Death bars you from membership. Only those who are alive and capable of experiencing pain achieve admittance.
“What do you think about suicide?” Lois studied me. We were sitting at my kitchen table.
“See this gas stove. I’m going to make you comfortable with pillows. Snuggle up and rest your head on the oven shelf. The kids and I are going to the grocery store. If my husband comes home, tell him, ‘we’ll be right back.'”
I squelched that flash thought with this speech, “You cannot create one hair on your head. You have no right to destroy what you cannot create. Taking any life is sin.”
In 1986, my sister already had a twenty-seven year history of severe mental illness. Electric shock treatments? Ineffective, maybe harmful. Thorazine, prolixin, stellazine? Let’s try haldol. Never again! Constant medical care. Constant family support. Still, she was placed in a nursing home. She is gravely disabled.
Now, twenty-five years later, the “gas stove” idea haunts me.
I was useless. Frequent vomiting and weight loss led the nursing home staff, for two years, to say, “she must have anorexia.” When a congenital defect caused her twisted bowel to rupture, a surgeon excised eighteen inches of her large intestine. Her “anorexia” resolved.
I was useless. When fallen arches caused deformed feet, I could not convince her to wear custom shoes and braces that would have made walking possible. She is now wheel chair bound.
I was useless. After a five day stint of not talking, eating, or moving, I had agreed with the professionals that she had had a life ending stroke. Shortly after I signed the hospice papers, she drank an eight-ounce glass of clear water. A miracle? A miss-diagnosis? Either way, I subjected her to erroneous care.
Such examples are numerous. Lois, disabled by shizoaffective disease, is difficult to assess and to treat. We lack the knowledge and the tools.
Five weeks ago, she was hospitalized in a stupor like state caused by a high blood sodium and a very low blood sugar. Lithium medication has damaged her kidneys. She must drink copious amount of water to keep her sodium low enough to avoid lethargy, coma, and death. Difficulty swallowing complicates this. Zyprexa, a psychotropic, has caused diabetes.
Lois us now back at her nursing home. The staff worry – will she aspirate and get pneumonia? If she is tired, is her sodium level creeping higher?
She has no recollection of her recent hospitalization. So, I tell her.
“You almost died. You know, Daddy died in ’86. Mother died in ’96. Our brother died in ’97. That leaves just you and me. Which of us is going next?
We both laugh. She says, “Give me some water.”
I crank the head of the bed up, stuff a pillow behind her back, snuggle the water pitcher near her neck, hold the straw in her mouth, and say, “Take your time. Have as much as you want. Remember to breathe.” She gulps and gulps and gulps.
She sputters, coughs, hacks, and trying to clear her airway, turns a pale hue of violet, and finally pinks up. “Give me some more.” She downs two pitchers.
In leaving, I say, “You’re the best sister I could ever have. You have coped with illness so well for so long. I am proud of you. Do the best you can.”
For this day, she is okay. I cannot visit her every day. I am useless in protecting her from the consequences of her disease.
The “gas stove” idea haunts me. What pain and distress I could have spared her.
Several months ago, Lois” roommate said, “She’s been talking about suicide.” Her medical chart confirmed this.
I was useless in abetting suicide in 1986. Ditto, now.
Suicide is the number one cause of death for the severely mentally ill. Whether a loved one has succumbed to, evaded, or recovered from a suicide attempt, you, as a family member, have been elected, albeit unwillingly, into an elite club of challenged, sturdy people. If you yourself have wrestled with suicidal thoughts, the club needs you alive.
Jean Trester (jrdtpost@gmail.com) of Centennial is a retired nurse.
