I hit the buzzer, again. It is my twelfth visit to see my sister, Susan in the Psychiatric Ward at Peace Arch Hospital. There is a 'globe' over my head to identify me. But, because of my constant visits..they just buzz now and let me in.
I push the big metal door open and wonder if my sister would be colouring at the table or sitting in a wooden rocking chair looking out the window 'at nothing'. She is bi-polar, she is also developmentally delayed or 'retarded' as they said in the 1960's. To me, Susan has always been beautiful, always. Her tiny frame, a mere 4 foot 11 and her curly hair and big glasses. She is the child we all have been. But today, she is rocking in a chair fighting her demons. We all have demons but she cannot control hers.
I always act before I talk, wrapping my arms around her hunched frame and telling her 'I love you'. Sometimes she responds by patting my hand, sometimes she just keeps rocking. Then, the guilt flows through my veins. Did I contribute to this? Her room is simple and bland. She has a knapsack she rhythmically takes apart then re-builds. Sometimes we sit side by side and colour in her books: angels and animals. She pushes down hard with one colour and her glasses ride low on her nose as she looks at me with this empty stare. I colour beside her, talking with glee and joy, trying to pull her to a happier place. It doesn't work. She just keeps colouring like a four year old who needs to finish a simple project.Sometimes she goes out of the ward with me. She has to 'sign out'. They can't allow anyone to just 'leave' the hospital in fear they may run off or hurt themselves. So, now, you/I become the responsible one.
We go out into the Winter weather. She's wearing dark sunglasses and holding my hand. Nothing is said. I talk like a fearless brother who has nothing but good news. She's indifferent. Why should she care about my day, why should she celebrate my nice walk the day before. Her world is just full of trays with terrible food, medications that numb her, people around her that stare and wonder why she is the way she is. I am not of her world. I am just a brother trying to add 'one meaningful day' to her challenged life.
I have my camera with me and I take pictures of beautiful things around us to remind her that the world is not so terrible...but is it? I hold her hand and squeeze it to reassure her that she is so loved and never alone. She does respond. A simple squeeze back is like a flash flood of love from her. It matters.
I know her future is full of uncertainties. She may never surface to be the fun-loving sister I see every 6 weeks. She may have given up. She may not want to be part of our lives ever again..but, I fight those thoughts. I know, in my heart, she loves me and that we will 'work together' to fight this mental illness.
While we walk she says nothing. She continues to hold my hand and I sing to her. I sing about 'happy things', knowing she can hear the words but wondering if it will make a difference?
She is set to go for ECT (shock treatment) to jar her mind back to 'our' world. It's a crapshot. It's something she has been through before. She thinks it will kill her, she believes it is dangerous and doesn't want to do it but, there is no other way to get her back into our lives. We, the family, are all on pins and needles. We want 'our Susan' back with us.
Life is not fair. Life deals us challenges we can either walk away from or confront. Susan is 'special', yes, she is...all of us are. I will take that walk with her to the 'treatment room' and pray it helps her come back to us. She is loved, she is beautiful and she feels alone right now. We have to rise from our petty worlds and help her. She's my sister, and I love her. Life is not an oyster with a pearl inside, it's a series of choices and challenges. So, we run away or we accept.
I accept.
I always act before I talk, wrapping my arms around her hunched frame and telling her 'I love you'. Sometimes she responds by patting my hand, sometimes she just keeps rocking. Then, the guilt flows through my veins. Did I contribute to this? Her room is simple and bland. She has a knapsack she rhythmically takes apart then re-builds. Sometimes we sit side by side and colour in her books: angels and animals. She pushes down hard with one colour and her glasses ride low on her nose as she looks at me with this empty stare. I colour beside her, talking with glee and joy, trying to pull her to a happier place. It doesn't work. She just keeps colouring like a four year old who needs to finish a simple project.Sometimes she goes out of the ward with me. She has to 'sign out'. They can't allow anyone to just 'leave' the hospital in fear they may run off or hurt themselves. So, now, you/I become the responsible one. 
We go out into the Winter weather. She's wearing dark sunglasses and holding my hand. Nothing is said. I talk like a fearless brother who has nothing but good news. She's indifferent. Why should she care about my day, why should she celebrate my nice walk the day before. Her world is just full of trays with terrible food, medications that numb her, people around her that stare and wonder why she is the way she is. I am not of her world. I am just a brother trying to add 'one meaningful day' to her challenged life.
No comments:
Post a Comment