I'd gotten an email from a FAS dad asking about us, so I thought it was the right time. Here it is:
itle: "I signed up for that"
*Ron and I left you back in 2003. He was in pretty bad shape, partly paralyzed in addition to being blind, with a head injury, and dependent on me for all his care. His family disowned him when I refused to place him in a nursing home "Do you want to kill him? A bullet's a lot more merciful!"
Ron and I had had the talk years before, after his uncle had a massive stroke. "Give me a year" he asked. "If I'm doing better and I know you, please stay, but if I don't, feel free to walk away. I wouldn't want you bound to me like that." I tried to tell his family; but they weren't willing.
The final straw for them had been the meeting with the social worker, when she told them they'd have to step up, helping me out for hours a week, every week, until Ron died. They were not interested in signing up for that.
I was pretty volatile myself, up one day, down the next. I was overcome with crippling depressions one day and full of optimism the next. I tried to use "the energy" to my advantage, and it helped a lot with the caregiving. 4 hours of sleep for a week straight? No problem. I had no other help but a ride to the Walmart super center once a week.
Someone from work left books on the doorstep, which I appreciated. We didn't have a TV.
My computer was my lifeline; I joined a head injury support group and got some valuable advice. One woman came online one day and said she was finished. Her fiancé had called her a vile name and she was done with him.
"I didn't sign up for this" she posted bitterly.
"I did" I thought.
Ron gradually emerged from a haze of delusions and confusion to realize he'd been in an accident. He went back in the hospital with a critical, life threatening complication. He had more emergency surgery and pulled through.
I found it very interesting, sometimes Ron would have delusions, thoughts that weren't true, like "The hospital is really a restaurant". You can imagine his horror when they asked him to use the bedpan! He was furious. "You don't do that in a restaurant!"
Everyone else seemed to think it was a big deal, but I had thoughts like that all the time. For a long time, I was convinced my sister's daughter was really mine, even though she looked just like her parents. Or, I'd be overwhelmed with apocalyptic thoughts of pending disaster, paranoia about my neighbors, etc. This in addition to my constant companion, depression, and those high-energy days.
I'd learned talking about the Bad Thoughts made people upset, like Ron's other caregivers. They treated his delusions as a very serious problem. I figured they'd fade off like mine always did, but I didn't say it. I'd learned not to talk about it, it just upset people.
Ron pulled out of that and we began thinking about going back to work. We were getting a small check every month.
In the meantime, I was taking some very good advice: "Take a day off every week and have fun". So, I'd run to the thrift store, buying clothes or books, and bringing them home on the bus. Sometimes I'd take Ron out on the bus and we'd have a fun little day out ourselves.
The first time it happened, one of our regular bus drivers pulled up to the stop. There's Ron, his head covered in scars. In a wheelchair. He is obviously partially paralyzed on his right side. He's covered in road rash scars, evident because he's wearing shorts. The open-heart-surgery scar peeked out from under his t-shirt.
The driver pulled up and opened the door, gaping at Ron in horror. "What happened?"
I looked at him, deadpan. "I caught him with another woman."
We went back to work, Ron in the wheelchair now. You should see him pulling the hand cart behind the wheelchair, as he rolls along in the wheelchair. He is able to walk very limited distances, but an allergic reaction to an antibiotic gave him severe neuropathy - standing and walking are very painful for him. He gets around as much as he can - and he can "walk" around the house.
Yes, we bought a house! It is very modest but it's ours and we love it. I love working in my garden, and we're right off the bus line.
We signed up for paratransit, I ride as his "care provider". We've met a lot of interesting people. When I'm by myself, I take the bus. The drivers tend to get very nervous when they see Ron "walking" towards us. He wobbles and drags his bad foot, in addition to being blind, but he gets around.
Ron, by all standards made an amazing recovery but I was getting worse. I was always irritable, angry, battling flocks of Bad Thoughts, paranoia, depression, and those high energy times weren't so fun anymore. I felt like I was in a car with no brakes, headed for a cliff.
In 2006, I had a series of massive, suicidal depressions. I couldn't handle the thought of another one. Ron was desperate - his sweet Heather had turned into "Heather the Hatchet" and NOTHING made me happy.
In desperation, he called adult protective services on himself. "I can't take it any more. I'll give up everything, the house, my cat, everything. All I need is a bed and a toilet!"
"Oh, we can do that" the caseworker replied. She put him on a waiting list for an assisted living facility in a horrible part of town.
Happily, I "came out of it" for a while and he changed his mind.
Tired of fighting, I finally went to my doctor about the depression. My faith had carried me far, and when I prayed I was led to tell her everything. Her eyes bugged out about halfway through the Bad Thoughts and she left the room.
"We're going to need to hospitalize you". What? I had to work tomorrow! I begged and pleaded, in tears. I just needed an antidepressant. Sure, they hadn't really worked before but...
They finally let me go home, IF I agreed to go to the emergency room and undergo an evaluation. "If you don't" she warned me "I'm sending the police to your door".
Gulp. I went.
I had depression, everyone said that. When asked if I had bipolar disorder, the mental health professionals and assured me I wasn't. Again and again, "You're not bipolar".
Until September 1, 2006, when I was. I cried in relief as I heard wonderful tales of medication, stable moods, and happier living. I wanted them that second.
However, it took me 2 months to find a doctor who dealt with uninsured patients and bipolar disorder. My sister told me that lithium had worked for our mother, so I made a mental note.
I thought for sure Ron would run when I told him, but he took me out to dinner. He couldn't be more supportive.
When I met the doctor, I told him everything. I asked for lithium. He brought out samples! "Take one of these every morning..." he trailed off as a frantically tore through the packaging and gulped it with my soda. "And one of these, too... You'll do very well, Heather."
Within 2 days, I knew I needed lithium more than I needed the air I breathe. The noise in my head abated, I could live again.
According to the experts, I am bipolar, type one. I have mixed episodes (up and down at the same time); I have psychotic features (Bad Thoughts). I am a rapid cycler, I switch from one to the other every few weeks. The good news is I never have to deal with the current mood for long.
"Heather," my doctor told me "I can't eliminate the ups and downs. My goal is to level them out, enough so you can have a good life." I do. Ron's thrilled. He got his wife back, and even uninsured I can afford my generics.
I just got a lithium blood test today; I'll be getting them, and taking my medication, for the rest of my life. I'm well aware the quality of my life is directly linked to my medication.
I never drank to begin with, so I think that's one reason for my success.
My faith has really grown through this whole process, and I now do "Free Bible" handouts all over Houston. You may see me one day, standing on the corner with my Free Bibles sign.
I'm Heather. I have FASD. I'm "crazy". I can't drive. I'm married to a head-injured blind man in a wheelchair. And I wouldn't trade my life for anything. Thank you for reading my story.
Want more? I have a blog at (you're already here).
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