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toys containing a hammock
My brother was doing better. His CAT scan was normal. They un-strapped him from the hospital bed. He was answering simple questions, even though he was still on oxygen. (“How are you?” / “Tired.” ) And he was to be moved from the cardiac unit to the psych ward for evaluation.
The next day I hear he is on a respirator, with a feeding tube, and on that drug that killed Michael Jackson.
Basically, the hospital put him in a drug-induced coma because the weekend was fast approaching, and they wanted to do the bare minimum of care. No one is saying that, but that is what is happening.
They did the same thing with my mother. First thing on Monday, when a doctor was available, they took her off the drugs and the respirator and she died.
So...I was feeling hopeful. Not so much now. If I have to go back to my hometown for yet another family funeral, I might just lose it.
And might I just add, FUCK the Medical Industry.
And FUCK this mass hysteria that is "the weekend", where important things should get done, but never do. Life gets suspended for days while the elite class gets to do important things like shopping and golfing and fucking strangers.
Last night was awful. I spent most of the night locked in the bathroom sleeping on the floor with a towel as a pillow and another for a blanket. My husband started crying about my brother, then he just went totally psychotic out of nowhere.
He broke a mirror. He knocked down most of the art in the bedroom. He kept calling me a liar and all the usual shit he says when he's psychotic, that comes out of nowhere, and doesn't really make any sense. He always repeats “It's not my fault.” Not just a few times. A few hundred times in a row. It's really hard to contend with. It's hard to watch and hear him being psychotic, hard to be caught in the crossfire, and very difficult to just let it pass, because he always insists on following me around screaming at me. Which is why I had to lock myself in the bathroom. I told him if he didn't stop yelling at me through the door and banging on it, I would have no choice but to go to a hotel. Again.
Usually, when he is doing OK, he never raises his voice. He never used to get psychotic like this. He never used to yell for hours and hours. Words that make sense, but do not make sense in any sort of context to reality.
He said he was going to call an ambulance because the only reason I would lock myself in the bathroom would be to kill myself. I honestly had not considered that. I just needed a safe place to be.
I had to remind him that ambulances mean cops, and if he brought cops down on us over nothing I would never ever forgive him. And that they would probably just take him away to the mental ward, not me, since he was the psychotic one. But then they'd take me away someplace else for possession or some other shit.
This morning he went to the Farmer's Market. He seemed stable so I took him to a local record sale. This guy holds it every year out of his garage. I felt like shit and looked just as bad, but I promised him a few days ago I would drive him there, so I did. So, he can call me a liar all he wants, but I do my best to keep my word.
We spent $125 on LPs and came home and I made food, because neither of us had eaten since about 1 PM the day before. Except, obviously my husband ate a peach we had ripening in the fruit basket, because it's gone. He has no memory of eating it, but there's no where else it could have gone, because I sure didn't eat it.
And that's just another day in the life of a schizo-affective household.
It's really difficult for me to be caregiver to someone when I am not very stable myself.
Sometimes it seems like the only stable thing in my life is this little white box and the void that surrounds it.
2:23 PM - Saturday, Aug. 18, 2018
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