Sweet Max Memories

 

All of these photos were taken at least 3 years ago.

As Daddy Warbucks in "Annie"

Thursday at work a peer from another office delivered a file.  I could tell something was wrong, she was teary-eyed, and when I asked, she said she had just come from the courthouse.  No details, but her son may have to go to prison, and she was heartbroken.  With my hug and sympathetic heart the words that came out of my mouth:  "At least they will feed him there.  You will know where he is, that he is safe, and that they are feeding him.  It is no reflection on you or your husband, he is there because of his choices.  Be hopeful, it can get better."  Her reaction:  "Oh, you are going through the same thing?"

Sort of.  Different detention situation.  But it is a relief when I know Max is somewhere safe, looked after, fed.  Dealing with mental illness in the family is hard enough, but throw in recreational drugs  and it gets worse.

Our Friday night date was visiting Max.  Simple routine of parking in our favorite parking spot, walking in holding hands, up the hospital elevator to the psych ward.  Leave cell phones in car so we don't have to lock anything in lockers before we go in.  Sign in.  Remember his pass code number to prove he wants to visit with us.  Wait to be escorted through two locked doors.  Smile at the big-muscle-bulky guards who recognize us from past visits.  Sit at a sticky table in the commons area and wait for the staff to bring him out.  Try not to look at other patients and their visitors and wonder what their crazy stories are bringing them together. 

We have an hour to share uplifting family events.  I told Max about my latest dry needling physical therapy story (nearly fainted this time, 6 hours since lunch and the 7 needles went in further and were a little more graphic-gross, tenting my skin as they were pulled out), the burden lesson I gave in seminary that morning (passing out to the students a life-burden:  earthquake destroys your home, you have terminal cancer, you are a victim of gossip, someone in your family is an addict, etc and had them group them into one of three categories 1) consequence of living in the world 2) someone else's bad actions 3) your own bad choices) and relate it all to how Nephi reacts to his brothers' bad choices.  

He laughed, and there were moments of real Max, intelligence, memory.  I invited him to come back to us, to remember what good family memories and the traditions and fun things we have done together, to be hopeful about his future and find things again that he enjoys doing that are safe and good.

John told him the reality that his roommates don't want him to come back to the house he has been staying at.  Burned bridges.  Looking for a re-hab situation somewhere affordable for him.  "Delusional" is a trigger word we have to avoid using.  Religious symbols tricky.  Quoting films and video games and his mixed up questions like "How did God create the universe?" and weirdness when he worries about the end of the world and how bad death hurts.

I bore my testimony that families matter, that he matters to us, that we won't give up on him.

Big hugs and "I love you's" and kisses at the end of saying good-bye.   Each time when I leave I reach out my hand and Max holds it as I walk away and he mouths "I love you" and my heart breaks again.  I am leaving him somewhere safe.  Were they will feed him.  And make sure he gets the doctor ordered medicine (Drugs are bad.  Medicine is good.  Words matter.).

There is a misconception that there are real parents with perfect kids.  Somewhere.  Maybe in Utah (thank you, "Raising Arizona" best ending lines of a film, ever!).  We parents all have something we are dealing with, some burden, some reason our hair is turning (quickly) white.  Mortality is brutal.  Experience is dangerous.  Learning is hard.

Interesting that so much of the joy we feel is associated with our bodies.  Good food, good sleep, good sex, good activities-adventures, good art (hearing, seeing).  Physical sensations and pleasures and experiences.  Having children--the creating of them and the watching them grow and learn and become independent--lots of joy there. 

Really & truly.

I admire...the Novogratz,/Babcocks/Max

 

 

There is a design couple, married, with lots and lots of kids, the Novogratz Family.    Seven kids.  Two sets of twins, so I was pregnant more often (but it is so NOT a competition!).  The rug above was designed by them.  The parents, not the twins.  The family has a home with an entry designed by Richard Woods (the artist I copied with much admiration here in April).

 

I can see my brother, David, and his family becoming famous for their design guru-ness, like the Novogratz Family.

 

(couple photo shamelessly copied from their blog)

I am reading at least 3 books at once.  One of the books John brought home from the library:  "What to Expect When No One's Expecting:  America's Coming Demographic Disaster" by Jonathan V. Last. 

Makes for good dinner-time conversation.

Max is out of hospital, earlier than we thought.  Family Bi-Polar adventures are not fun.  It runs in families, and when my brother was diagnosed I worried about my sons.  Future grandsons.  I am convinced that it is a temporary, life-time-only challenge.  Not something they will have to deal with eternally.  The struggles and brain issues are hard.  Remembering to take meds is hard and inconvenient.  Going to meetings for addiction recovery is hard.  Frustrating.  Infuriating.  Expensive.  On-going.  Not something we can pretend doesn't exist or forget.  I wish it were talked about more openly, honestly.  Less taboo.  More help.  More understanding.  Less judgment.  He kept saying how sorry he is, and I told him I believe in new beginnings, starting over.  Trying harder.  And I keep trying to reassure him that what he does changes nothing in my love for him.  I admire him for trying again.  I may get frustrated and irritated and sad, but I love him, no matter what.

Three years ago I wrote:

Mental illness is real. Support needed. More talking, more loving communication. More understanding. If you don't know about someone in your family who is suffering, they might be hiding it too well. It is okay to talk about. Okay to admit. Not taboo. Real.

And we love you enough to deal. And accept. And love even more. You are mine. And I am yours.

Yes.

Power of a Cupcake Over Mind Games

Octopus from Graphics Fairy.
I should have taken a picture.  It was perfect.  Red velvet, yummy cream cheese frosting.  It was a great lunch.  Thank you, my friends.  It gave me the strength to get through the rest of my day, knowing I am loved, supported, and not a bad mom.

I went to visit my son in the mental health unit.  That's the locked ward, where you have to surrender your cell phone, keys, wallet before you can go in.  No food or drinks.  No cheerful balloons to take to patients.  Today I had a picture to give him when he was 10 or so, showing off a big fish he had just caught.  He said he remembered that fish, remembered that day, and the man in the background who Stewart hooked in the hat.

We hugged, kissed, cried, laughed, talked.  The lithium has calmed him down.  He talked about the masks he has worn, the protection and lies to keep us parents from knowing what he was really doing.  The powerful hurt of words and how he has used words as weapons. 

I told him I didn't want him to tell me things just because he knew I wanted to hear them, trying to make me happy.  It all seemed to be going so well, his promises to change, be good, take his prescribed meds and not recreate, not even see the friend he has made bad choices with.  He doesn't want to start over in a new area.  Wants to be close to family.  "Afterall," he said, "the family is central..."

All the right words.  Almost.  Until we got to the part when he said the Atonement is not infinite, that it is running out, that on a certain date earlier this spring he saw it crumbling....I told him no, that was another lie, I don't believe that.  He expounded on his point.  It got worse again, more delusions of grandeur, more complicated, twisted un-truths and his mission to persuade people he is right and do it his way.

I was facing the nurse's station, my son's back was to it.  I stood up when the nurse came towards us to tell me to leave.  He was startled and thought I was reacting to what he had just told me and I was just leaving over that.  It made us both laugh as we hugged good-bye.  Visiting hours over for the day.

I am often gullible, very accepting, but standing firm and I will not be an enabler.  Tough love.  Tough consequences.  Lousy feelings.

Hi.  My name is Jennilyn, and I have a son suffering from a mental illness.  Maybe bi-polar, but he needs to be free from substance abuse for long enough and seeing a doctor long enough to diagnose correctly, since it might be more than just the bi-polar stuff.

Too personal?  Family skeleton kind of stuff???  Nah.  Some of you need to know.

It is hard.  He is so beautfiul, and still so charming and sweet and sensitive and he is so smart and able to remember almost anything he has read (near photographic memory like his dad and aunts).  I am hopeful, but this is going to take years.

Old Quilts Reprise

I just figured out I cannot upload new photos-but I can talk about old ones!

This was a altered-spray paint and resist, permanent marker, dyed whole cloth quilt. Pre-quilted by anonymous. Thrift store quilt. To see the back (originally the "front") of green and red applique scroll back to Oct 2008 posts.

It's been two years. Two years since the last quilt show.

Two years of healthy brother.

I remember when he was born. How easy it was to love him. He was beautiful! Gorgeous eyes. I was a freshman in college. I would come home to see him and pretend that he was mine. Take him shopping. Snuggle with him. I wanted to be a mom. I wanted to be married. He made it easy to look forward to that blessing and want it even more!

Mental illness is real. Support needed. More talking, more loving communication. More understanding. If you don't know about someone in your family who is suffering, they might be hiding it too well. It is okay to talk about. Okay to admit. Not taboo. Real.

And we love you enough to deal. And accept. And love even more. You are mine. And I am yours.