married for over 25 years and after college I returned home to live there as a looked for a career. Now she was gone. As the days moved on a larger picture started to emerge. My parents were in debt and owed money on our home. It wasn't really an option for me to stay there and my dad couldn't either. A decision was made with my family to have my dad live at a personal care home for mental health residents. I told family members what none of them knew, my dad was very unstable for about a decade, at times being physically and emotionally abusive to my mom and I, but generally just screaming at his dead father for hours on end. I was worried that if I stayed there, we would both end up dead and I wasn't my mom, I couldn't take care of him like her. A week after my mom died we took my dad to his new home and without a fight from him either. I thought he would have to be 302'd or try to fight us. He didn't, he yelled a bit on the way up and we had to stop for smoke breaks, maybe he realized there was nothing left for him there. I packed up our home, took all our personal stuff, tossed it in storage and moved in with my uncle for six months. The rest of the contents of the home were sold at a estate sell and a few months later the house was sold too.
In many ways that night my mom died on our kitchen floor, a part of my life ended too. My life was cut in half, a life at home and a life without a home.As we found out in the days and months ahead my mom took secrets to her grave. My parents were in a financial mess, having debts in the hundreds of thousands but as my mom always did, she took care of it. She took out a large life insurance policy on herself and put all the bills in her name.Turning the red into black. She always took care of us, even after her death. She was a hero, struggling for years taking care of my dad in silence without anyone knowing the truth. People didn't know the man she loved so much had a serious disease. My dad's family knew but that's it, my mom's family, her friends, who knew my dad for almost 30 years had no idea he had schizophrenia. As I sat back this shocked and horrified me. I couldn't accept this.
Why do we hide these things? We can't we talk about mental illness? Why do they have to suffer alone? Why can't we get these sick people, yes sick, proper treatment? The stress my mom was under must have been incredible, supporting my dad and I with only one income for all those years, but the thing was she never complained, never asked for help and was always smiling. Always. She was always happy and never looked stressed, but I think it was there, it had to be.
In many ways I blame the stigma and silence for my mothers death at 59. We can never know for sure, but that's how I make sense out of the senseless. My dad and my mom deserve so much better. Other people need to know what kind of person my mom was. She took her vowels serious, she never compromised, she stayed with my dad until the end, literally. The last thing she did on this planet was getting him a cup of coffee. My dad suffered in silence for years, a suicide attempt in 1981 that broke his back and left him in chronic pain, no one ever talking about "it". No one brought us a cake, no one said sorry about your dad, no one said anything..
So that's why I'm here, to tell my story. I decided to work in the mental health field and have been for the last seven months. I joined NAMI and other groups, anywhere I could tell my story and hopefully break the silence and stigma that surrounds mental illness. I found a new purpose in life, a new calling. In many ways the silence and stigma took every member of my family away from me, my mom, my dad and my half- sister who I haven't seen in 13 years. I love my parents, I love my dad, it hasn't been easy being a child of madness but it's who I am. I went from never talking about my dad to always talking about him. That's what he deserves. Hopefully someone reads this and feels like it's ok to talk about mental illness,about their loved one, so it doesn't grow in the darkness,in the silence, where it can do real damage, sometimes the stigma is worse than the actually disease. Hopefully someone reads this and reaches out to NAMI or a co-worker or a friend for help. I'm just trying to find my way in my new world, maybe me writing this can help some other child of madness find their way, I hope it does.
Note: I'm not a real writer and don't claim to be. These are just my thoughts about my life.
The reason I tell my story now is because I'm unable to live my life in silence anymore. Growing up with a father with schizophrenia, I never talked about. Never once. In fact, I spent most of my life hiding the fact that my dad had a mental illness, but my life was turned upside down on December 11, 2011. My mother died suddenly of a massive heart attack that day. Never in a million years would I think that my mom would die before my dad, my mom was so healthy and my dad was..well, not. He smoked three packs a day, survived a suicide attempt from a parking garage that broke his back, a house fire and cancer on his back. My mom on the other hand, never smoked, drank and walked close to a mile a day on her lunch break. As a kid I always checked on my dad to make sure he was breathing when he would fall asleep on the couch, but it was my mom that would die before my eyes.
I remember the day. I returned home after an acting performance. I remember thinking to myself that something was just a little off about her that night, maybe that's just my wishful thinking that I could have done something different, The last thing I said to my mom was, " oh, I think I hurt my ankle acting", she smiled and I went upstairs to bed. The next thing I remember was my dad calling me. As I played the events back in my head, I remember hearing a thud. That was my mom collapsing. I heard my dad say, "Michael, Michael." He never called me Michael, always Mike, so I thought he was delusional, as he often was late at night. I finally went to the steps and said, "Yes", he said, "mom just fell over." I rushed down the steps, screaming, "MOM" "MOM" "MOM." She was on her side, I thought she hit her head or had some type of head trauma, never did I think it was her heart. I was afraid to roll her over thinking it could damage something. I screamed to my dad to call 911, my mom was breathing but it was just final gasps, seconds later she stopped. The next thing I remember was rage, I punched the floor, the refrigerator and knocked over our Christmas tree that she put up hours before. I couldn't understand how this could happen, so suddenly, without warning. I knew she was gone and she was. They couldn't get her heart to start again. The EMT tried. the doctors tried but she died on our kitchen floor shortly after midnight. I already started to plan on what I would do, where would I go, where would my dad go? Those were my next thoughts after the rage wore off.
I would never sleep another night in my bed, a house that my grandparents lived in for decades and that I lived in for nearly 13 years. That night I left my dad alone, I couldn't stay there, not without her. I remember him asking my uncle, "can you teach me how to do the bills?" my mom was everything to us, my parents were married for over 25 years and after college I returned home to live there as a looked for a career. Now she was gone. As the days moved on a larger picture started to emerge. My parents were in debt and owed money on our home. It wasn't really an option for me to stay there and my dad couldn't either. A decision was made with my family to have my dad live at a personal care home for mental health residents. I told family members what none of them knew, my dad was very unstable for about a decade, at times being physically and emotionally abusive to my mom and I, but generally just screaming at his dead father for hours on end. I was worried that if I stayed there, we would both end up dead and I wasn't my mom, I couldn't take care of him like her. A week after my mom died we took my dad to his new home and without a fight from him either. I thought he would have to be 302'd or try to fight us. He didn't, he yelled a bit on the way up and we had to stop for smoke breaks, maybe he realized there was nothing left for him there. I packed up our home, took all our personal stuff, tossed it in storage and moved in with my uncle for six months. The rest of the contents of the home were sold at a estate sell and a few months later the house was sold too.
In many ways that night my mom died on our kitchen floor, a part of my life ended too. My life was cut in half, a life at home and a life without a home.As we found out in the days and months ahead my mom took secrets to her grave. My parents were in a financial mess, having debts in the hundreds of thousands but as my mom always did, she took care of it. She took out a large life insurance policy on herself and put all the bills in her name.Turning the red into black. She always took care of us, even after her death. She was a hero, struggling for years taking care of my dad in silence without anyone knowing the truth. People didn't know the man she loved so much had a serious disease. My dad's family knew but that's it, my mom's family, her friends, who knew my dad for almost 30 years had no idea he had schizophrenia. As I sat back this shocked and horrified me. I couldn't accept this.
Why do we hide these things? We can't we talk about mental illness? Why do they have to suffer alone? Why can't we get these sick people, yes sick, proper treatment? The stress my mom was under must have been incredible, supporting my dad and I with only one income for all those years, but the thing was she never complained, never asked for help and was always smiling. Always. She was always happy and never looked stressed, but I think it was there, it had to be.
In many ways I blame the stigma and silence for my mothers death at 59. We can never know for sure, but that's how I make sense out of the senseless. My dad and my mom deserve so much better. Other people need to know what kind of person my mom was. She took her vowels serious, she never compromised, she stayed with my dad until the end, literally. The last thing she did on this planet was getting him a cup of coffee. My dad suffered in silence for years, a suicide attempt in 1981 that broke his back and left him in chronic pain, no one ever talking about "it". No one brought us a cake, no one said sorry about your dad, no one said anything..
So that's why I'm here, to tell my story. I decided to work in the mental health field and have been for the last seven months. I joined NAMI and other groups, anywhere I could tell my story and hopefully break the silence and stigma that surrounds mental illness. I found a new purpose in life, a new calling. In many ways the silence and stigma took every member of my family away from me, my mom, my dad and my half- sister who I haven't seen in 13 years. I love my parents, I love my dad, it hasn't been easy being a child of madness but it's who I am. I went from never talking about my dad to always talking about him. That's what he deserves. Hopefully someone reads this and feels like it's ok to talk about mental illness,about their loved one, so it doesn't grow in the darkness,in the silence, where it can do real damage, sometimes the stigma is worse than the actually disease. Hopefully someone reads this and reaches out to NAMI or a co-worker or a friend for help. I'm just trying to find my way in my new world, maybe me writing this can help some other child of madness find their way, I hope it does.
Your piece touched me so much... I could relate a lot to your story. In my case my mum's bipolar and my father - who in the past suffered from major depression as a consequence of my mother's illness - died from lung cancer soon after she got back from the clinic after her last manic episode in 2010.
ReplyDeleteNow things are going much better with the two of us, but I know how it feels to be "left alone" and have to look back to all of our life and past and try to sort things out.
It's good that you too are on board and are writing about your story. We and our families deserve light and understanding and support! We are all here standing for our right to be heard! With love, at times with rage but, moreover, with dignity.
A big hug,
Stefania.
You've touched a cord with me. My mother, who suffered with alcoholism and BPD, past on August 17th. I'm still struggling to unwrap the secrets and to make sense of the senseless. Thank you for writing. Thank you for being a spark of ligh in the darkness. I amire your brave choice to live openly and hold no more secrets.
ReplyDeletethank you for the kind words.
ReplyDelete