Mental illness has long been something people don't like to talk about. It is not always acknowledged, and if it is, it's likely to be in a remote corner, all hushed whispers and reminders not to spread it around. This stigma has been carefully passed down from generation to generation since time out of mind... every bit as well-preserved as great-great-great grandma's quilted masterpiece. The shame weights down those already suffering from mental illness with another heavy layer of despair. There is a hopelessness and a total write off to the label "crazy". It is hurtful, and describes nothing of the intelligence, the courage, and the strength of the people who live with inconceivable challenges every day.
Treatment for mental illness has come such a long ways in recent decades, but unfortunately the general public's perception of the mentally ill is still behind times. A lot of the reason for that may be that people fear what they do not understand. To this, I say...learn.
My mom and dad are in their seventies. Lots of things have changed since they were my age, and raising a family. No wonder they were skeptical and frightened, at first, of the meds, the mental hospital, the treatments. Heck, I was skeptical and frightened, myself.
Mom and Dad listened to Cory, when she would share; they listened to me when she wouldn't, or couldn't. They went to doctor appointments with us. They read books. Their understanding of Cory's illness grew, and with it, our unified front was strengthened.
We were a team: Cory, Jacob, Mom, Dad, and I. My sisters and brothers-in-law, too. Our goal was always to keep her safe, and to help her feel better.
I will never forget my father's response to Cory's growing paranoia and eventual certainty that there was a "squatter" living in our basement, plotting against her. My father is a quiet, logical, ambitious, get-it-done sort of fellow. He selected his most intimidating hammer and drove Cory to our house. With eyes as big as pieplates and trembling all over, Cory trailed behind him, enveloped in his large and comforting shadow as he lit the darkness of the basement with a high power flashlight in one hand and the hammer in the other.
Dad's mission: to prove to Cory there was no one there.
They found no one, of course. Cory felt some relief, but in time, her brain got up to its nasty tricks again. This time, she whispered- well away from the vents-that the squatter had simply hid while they searched. He was a good hider.
When I think back now to my dad's role in supporting Cory, and supporting me in caring for her, that is the one image that comes to mind: the image of him, with a hammer in his hand, leading his confused and frightened grandchild into the light. He would beat this cruel and senseless illness to pieces if he could just get his hands on it. How dare it bother his grandbaby?
My parents' constant faith also led Cory back to church, where she could step out of the darkness and into the light of complete understanding and comfort.
Neither, will I ever forget how my mother tirelessly cared for Cory during the day so I could work.I would check in throughout the day to see how she was doing. Mom always gave me a full report on what she had eaten.:) I would then ask about the symptoms, which were much harder for her to discuss. It took me awhile to make the food connection. (Keep in mind, I wasn't sleeping much those nights). Mom knew that when there was nothing else that could be done to make Cory feel better, you could always feed her. She started making her peanut butter milkshakes when Cory first went on meds because she had no appetite for anything else. From there, Mom fix Cory just about anything her little heart desired. It was love and comfort in a glass or on a plate. I should have known what she was doing; I did the same with steak and pasta. It's a wonder the poor girl didn't end up weighing 400 pounds!
It wasn't just the food, though. It was the care when preparing the meal, the love in my mother's hands as she chopped or stirred or scooped. It was the soothing tone of her voice when she asked Cory if she'd like more. It was my mom's beautiful, and kind blue eyes that let Cory know every time she looked at her that Cory was okay with her. Nothing was ever wrong with Cory in my mother's eyes, and that type of acceptance was something she desperately needed. Somehow, I am positive no one else's milkshakes in the world would ever taste as good to Cory as her grandma's.
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