|
SubscriptionsSites I Read
|
|
Alice
|
|
| Poker Carrie and I are sitting in a booth at Kamp's playing poker while we sip coffee. Kamp's is the sort of place where such behavior doesn't seem strange. There are always a few university students doing homework there amid stacks of books and papers, and usually a businessman at one of the tables with an open laptop computer.
I watch Carrie shuffle the cards with her slender deft fingers. She always deals because she does it so much better than I. I glance at the five cards I've been dealt -- another good hand. I won the last game on Sunday, and it is looking like I may win again. I want Carrie to win today -- it always pleases her, and there is so little in life that pleases Carrie.
We've had a good visit today, though. We ate at La Luna's downtown. We've been going there since the days I met Carrie once a week to bring her spending money when she was on the street. It remains Carrie's favorite Mexican restaurant. I like it too. The food is as good as any Mexican place in town, and even when Carrie smelled and looked the part of a "street person," the waiters there treated her with respect.
It is chilly today, but the sun is shinning and we are dressed warmly, so after lunch, instead of walking at the mall for the exercise as our habit has been of late, we went to the zoo. We spent a pleasant hour there, and saw more animals that we often do on warmer days. We even got to see the sea lions and dolphins perform for free while they are practicing for the upcoming season.
After stopping by the grocery store, we are ending our visit as Kamp's as usual.
Carrie calls with two jacks, and I win another round with two pairs. She groans and takes a sip of coffee as I slide the poker chips in the middle of the table to my side. Carrie shuffles the cards and deals again.
There are three eights in my hand, and I'm getting too far ahead for Carrie to have much hope of winning in the ten minutes we have left to play. On the second betting round I deliberately discard two of the eights and draw nothing of value. Carrie wins the round with a single ace and smiles.
I don't feel good about playing "buddies," but I would win almost all the time if I didn't occasionally throw away a winning hand -- and I'm not particularly a skilled poker player. Carrie would be angry if she knew I wasn't playing my best, but she plays such a predictable game that I can pull out ahead almost at will. I'm just so pleased that she enjoys again one of the things she used to enjoy. I don't want Carrie to become discouraged just because she isn't playing at the level she once did. And I'm convinced she would if she didn't win her share. Perhaps she will improve as her concentration increases. Maybe she will pick up other interests that have lain idle since schizophrenia took so much away from her.
I dreamed last night that Carrie was reading a book. She used to have a well-worn library card, but the new one I helped her get when she was released from the hospital hasn't been used even once to check out a book. The dream was so wonderful -- so encouraging. But it was a dream. The reality is that Carrie does not read now at all. She watches television, but rarely watches anything that requires concentration. Even the movies that she rents, she watches in fifteen-minute sessions, and sometimes returns them before she sees the ending. But she does enjoy poker again. And so we play poker often, and I play "buddies" as often as I need to for Carrie to catch the feeling of being a winner. She has felt like a loser too long.
INDEX OF CHAPTERS The author can be reached at allieok@cox.net The
Carrie Updates are not in real time. The names have been changed, but
they are all true and written as the events unfolded. "Carrie" has had
some rough times and some relatively good times in the years following
these events. She still lives alone -- with several cats she rescued
from the streets. Life is difficult for her, but she handles her own
finances and treatment and, for now, is insisting on autonomy. Prayers
for Carrie are always appreciated.
I invite your comments -- or just a  to say you were here. | | |
| Normal I'm sitting at the glass-top table in the sunroom eating lunch with my mom, my sister who is visiting from Dallas, and Carrie. It's a simple menu: green rice, salad, and homemade curry raison bread, but the daffodil centerpiece from the garden and the company make it special.
"Your salad is very good, Carrie," Chris says. "I'm glad you made big ones."
Carrie smiles. "Thank you."
Chris is not merely being solicitous toward Carrie to encourage her. We have been having salads twice a week when Carrie visits, and she usually makes them. The repetition has been effective because she now puts together a fine salad without prompting, and can even make the balsamic vinaigrette dressing. I had no qualms about asking Carrie to prepare the salad for our company.
During the meal Carrie listens to the cheerful conversation, adding a comment only occasionally. After we finish she rises to clear the table and helps with the coffee service, then joins us at the table again. A bit later when Carrie gets a second cup for herself, she asks if she can bring more for anyone else. When I say yes, she brings me a cup with cream and sugar and sits with us again.
I look at my daughter's face through the daffodils and my mind wanders. Carrie and I just came back yesterday from an outing in the historic little town of Guthrie close by, where we spent two days and a night at a bed-and breakfast. We browsed antique shops during the day and took a horse-drawn carriage to attend a play in the evening. Carrie's favorite part was the time spent at the bed-and-breakfast, she said. It was lovely -- beautifully decorated and the hosts did their best to pamper us. I'm quite sure that not a soul suspected that Carrie is mentally ill the entire time we were gone. And during our visit with Chris, Carrie has acted altogether appropriately, as well -- quiet, but perfectly normal.
That's the way it is much of the time now. We go along for days and I can almost believe that Carrie is well -- then some little incident, some comment reminds me that life is a struggle for Carrie.
The bed-and-breakfast had a big Jacuzzi, and I was the first to indulge myself. I enjoyed the liquid luxury immensely, but Carrie showed no interest when it was her turn. She used to love hot baths so I urged her to try it.
"Oh, Carrie, you'll love it -- it's wonderful," I said. "Do take one. It is so relaxing."
"I can't, Mom," she said. "I'm afraid that I'll drown if I do."INDEX OF CHAPTERS The author can be reached at allieok@cox.net The
Carrie Updates are not in real time. The names have been changed, but
they are all true and written as the events unfolded. "Carrie" has had
some rough times and some relatively good times in the years following
these events. She still lives alone -- with several cats she rescued
from the streets. Life is difficult for her, but she handles her own
finances and treatment and, for now, is insisting on autonomy. Prayers
for Carrie are always appreciated.
I invite your comments -- or just a to say you were here. | | |
| Tired We are at Kamp's having a cup of coffee before I drive Carrie back to her apartment. It is the way we have ended my visits of late. They usually begin with lunch out, followed by a walk around the mall for exercise. Then there are usually groceries to buy, a trip to the ATM, and sometimes Blockbusters to pick up a movie. I look at my daughter's face as she silently stares into her cup. She's been agreeable enough today, but more quiet than usual. Carrie is almost always sad -- and usually quiet even when she is enjoying something -- but I'm learning to discern the subtle shades within that narrow range of emotion. "You seem depressed today, Carrie," I say. "Is it anything in particular?" Some subjects are hot, and I should have chosen my words more carefully. I could have predicted Carrie's reaction to the word "depressed." She knows I would like to see her on a trial of anti-depressants. She knows I've been upset with her psychiatrist for refusing to screen her for depression at her 10-minute appointment last month. The fact is I've become increasingly disappointed in the quality of care she is receiving at the Community Counseling Center -- from her case manager, who never speaks with her one-on-one to the facilitator of her "self-esteem class" whose attitude betrays a lack of respect for the mentally ill. I suspect the center is interested only in billable hours, and the notion of doing what is best for their clients is a foreign concept. "It's the pain, Mom. Anyone would be depressed if they lived with the pain I do. An anti-depressant wouldn't take away the pain so don't start on that again. It would not do any good. The anti-inflammatory pills the other doctor gave me are worthless, too. I don't know why he didn't just give me a painkiller. He gave some to Grandma for the pain in her leg." "It's a narcotic, Carrie," I say. "And it is temporary until they fix her knee. They wouldn't give her something that strong indefinitely. It would stop working after a while, anyway, but then Grandma would be addicted to a narcotic. That isn't the answer in the long run for either of you. " Carrie's brown eyes fill with tears. "So I just have to suffer forever? I just want to die, Momma. I wake up every morning wishing I wasn't alive." "I wish I could take away the pain, Carrie. I wish I knew the answer for you. All I know to do is keep on looking for something that helps. That was why I wanted you screened for depression. I didn't think the anti-depressant would take away the pain, but I thought it might help in some other ways. They do seem to help a lot of other people. You can go back to the medical doctor if you want. Maybe he will have something different that might work better. "He won't help me. It's useless." Carrie wipes a tear from her cheek. "Remember a long time ago when I asked you if you would help me kill myself if I never got any better?" "Yes, I remember, Carrie, but you know I could never do that… And you are better." "Not really, Mom. I'm just not drunk. At least I didn't feel the pain so much when I was drunk." I can't keep my own tears from coming now, and Carrie seems moved by my distress. "Are you going to get tired of doing things with me, Momma?" she asks, almost pleading. "At least when we are doing something I'm not alone in my apartment thinking about my pain -- that helps. I can't stand being alone all the time." "No, I won't get tired of being with you, Carrie. I love you." As I drive back home I do feel tired. Not tired of seeing Carrie, but tired and older than my years. And I wonder -- as all parents of the mentally ill surely must -- what will become of my child when I am gone? I know I can't count on the mental health care system. INDEX OF CHAPTERS The author can be reached at allieok@cox.net The Carrie Updates are not in real time. The names have been changed, but they are all true and written as the events unfolded. "Carrie" has had some rough times and some relatively good times in the years following these events. She still lives alone -- with several cats she rescued from the streets. Life is difficult for her, but she handles her own finances and treatment and, for now, is insisting on autonomy. Prayers for Carrie are always appreciated.
I invite your comments -- or just a to say you were here. | | |
| | Doctors A deep blanket of wet snow is covering The City. The trees and housetops are beautiful dressed in white. It's the kind of day I would prefer to spend sipping cocoa while sitting by the fireplace with nothing more pressing to do than fill the bird feeder. It is 10:30 AM and we are not sitting by the fire. Taylor and I are sitting in the truck at a McDonald's on May Avenue waiting for a city bus to bring Carrie. She did not arrive on the bus we expected, so we are hoping she caught the next one. If she hasn't we won't make her doctor's appointment on time. His office called this morning and moved her appointment up 2 hours so the staff can go home before "it freezes over." I woke up at four this morning and lay awake wondering how we would work out the logistics of a rather complicated and uncertain scenario. Mom is in the hospital, and until I talked with her this morning at 8 AM they were planning to release her today. She had a mild heart attack Saturday, but the doctors found no blockage when they did an angiogram. We don't have the official word, but I expect they have decided to keep her in the hospital a little longer to address the pain in her leg that has kept her practically homebound for over two months. More tests were ordered and specialists summoned. I'm glad they are keeping her for more than one reason -- the snow being one. We could barely get out of the driveway and the neighborhood streets are still snow-packed. When I get her home there will be groceries to get and prescriptions to fill. Slick streets would only complicate it. Carrie is seeing a medical doctor today about the pain in her chest that has plagued her for about 5 years. They did x-rays when she was in the state hospital last year, but gave her nothing for the pain. Carrie wants to go to another doctor in hopes that he will give her something that will be effective. She is frugal, though and waited first to see if she qualified for the Medicaid QMB program, which will pay her Medicare premiums, deductibles and co-payments. Carrie is actually living on her disability check and even saving a bit to have something to spend on our little trips. Last week we got the word -- she qualified, so we made an appointment with a GP a couple miles from our house for a day when she rides the bus out to visit us anyway. That was before we knew the snow was coming, and before Mom was in the hospital. I look at my watch and then down May Avenue. I can see the bus coming. It's remarkable that in all this snow it is on time. It slows to a stop about a half block away, and a woman in a blue hooded coat gets off. It's Carrie.
She sees our red truck and walks toward us in the deep snow. I lean over to open it for her when she arrives. "I had to wait for over a half-hour for the bus," Carrie says as she slides in the truck cab beside me. "I was at the stop early, even." "I bet you are cold," I say. "I'm sure glad you were on that bus, Carrie. We will just barely make it on time." Fifteen minutes later we are sitting in the doctor's office. Taylor and I take our coats off, but Carrie is still wearing her wool scarf and heavy coat as she fills out the form the nurse gave her. "Is there a place on there for what medications you take?" I ask. When Carrie indicates that there isn't, I add, "be sure to tell him you take Zyprexa because sometimes there are drugs that shouldn't be taken together, so he needs to know that. " I would have liked to go in with Carrie when the nurse calls her back twenty-five minutes after we arrive. I always go with Mom, but then, my mother wants me to. I help her remember what the doctor says. I'm sure Carrie wouldn't like it, though, so Taylor and I sit in the waiting room and hope the doctor is perceptive and wise and that he will somehow give Carrie what she needs. It's a small hope, though. The chest pains are most likely part of Carrie's mental illness like the panic attacks are, but to Carrie they are the sum total of her problems and the reason for her disability. She takes her antipsychotic medications faithfully to please us and to cooperate with the powers that be, but she doesn't think they do anything. Carrie emerges and walks through the waiting room on her way to get x-rays. She returns twenty minutes later with a large manila envelope and disappears through the door again. When she finally comes out she is carrying some sample pills. "What does the doctor say?" her father asks as we walk to the entrance. "Did he see something on the x-rays?" "He couldn't see anything," Carrie says, "but he's going to let some other doctors look at the x-rays, too. He gave me an anti-inflammatory drug to see if that will help." "I hope it does." I say. "Mom takes that for pain. Did you like the doctor?" "He's okay. But I have my doubts if he is going to help me." We walk to our truck through a parking lot deep in slush. Carrie makes no effort to miss the deepest puddles and gets her shoes soaked. She doesn't seem to notice. INDEX OF CHAPTERS The author can be reached at allieok@cox.net The Carrie Updates are not in real time. The names have been changed, but they are all true and written as the events unfolded. "Carrie" has had some rough times and some relatively good times in the years following these events. She still lives alone -- with several cats she rescued from the streets. Life is difficult for her, but she handles her own finances and treatment and, for now, is insisting on autonomy. Prayers for Carrie are always appreciated.
I invite your comments -- or just a to say you were here. |
| | |
| Anger
When I return home from my garden club meeting, Taylor tells me Carrie called a few minutes ago. It is very unusual for her to call in the middle of the afternoon unless she is having a panic attack, but she didn't want to talk to him.
I know why she called and it isn't a panic attack. She's angry with me. Carrie had her psychiatrist appointment today. She probably learned that I had written him and asked that she be screened for depression. Carrie and I have gotten along very well and I hoped to avoid an argument. I knew she wouldn't like it -- Carrie would prefer that I never talk to her social worker or her doctor. Though she is taking her Zyprexa faithfully and is much improved in many ways, the undertone of sadness is so pronounced in Carrie that I have wondered if she might benefit from a medication for depression. I know Carrie would never initiate such a discussion with her doctor. She, of course, thinks her sole problem is the physical pain in her chest. I mentioned in my letter to the doctor that Carrie would not welcome my interference and hoped that he would be circumspect.
He wasn't however. When Carrie calls later I learn that he led with the news that her mother had written him saying she was depressed. She is mad at me and accuses me of breaking my promise. I hadn't promised to never write her doctor, only that I would not discuss any particulars that she is worried about. We agreed that she should tell the doctor such things -- not me. It is splitting hairs as far as Carrie is concerned, and she insists that I overstepped my province. I listen to a tirade about the pain that she endures.
"If I am depressed," she maintains, "it is only because of that. Take the pain away, and I will be just fine."
I say I think it is probably not quite that simple, and that is why we go to doctors about these things. I ask Carrie if she wants to go to a medical doctor for the pain now, instead of waiting to find out about the Medicare help we've applied for, but she says she'll wait. Carrie just wants me to understand that she knows her body and she knows her mind, and she knows the difference.
We talk it out. It takes a while but her temper subsides, and we come to a compromise. I agree to let her know ahead of time if I am ever worried enough that I feel I must write the doctor again. She may not like it, but at least she will not be surprised. I haven't given up much. Carrie will find out if I talk to the doctor anyway, and there will be no avoiding a scene.
But I'm not sure it will do any good to ever write the doctor, anyway. Today he merely asked Carrie if she was depressed. When she said "no," he said, "you don't look depressed to me either." That was it.
Tonight, I am the angry one. I know Carrie's primary problem is schizophrenia, but she shows the classic symptoms of depression. She sleeps a lot, has no interest in the things she used to enjoy and is unable to concentrate on anything for long. She seems sad most of the time and talks about life not being worth living, Even the long anticipated trips we take seem more distractions than pleasurable for Carrie. I laid it all out in the letter, but the doctor dismissed it with one question.
Carrie has to stick with this new psychiatrist, though. She doesn't like him either and says he moves in slow motion like a "koala bear." Judging from his age, he was probably educated during the time when they still blamed families for schizophrenia. Maybe he still holds to that theory and that's why he doesn't take my concerns seriously. Maybe he doesn't prescribe antidepressants to clients who are not suicidal because of financial considerations. Perhaps he just didn't want to take the time to ask the questions he should have. Maybe he's worn out and past caring.
Since Carrie goes to the Community Counseling Center she doesn't have a choice of psychiatrists, though. Her very expensive medications are provided through the Center, and we cannot afford to blow that off, so this will be the doctor we are stuck with.
INDEX OF CHAPTERS
The author can be reached at allieok@cox.net
The Carrie Updates are not in real time. The names have been changed, but they are all true and written as the events unfolded. "Carrie" has had some rough times and some relatively good times in the years following these events. She still lives alone -- with several cats she rescued from the streets. Life is difficult for her, but she handles her own finances and treatment and, for now, is insisting on autonomy. Prayers for Carrie are always appreciated.
I invite your comments -- or just a to say you were here. | | |
|
