Crossing That Bridge

He stood in the frame of the door, so 'clinical', so important. My sister and I sat on her hospital bed and stared at him, perhaps wishing he'd just go away. He didn't look like the kind of man who comes bearing gifts or good news.

Am I going to die?

...my brave sister said as politely as someone asking for directions.

"Yes, I'm sorry, you are going to die."

The oxygen left the room. My sister and I just looked at each other while seconds passed, seconds that felt more like minutes, that felt like hours, that felt like a lifetime. In his lab coat and without expression the man explained with his medical mouth moving up and down and up and down.

"Your cancer has spread Lynsey. We removed as much of your tumor as possible but the fibres still thread through your cells, your muscles, your flesh and it will continue to spread. Now, it is about quality of life."

I held her too tightly and asked, or imagined I asked him what 'that meant', quality of life? He went on,

"you could go for intense chemo-therapy and other forms of treatment to slow down the process but, eventually, you will die. This is not going to go away. There is nowhere for the cancer to go."

That was two years ago today. Today is my sister's 'death anniversary' and I still see that young Doctor at a door telling my beautiful sister,

"Yes, you're going to die."

When he left, not a word was said and tears I tried so hard to hold back fell from my face while I held her. She hugged me tightly which was normal for Lynsey as she has always been a 'HUGGER'. I remember whispering "I'm so sorry" into her hair, her long beautiful hair that she never cut and asked me to brush during her 2 months in the hospital. I had brushed her hair over the staples from two brain surgeries, two hopeful surgeries that would end her confusion.
She was too young to die. She was far too lovely to leave us and not be part of Christmas and birthdays, phone conversations and private walks. She was part of my life, daily, part of the smile on my face.
I curled up around her on her hospital bed and held her like a life-preserver. He was wrong, she's talking, she's smiling and sharing emotions and memories. She's whole. He's wrong.

She fell asleep and I went to the visiting room. It was empty, just like me. I could only sob. It consumed me. We are never prepared to be robbed of a person who we clearly see at the next gathering and many gatherings to come. We are not able in that moment to leg go of anyone so full of love who shares so many moments with you. Mom, Dad, Friends, Siblings .... what do I do? How do I tell our parents she is going to leave us? How do I carry this burden if I can only sob; words are gutted from my throat. But, you must do the unthinkable. Less than two years ago I did the 'unthinkable' and a week later she was gone. Two months of hope had collapsed in four words spoken from a door frame.

Afraid to leave the hospital, to leave her alone, I finally felt brave enough to drive. I had told my parents. They had each other now. I drove over the bridge that I had driven over every day for the past two months. My bridge of tears. The only time I allowed myself to fall apart, to hate God, to question 'why' we are even born good if we must face such horrors. I blasted my music in the car, I screamed, I yelled, I swore and yes, I prayed and I begged for mercy for my sister's life. We have all done this at some point in our life or, we will. We will rage and be unforgiving of death and what it leaves behind.
I have been sad before but this was such a dark abyss of sadness I felt I could never crawl out of it. You become two people, the 'strong' son, brother, friend who smiles at death and lifts up the people in her life to safe places 'and', you are the angry brother who feels hopeless and guilt. Guilt is only coming from a place where YOU CANNOT PLAY GOD; it goes away.
My prayers were not answered.
I sat by her bedside and smiled at her young face. I told her she is such a wonderful sister and then, I begin to tell her about 'why' she is wonderful. The times she makes me laugh, the times she listened to me when I was a burden, the times we joked about growing old together and having 'cane' fights in a Senior's home. She'd smile. I didn't know if she knew this would never happen but I pretended it would. It made me feel whole again. I continued to brush her long hair and play music I'd put together for her to get lost in. I JUST NEEDED TO MAKE EVERY SECOND, MINUTE, HOUR, DAY MATTER...it's all you have left. That's why someone once said, 'we'll always have the hours, THE HOURS'.

Lynsey wanted others to be happy, she told me this 'often'. She wanted to live in a small country home with animals around her, to have her own garden and lead a simple life. She was humble. Lysney lived for Christmas. She loved 'It's a Wonderful Life', 'Filling Stockings for all of us', 'Helping Mom with the Turkey Dinner'. She was the ultimate giver, selfless and generous.
At the hospital I would watch her greet the janitorial staff and apologize for not 'making her own bed' or 'clearing her tray of plastic cups and bowls'. She asked them how their day was going and if they had family waiting for them at home. She was so selfless. I'd watch her and only wish I could be a tenth as caring as she is.

For two months the only world I lived in was my sister's world. I spoke with her closest friends, fed her two beloved cats, helped her walk down the hall and updated her on 'anything good' outside her walls. It was easy to be with her, to love her and to care for her. It's never a duty or responsibily when you have this unconditional relationship with another human being. It just happens. I never felt so close to her as I did in death. Death ultimatly makes everything bigger than life, brighter, more important. I have never known this feeling before, not until Lynsey's days were precious.

The phone rings at six in the morning and I know. Alone, by her bed, I smile down at her because she is finally at peace. I hold her hand and I thank her for the joy she has brought into my life. It's my time to be selfish with her, alone, in death. I tell her how she made me a better person and I will be a better person for others. This is the gift she leaves with me. With our parents arriving in a short time, I brush her hair one more time, fold her lovely hands, tuck her in one last time and kiss her on the cheek.
The bridge is crossed one more time. The bridge of a thousand tears, cursing monologues and confusion. One last time I cross that bridge and make that promise to never let her memories go, never. And, two years ago today I keep that promise to you Lynsey. I still have picked up the phone to call you but, "this number is no longer in service", and I remember I have to find other ways to talk with you, so I do.
You have and will always be loved my very brave and beautiful sister.

The Horse Whisperer

A Celebration of Life can flourish into moments you'll never forget. Gordy's was one of those. His death was sudden but his effect on others was far from over. Gordy was not just any, big, bearded man who mucked horse stalls in the Winter and held newborn kittens in the Spring. People gravitated to Gordy because he was honest, because he was humble and because he saw beauty in a purple thistle, a sway-back horse and a wounded field mouse left to die. Many of us cannot dig that deep into ourselves to see 'small treasures' and to share 'small treasures'..so, today, after Gordy died on an operating table, we got to hear the stories of so many men and women who loved to be near him. He was LENNY...LENNY from 'Of Mice and Men'...misunderstood, protected yet 'pure'.

The Celebration was held at the stables Gordy last worked at. There were flowers around the barn but they were not manicured roses with heather bought at a fancy store... the flowers were local, picked off the ranch and put in jars. So appropriate and so very beautiful. I smiled as I walked past them. Simple gesture.

Then there was the fencing. The wooden border circled a gazebo. On the top boards were 'horses'..small horses. Some were galloping, some were posing and others were just 'still', still like Gordy. They were set out for guests to take. Gordy was a giver..he wanted people to be happy so, his father, his only relative, 'Chuck', asked the guests to please take a small token of his son with them. Also, there were pictures and hockey cards, old weathered cowboy hats and shirts he had worn while he spoke to the horses.

Humans were not the only ones invited to this Celebration...there were 'horses' let out to watch the proceedings..the horses he cared for , the horses he rode. One was Pica, an old Police horse who had taken this man on many trail rides up north. Gordy was 'wilderness'. He did the cattle drives, he passed on colourful weeds to his sweethearts and he brushed the old dodgers, the old horses we put out to pasture. One man at this ceremony spoke of how Gordy could win a mean-spirited animal over in a day.

He 'had this way about him'. He was an imposing man to many because he was tall, bearded and BIG like LENNY. People were scared of him, but the animals..they sensed his gentle side. They trusted him and he made friends with the goats, the sheep, the pigs, the 'nervous' chickens and the moodiest of horses.

When I listened to people speak about his trials in life, I was amazed at how he never lost hope. Gordon worried about his aging 'best friend' before heart surgery. He asked his father if someone was mucking out the stalls because the horses would be uncomfortable and 'it was his job'.

He worried about the pigs getting fed and the barn being locked up at night. He worried about all of this just before his chest would be opened for the last time.

So, in this world where we get trapped with money matters, embattle ourselves against people who are negative, walk past old, weathered animals that no-one else tends to...there is 'LENNY', there is GORDY who would pick up a snail and put it out of harms way. There was Gordy who would tell an old horse it was loved before he went home to bed.

Again, we loose a wonderful soul who mattered. And above me during the service two magestic bald eagles circled. They circled with a rich blue sky behind them. It was a perfect farewell to 'the Horse Whisperer'. Simple men like Gordon leave large imprints on those left behind. We should all be so humble and caring, open and loving. Your horses are loved, the animals are fed, the flowers are picked and your energy is with us.

SOPHIE

My sister was dying. I knew she was not going to make it. I knew my visits were all about making her last days precious. She loved many people. She loved all the creaturs great and small. She loved her cats.

I went to her home almost daily to ensure her 'cats' were taken care of. She had two 'babies',as she called them, Sophie and Sebastian. I felt guilt each time I went into her home to water the plants and feed the cats. The cats missed her, I only saw dried, crusty cat food and still water. They were hidden. The cats were hidden, as they patiently waited for their 'Mom' to come home and pamper them. I wasn't that person.

When I went to see my sister she was very focused. She was focused on 'her two babies', her cats. I thought it was tragic that two cats would be more important than 'LIFE'. Lynsey would ask about her cats daily, "are they okay?", "I don't want them to be alone.", "Are you feeding them?"...it was the daily questions. She was dying, they were living, but the questions still existed. ARE THEY OKAY?

I'd go into her home daily. It was a dark time. I missed her, Lynsey's energy. I had to check her mail, her phone messages, the kitty litter..I had to live in HER WORLD. The cats were just 'reminders' that Lynsey was absent. Yes, she was absent and the two cats, siblings, like Lynsey and myself, were left to 'fend' for themselves. I offered wet food, dry food, water and verbal tunes of 'kitty kitty'..but, they were in HER WORLD.

At the hospital I reminded my sister that her 'cats' were loved, cared for, loved and safe. She was not of the same world. She wanted to see them, to touch them, to coddle and hold them...but, she was not permitted to leave the hospital and share her love for her '2' cats.

I told her over and over and over that they were 'safe'...but she pleaded to see them at Christmas...Christmas....who could deny that? The hospital staff told me, "she cannot see her cats..she cannot be tempted by the things she holds dear to her..she cannot SEE THE CATS!"... I felt trapped.
So, on Christmas day, I lied to my dying sister. I told her 'she could not see her babies or I WOULD BE HELD RESPONSIBLE'. Lynsey was and is a tropper..she just said, "I don't want you to get in trouble."...She was BRAVE, she was KIND....she was LYNSEY.

Then she died. She died too soon and the cats were left to my fate. Would they be taken to a shelter or be placed in familiar homes? It was a daunting choice. Her 'babies' were now my responsibility. I had my 'cats' , but there was this amazing bond she had with 'her cats'. What does a brother do?
I took the sister cat. Sophie would jump on my lap whenever I would come to my sister's home to check the phone mail, her plants, the cat food...I just pushed the envelope of LIFE...continue..press 'A' and wait. The wait was fatal. There would be no home for the cats she loved so much.

Lynsey died. She died with a huge heart, an incredible love of animals and friends. She slipped away too soon and the 'cats' , her babies..were still in jeopardy.

Time to do the right thing. Time to 'step it up', time to MATTER. I took Sophie into my world and my step-brother took Sebastion. They were 'in the family'.

Today...I hold her, I love her, I talk to her about...LYNSEY...I tell her how caring and attached her owner was to HER. I tell her she is loved and cared for , not unlike a child. When I hold SOPHIE, I hold my sister in my arms. They are attached and I am with both of them. Sophie is Lynsey, Lynsey is Sophie.

My Breakfast Club

University was a word I had anxiety about my entire life. To avoid it would be outstanding, to enjoy would be a roller-coaster.

When that letter of acceptance comes through your mailbox you feel this sigh of relief; you made it, you're above the rest, you'll conquer the World. Well, no-one told me it would be a journey like no other with hiccups that resemble creatures from the Lost Lagoon. Highs and lows so profound, Jack Nicholson is easily taken to task for his role in 'One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest'.

You leave 'what was your life' in a storage locker called 'the family home'. You also take a buddy with you so you're not left 'totally' alone to face an alternate Universe/University. You observe at first before sharing anything that will label you for the remainder of your school year. You tread gently in a land full of hormones and expectations.

My room, ROOM 209, was in a dorm full of men from various places across Canada. Introductions are made and you file away 'thoughts' of who will be avoided and who will be your study partner. One young man, at the end of the hall was on my 'hit list' of AVOIDEES. He was scruffy. Not only was he scruffy, he played loud daunting music and was always lying on his thin mattress with his foot bobbing back and forth to 'downer music'. I assumed he was going to be the drop-out, the drug dealer or the pimp. I suddenly had visions of 'The Breakfast Club' with me, unjustly accused, sitting next to him while he tapped his switch-blade against his worn jeans.

In that moment had God jumped out and told me 'this will be your new best friend', I would have jumped from the second floor into the manicured hedge.

I looked at my enclosed rabbit hutch for the school year: one desk, one prisoner-of-school bed, one worn stand-up closet with graffiti chiseled into the wood and one metal chair. Lockdown in Room 209.

After hanging up my pleated pants, my cuffed shirts and folding my Eddie Bauer Boxers into a warped drawer, I checked out the oval grounds. I would find my escape places in the maze called 'University'. The one room where I could escape was the piano room. Yes, the black and white keys would be my place to pound away when the drugs were unleashed and the booze began to flow...and this only took 24 hours.

Party, party a lot, party day and night, party until your head is literally fused with the toilet seat. That was the condition my condition was in. On one of these 'party nights', the man I deemed to be my 'study buddy' knocked on my door. It was Eric. Eric with the goofy face and big glasses. He was my big lug side-kick who would spare me hallucinations and fist fights. When I opened the door his glasses were gone and his eyes were red. He pawed my shoulder and demanded 'I COME TO THE PARTY AND GET SMASHED.' Being a polite and gentle soul, I simply said, "thanks Eric but, I do have an essay due for tomorrow". With that amazing cop-out the last thing I expected was Eric's huge hand slapping my face as he muttered, "you gotta have a party man!" And, he was gone.

Yes, the juices were flowing, the spittle from his beer-guzzlin' mouth hit me square in the cheek. Okay, I'd find another study-buddy and put some ice on my face; there was a tub full of ice in the common bathroom where the beer was being chilled, the 200 bottles of beer. Then I heard a voice as my door was being shut. "He didn't mean to do that." Probably God, again, telling me what an 'adventure' this was going to be. Perhaps Eric's slap-of-the-night had jarred a personality I hadn't met? But, it wasn't God, it was a hidden personality, it was THAT GUY AT THE END OF THE HALL...yup, the ONE, the one I had promised to side-step. His door was open, his Bhudda pose on his mattress was dressed in a black t-shirt, probably those same jeans, afro hair gone wild and a single pearl ear-ring telling me he was dangerous for my education. But, he invited me to come to his lair. Yes, it was time to meet 'Magic Mushroom Man'. Lamb to the slaughter.

I tried everything to escape the terror at the end of the hall. My excuses were lame and he knew it. I would be a drug addict by midnight, listening to acid rock and getting a tattoo somewhere on my student body. He would be my undoing. I knew I should have gone to Church.
I would become his puppet...he would be 'the dark PUPPETMASTER'.

I stood at the end of Bhudda's bed. His hands were clasped over his ratty t-shirt. The man had a hole in every piece of cloth on his body not to mention that one in his ear. He tapped the side of the bed and TOLD me to sit. His grin was pretty menacing..kind of Cheshire Cat I'd say, but more feral. I don't think I spoke which was unlike me because I had this great attribute of never shutting up in a crowd. The silence was deadly, for me, for him...not so much. I think he was embracing my terror. Yes, he was embracing my terror which hit a real high when he calmly said, "SHUT THE DOOR SO THE FACE SLAPPER STAYS OUT." Caged. Trapped. Mercy Kill.

He introduced himself while I let my eyes wander to his collection of books. Likely slasher novels or 'alternate ways to party'..but, no, I was wrong. Oh, I was wrong about many things. Standing tall were the best authors of days gone by, books of poetry, classics. He, Misha as I would come to call him, was more complex than any part of my life. He was someone you were lucky to listen to. Weaving stories of his life, he became my best friend who would hide from his followers in Room 209

or escape with me in my Volkswagon Beetle to the ocean where we'd talk about going to Australia or what our families would be like.

I found myself in that piano room too often throughout that year in Room 209. Misha was a man, like all of us, fighting his demons. I had demons of my own and in a world called DORM LIFE, demons rise from a filtering system smothered with booze and drugs, sex and lies. But, there were moments of greatness. Your 'Breakfast Club' of two becomes your outlet to a safer place. It's an elite Club where you can escape the loud music, the blurs and slurs of room-mates, the Von Trapp born-again Christians and the constant pressure of 'making it'.

I never went back. My holy friend moved away and took my dream of family while I stuck out my thumb and hitch-hiked through Australia

to face my demons, but not with my friend. He was at another University changing lives and rising above those books I saw on his shelf the first day we spoke.

We all have turning points in our lives. One of mine was in Room 209 and shared with a stranger I had judged as my biggest nightmare but, at the end of the day, he was 'My Breakfast Club'.

She Is My Hero

Another early morning watching my sister getting prepared for her 7th treatment of ECT...another morning of holding hands

.

Susan was crying the day before. We had a wonderful day. She walked in the sunshine with me, we talked about simple things and just listened to seagulls cry out. It was good, it was so normal. Then, when I took her back to the Psych Ward, tears quietly tumbled down her face. She held my hands and with some shame, she said, "I'm sorry. I shouldn't cry. I know I have to do this. You don't have to stay."

What does a brother do? I was so proud of how brave she was being. This would be her 7th treatment and she still thinks of others. She, Susan, is always thinking of others when she's falling into her dark place. I continue to breathe in and smile because she needs to know we are ALL TAKING THIS JOURNEY WITH HER.

When I look at her I see this child I grew up with. Susan was my twin through life. We shared everything, we experienced most things together and we had adventures. I was told, by my parents, that Susan was 'retarded'. I was only 6 years old and alone in my bedroom when they came in with serious faces to enlighten a 6 year old.

At the time, I was selfish. A selfish boy who loved to terrorize his sisters and play silly games. But now, I was told to be 'bigger than this'. I was told to protect her, to make sure other children did not hurt her, to walk to school with her and to be 'gentle' with her. I was not impressed, I was confused.

Why? Why do I have to be a different brother? Why do I have to be riduculed for walking my sister to school and be brave to ward off mean children. It was like a life sentence. I felt such anger for my sister. She had unraveled our relationship in one day. I promised to follow the rules but, still, I was angry.

Now, looking into her eyes , her lost eyes, I just want her to be that girl who walked the shores of the beach and helped me put strings on beach logs and turn them into horses. We started a ranch on the beach using old logs. We named each log, each 'wooden horse' and drew faces on them. We rode them and said goodbye before heading back to our log cabin for dinner. She was someone who lived in my adventures.

I stood by the metal table as she crushed my hand to make sure I would stay with her through her 7th treatment. "Don't leave okay?"... I would never leave her. As children I did leave her, many times. I left her in the ugly world called the school-yard where children did not take pity on other children with handicaps. I did not defend her when she was blamed for the things she did not do. I was being a brother who wanted to stop having to 'be her hero at six or seven years old'. I was angry that she was 'special' and I was not.

The treatment began. She was braver with each treatment. Now, she would lie still while they stuck needles into her and wrapped headbands on her with suckers and goo. She just 'held my hand' and asked me to wait for her. She is so brave. She is my hero.

AS I wait on the hard chairs in an empty hall, I think of our time together as siblings. Susan was always so kind. She followed my lead and would do anything I asked. She just wanted to please people, to please her brother. We shared pets, so many pets. Susan would buy me rabbits, hamsters and budgies with her allowance. Sometimes I took advantage..well, often I did. I told her there was a special time called 'pre-birthday' and 'pre-Christmas' presents. Susan would come home with rabbits and goldfish from local pet stores. They were for me, "pre-birthday present!" she would say. I felt badly but, I continued to be 'that' kind of brother because it was so easy.

Now, I look down at her with an oxygen mask over her face, a needle taped to her arm and 3 medical personale hovering over her while she sucks up her mental health, while she sucks up her unfair hand that was dealt to her and finally, she sucks up whatever fate comes out of this

.

Susan has taught me how to be a better person. She has fought many battles in her life. She has conquered the mean children, the labels, the medical challenges, the impatient relatives and now, she has conquered me. She has made me so humble over the years. We, all of us, can learn so much from the 'Susans' of the world. Her simplicity and kindness were trampled throughout life and now, she depends on US to lift her up, to save her from all of the things 'she never asked for in life'.

Yes, Susan is my hero. Who else?

The QUIET ROOM

We continued our quest, as a family, to visit my sister, Susan and hope the drugs, shocks and T.L.C. would come together to raise her up into a better world. Sadly, her stay on the Psych Ward took a blistering turn for the worst.

The first ECT treatment was to happen on a Wednesday. No water, no medications, no food. Empty vessel for a procedure many thought had died with the dark ages. Susan had, once again, fooled those around her by getting past the nurse's desk at 3:00 am, meet her cravings at the communal refridgerator only to drink a small carton of milk. Sadly, it was enough to cancel the procedure we had all willed our way to this great place called 'hope'. Sabotaged.

The next two days, before another attempt to send electrical waves through her brain, would be 'challenging' for a better word. Susan was not the patient who 'went along' with directions or took advice from professionals. She is a lost adult living in a child's world with chemicals flowing through her veins and treatments lined up like rubber ducks. She is as complex as a patient can be. Susan does not understand 'her own labels' and she has more than one to carry on her frail shoulders.



Then the day finally came for her first ECT treatment. I would go up at 7:00 am in the morning to hold her hand and take her to the mighty 'O.R.' where the team of medical personal would give her the first jolt into a very confused mind. Would it work? Well..it's only the first of a series so, my hopes were not high but the process has finally started and it has worked a number of times before. So, we take a big breath in before walking through the sealed doors of the Psych Ward where Susan is being 'prepped' for her 1st treatment.

It was odd to be on the ward so early. The patients were mostly asleep and I sat alone at their kitchen table while Nurse Cheryl attended to Susan's needs. I guess she wouldn't have to brush her teeth before a morning shock treatment? I don't know? Does appearance really matter?

She's put on a rollerdex bed and wheeled up to me. There is no sign of life in her eyes. Had she just given in to the treatment? I did my 'brother act part 48', "you'll be fine, I'm here with you, I love you, it's all going to work out, you ARE GOING TO GET BETTER, don't BE AFRAID." Easy offerings but did she hear any of it? I held her hand as they wheeled her into the cold container called 'the elevator'. And down we go..down, down, down.

She's wheeled into the O.R.. The Dr., Dr. Kyne (no, not Kind as I hoped for) was waiting for his 7:45 patient: Susan Mary Evelyn Walker. He greeted me with an official smile. I guess he could pick up on my awkward attendance. 'Should I stay or should I go?', the song kept playing in my head. I kept an eye on the male nurse who was tapping Susan's arm, looking for that 'one' vein he could stick the anesthetic in to. But, she's not one to please. Her veins are hers and they are hidden from all. Another Nurse takes over and finally, the needle is inserted and the juices are pushed into her small body. She's going into 'her deep sleep'... I see her body go limp and the male nurse press an oxygen mask over her face. The steam from her breath fogs the globe and she is 'away'.

Dr. Kyne took me under his wing and told me about the procedure. This was cool comfort as I continued to grip my sister's hand tightly...hoping she KNEW I was still there, still believing in her wellness. He told me what the male nurse was doing. Her head was strapped down with a plastic band and suckers were sealed to her forhead and chin. She looked like a poor excuse for a bad science project. Wires were everywhere and monitors. I was not quick to absorb ECT 101 from Dr. Kyne (not Kind). I just wanted this to be over with.

The countdown began the male nurse put a huge rubber mouth-guard in place so she didn't bite her tongue off. We all know what that is for. A button is hit, a red button. I thought I'd see her body convulse, her back arch, my world stop..but, it didn't happen that way. Her face became very tight and all facial muscles pulled in with force, but, only for seconds. Then, it was over. It was 'that fast'. I let out a breath. OVER..THE FIRST SESSION IS OVER. But, it wasn't. The 'graph read-out was not good'. Susan HAD BEEN GIVEN MEDICATIONS THE NIGHT BEFORE and this altered her altered state. It had not been 'very' successful. So, add another nurse and repeat. ZAP number 'two'. Better, but still not what they wanted. Not a PERFECT RESULT. The Dr., Dr Kyne (not Kind) looked at me and rolled his eyes.

I asked him what was wrong? He said, "they should not have had her on any medications prior to this procedure. It's clearly written on her charts." He lets out a frustrated sigh but gives me a smile. "Not to worry, it still 'worked', not great..but, effective enough. Mind you, I'd like to take this graph read-out and slap it on their staff fridge!"...Yeah, me too..I'd like to slap a lot of things on the fridge.

I went into a waiting room and saw two newborn twins being rolled out in plastic bubbles to be cleaned up, weighed and checked for 5 toes and 5 fingers. I smiled. Yes, I smiled for the first time in a long time. To see two screaming newborns pass my sister's O.R. room was the ultimate contrast. LIFE.

After an anxious thirty minute wait the metal door flew open and Susan was pushed out on her gurney. She was awake, to my surprise. Her arms went out in my direction as she coaxed me to come closer and hold onto her. Tears build in my eyes but I have to hold in any emotion. She has to know I'm strong, I'm there for her, it's all about HER GETTING BETTER..no time for tears or worry.

She doesn't speak and I hold her hand as we go up to the Psychiatric Ward, again. With help, the nurse and I get her to her feet and help her into bed. The curtains are shut to keep the light out. She needs to rest, she needs quiet time. She only spoke once when we were alone, "Tom, I don't think it worked." The last thing I wanted to hear.

She slept. A day later Susan was 'out of control'. She was screaming random words of hatred at the nurses and banging on doors. She howled at the clouds and screamed until another pill was pushed into her mouth. Anti-psychotics came at her every 4 hours. Family were NOT TO VISIT. Susan did not SLEEP. She was moved to the quiet room so she could 'rage on', 'strike out', 'fall apart'. No one could stop her. This went on for hours, then days. She never slept..she was PURE ADRENALIN.

Did the treatment have an adverse effect? Where her medications more like poison in her system? Was this just HER RAW MENTAL BREAKDOWN in it's very lowest form? Worst of all...how do we, how do they STOP THE MADNESS? The quiet room is locked, then it's not locked. She wanders out and churns up the entire ward to a higher decimal. She has to STAY IN THE QUIET ROOM until she is, quiet. But, this tiny sister of mine is spitting her rage at anyone who comes close. I've seen this before. Family just wants to cover their ears and go back to a time when Susan was simply, Susan, this curly-haired girl with old-fashioned glasses and a sweet disposition. OH GOD, where is she?

But, we re-assure each other as family members do. It's a glitch. It's only the first treatment...she normally responds well after about 4 or is it 5 treatments? SHE WILL BURN OUT. She cannot bang doors, rip her clothing, and cuss at strangers forever. The madness will end. We just pray harder and trust in Dr. Kyne (not Kind).