Committed?

I was shopping for airline tickets last month; Jim and I are planning a Western jaunt to visit children and relatives in Utah and California around Thanksgiving, so I was looking into travel options.

Friends of ours have TSA PreCheck. For $85, TSA offers 5 years of streamlined airport security lines, leaving shoes and jackets on, and laptops and toiletries tucked into carry-ons. No more worries that I’ll forget my laptop or toiletries on the belt. No more awkwardly putting my shoes back on and hobbling to a bench to tie them.

So, I started the TSA online application. After asking whether you are a US citizen or otherwise documented, it offers this advice:

"If you answer 'Yes' to question 2, 3, 4 or 6 you may want to reconsider applying…Application enrollment fees are not refunded once submitted."

No, problem. I have no criminal record. But question 6 stopped me in my tracks:

“Have you ever been found by a court or other lawful authority as lacking mental capacity or involuntarily committed to a mental institution?”

In 1995 I had a psychotically manic episode. After several hours in an emergency department, Jim signed a paper committing me to a locked psychiatric unit. A powerful anti-psychotic drug wrenched me back into reality: I was truly and quite literally temporarily insane. This was a shattering and life-altering experience. Because of it, I diligently take my psych meds and regularly see my psych nurse practitioner and therapist.

I’m confident that I’m an extremely low risk to the flying public. I love my country; I have no desire to harm other people.

After reading the TSA question, I did some web research. I only found one source addressing Question 6: Katie Rose Guest Pryal . (She also posted here.) Katie Rose applied for the TSA PreCheck and was stopped in her tracks by question 6 as well. But, although she has depression, she has never been involuntarily committed. I appreciate her essay, but I was disappointed not to find more discussion on the web.

According to oyster.com:

"Almost anyone can qualify: It’s not just for diplomats and dignitaries. The only requirements are being a U.S. citizen or lawful permanent resident. Disqualifications may include customs violations, having been convicted of a crime, or being under investigation for a crime (and they will check!)."

This breezy and cheery website doesn’t mention Question 6. I feel angry and helpless.

Post-script

At supper this evening, Jim suggested we apply for the TSA PreCheck. I told him I was blogging about it tonight and we discussed the situation. He came to the conclusion that Katie Rose had:

"(I)n the end, the difference between involuntary commitment and voluntary commitment, so much of the time, is simply having someone tell you these words: “Just go voluntarily because otherwise you will have this on your record.”"

          Too bad we weren't given that advice in 1995.

          Although he didn’t voice an opinion in either direction, our conversation started me wondering: was I being defeatist? Was it worth $85 for a shot at getting the clearance? But, if I were rejected, would that permanently mark me as an undesirable? I might stand a chance in a face-to-face interview, especially if I dress well and have Jim with me. But the online application is the first hurdle and it's a close-ended questionnaire, with no essay options.

I did some more web browsing. This "complete guide" states:

"The US government says it will reject anyone who has been convicted of a crime, has violated customs or immigration regulations, or is under investigation by law enforcement. You will also be rejected if you provide false information on your application, so spend some time getting that right. Of course, customs and border control agents also have discretion to reject anyone they declare isn’t a “low risk.”"

So, dear readers, what do you think? Should I apply for the PreCheck?

Hypomania and Sleep

A man at my bipolar/depression support group, who has “unipolar” depression and never experiences mania, was surprised to hear a group member express deep concern by the lack of need to sleep. This man, who had never experienced mania, couldn’t imagine the brain overriding what seems like an inherent, biological need for sleep.

You would think that lack of sleep would always lead to exhaustion. You might rise to the occasion and deal with a crisis by great effort, but eventually you’d collapse as sleep deprivation took its toll.

For 10 weeks of the summer of 1995 I was energized as I drove our six children, ages four to fourteen, 15,900 miles, to the 48 contiguous states and into Mexico and Canada. I was wise enough to go to bed by 11 p.m., but during the day I went full throttle: taking care of six kids, sightseeing, and driving at least 300 miles most days. By the end of the summer, I had accomplished my goal.

After our return, as the fall progressed, sleep became more and more optional. In hypomania, some people survive, even thrive, on no sleep for days. That fall, I only needed 4 hours a night.

I once told my therapist, David Battit, that I was always grateful that I did the trip before being diagnosed with manic depression (my preferred term for 'bipolar'). I wouldn’t have had the nerve to do it, after learning about mania and sleep triggers. He looked at me sharply and I suddenly realized for the first time, and then admitted, “It’s good I didn’t go manic on the road. All those kids, so far from home.”

I didn’t play the scenario through during that conversation, but now, 13 years later, with more experience of my own, and a knowledge other people’s bipolar stories, I realize that it could have been more awful than I could imagine back in 2004. My behavior could have become so erratic that someone would have called the police. I could have been incarcerated or at least forcibly put in a locked psych unit. What would they have done with the kids? Put them in emergency foster care or police custody until Jim could arrive?

And I would have been devastated afterwards. To have put my kids in danger. To have been totally undependable and unreliable.

Hypomania is a temptation I live with. When I’m having a personal pity party, I complain: Jim can have a great day of high energy and peak experiences with creative flow. When he jumps out of bed before his alarm goes off, he doesn’t immediately think, “Did I miss a dose of my psych meds?” But every time I have a peak experience day, I have to check in with myself: did I take my meds?

Most days it doesn’t bother me, and as I’ve learned to live with the drugs that tamp down my elevated moods, I find that I can still experience energy and creativity, and be productive. Pysch meds aren’t perfect: side effects range from annoying to debilitating; some cause long-term health problems, raising the risk of developing diabetes or kidney disease. But, for me, they’re the best thing I’ve got in my anti-mania toolbox right now. If there weren’t any psych meds, I probably couldn’t have successfully raised my kids; I probably would have spent many months or years in mental hospitals. They’re not perfect, but for me, for now, they are better than the alternative.

Cambridge, Boston, and Ashford, Connecticut

This week Annie’s mother-in-law, Jennifer, and her friend, Joanna, visited. They live in Tianjin, China, the river port of Beijing. I picked them up at the airport on Friday and we spent Saturday together. The highlight of the day was a Boston Duck Tour, narrated by “The Codfather”, very informative and funny.

Made me fall in love with Boston all over again. And quite a contrast to the last time Jim and I were in Harvard Square, two days after Corey Johnson died. We saw Columbus, a movie set in Columbus, Indiana, where we spent four formative years in our early marriage. After the movie, I had no desire to wander: I felt a sad nostalgia as well as grief over Corey's death (and by extension, David's) and just wanted to be home. I felt like I’d never want to be part of the vibrant street life again. But the feeling didn't last.

Sunday morning, I drove Jennifer and Joanna to Ashford, CT. Connecticut has this in common with New Jersey: many people only know the cities and highways, but there are rolling, forested hills and meadows, farmhouses and fields. I tried to see the drive through Jennifer’s and Joanna’s eyes and wanted them to see everything. We had a short English lesson on the difference between a house and a building. Then Jennifer wanted to know what a ‘home’ is. How would you explain that?

Corey Johnson

              The day after I posted last week, tragedy struck a sweet family in our congregation. Corey Johnson, 40 years old, died suddenly and unexpectedly in her sleep, leaving a loving husband and four children, ages 8 to 17. I offered to bring a meal over for them and their visiting family on Friday; I spent all afternoon on it, very therapeutic.

              The funeral yesterday was beautiful, though achingly sad. Corey made ‘best friends’ everywhere she went. Four of them spoke wonderful eulogies and a women’s ensemble of about 30 'best friends' sang her favorite Randy Newman song, “Feels Like Home”. In the foyer there was a slide show and photo display. My favorite item was a wooden block that announced, “You call it chaos, I call it family.” I remember that stage of life.

              Cort and Corey grew up in Great Falls, Montana, met when Corey was 15, and have been madly in love for 25 years.

              I sit on my kitchen porch as I write. A robin is perched on a leafy bush, flitting from one branch to another, then hops down onto the cracked asphalt driveway. It's not a robin; it’s more slender, with a speckled, dusky-golden breast. As I lengthen my gaze to look out over our large circular driveway, there’s another, similar bird and, on the lawn beyond, are two actual robins. A squirrel leaps among the tall grass on a small embankment; I spy another on the far side of the maple trunk in the middle of our driveway. A tiny chipmunk bounces across the asphalt and then a splash of grey and white feathers swoop down the driveway 15 feet in front of me.

              Crumpled brown and green leaves are falling from the maple tree. It’s been ravaged by winter moths for several springs, so it sheds its leaves early. All around me are many shades and hues of late-summer green: forsythia, quince, maple, geranium, chrysanthemum.

          Several years ago, Jimmy and Beth, Johnston third-cousins from the Orkney Islands north of Scotland, visited America and stayed with us a few days. I was excited to host them and had visions of taking them up to the observation deck of the Prudential Building and along the red-brick Freedom Trail. But they had no interest in the big city. Jimmy is a retired lighthouse-keeper and loves the quiet life.

Their favorite activity (activity?) was sitting on this same kitchen porch and watching the squirrels cavort in the grass and trees. I think I understand better now. Sometimes watching squirrels is the best thing to do. And I appreciate the little critters more: there are no squirrels in the Orkneys. Imagine, having to travel to America to watch grey squirrels.

                                                    

              In my experience this week, I find that grief doesn’t ever get better, but the acute stage doesn't last as long. Reacting to Corey’s death, Cort’s widowerhood, and the newly-motherless children, I mourn for them and miss David. Today is the second anniversary of his burial and the 25^th month since his death. When I sob, it’s just as bad as it was that first night. But today I also bought groceries at Market Basket, walked three miles with my Austrian friend, Susanne, and showed her a Duolingo German lesson, my latest enthusiasm. I started an adult religion class and went to the temple. It’s been a full day; I’m living a full life. But the grief can break through at any moment, as it has this week. As Jim asked, “How did we ever get through it?” How will Cort?

New Hampshire State Road 101

Two years ago

In my weekly blogging, I’ve passed a milestone: it’s now more than two years since David died. I’ve ‘unpinned’ my Word document that has all my blogposts from May 2014 to August 11, 2015: I won’t be referring to them weekly anymore.

I’ve been blogging every week for over two years. I pledged I’d post each week and I have. If you want to read how the first year of mourning went, you can go back to those posts. Two years on I am doing much better and I’d like to expand my offerings. I hope you’ll continue on the journey. I love writing to you each week.

When David was three years old

Back in 1991, New Hampshire State Road 101 was a small, two lane highway which ran from Manchester, where we lived, to Hampton Beach, a village on the 13 miles of New Hampshire seacoast. Winding around bedrock outcroppings, it was notorious. Small white crosses dotted the side of the road, some with weathered bouquets of plastic flowers. Grim markers, they identified the location of fatal accidents and warned of the dangers of driving too fast on a small country highway. I was barely aware of them on my carefree drive to the beach, but noticed each one on the long drive back.

The day after Labor Day and there are just two other cars in the huge parking lot at Hampton Beach. I open the blue minivan hatch:
        “Rachel, you take the blanket; Peter, the cooler; Matt, the sand buckets; David…David?...Where’s David?”
        Silent blank stares from each of my children. Incredulous, I frantically lean over and see the empty back seat, then scan the area outside the car.

“Get back in the car!” I bark, and run for the pay phone. No answer at Jim’s home office. Linda and Kayleen: not home. I envision the police finding David and not giving him back.
“Hello?”
“Oh, Sue! This is Mary Johnston, next door. Could you go over to my house? I think I left my three-year-old home alone.”
Over the phone, I hear her kitchen door squeak open, then mine, then her faint footsteps down the carpeted hall of our little white ranch.
“There’s a little boy asleep on the bed. He’s got brown hair.”
I start breathing again.
“I’m at Hampton Beach. I can be back in an hour. Can you wait there?”
“Sure.”
Driving past the grim white crosses, I prep my kids: “When we get home, we’re going to do whatever David wants. If he wants to stay home, we’ll stay home. Whatever he wants.” Dissent is not an option.
David wakes up just as I enter the house. Sue shrugs as I thank her, then walks her cordless phone back to her house.
“Mommy, why did you leave me?” are the first, plaintive words out of his mouth. They cut into my heart.

How did it happen? Before starting off for the beach, I had gone to the bank drive-through, then back home for a forgotten lemonade thermos. Peter jumped out to get his GI Joe; I didn’t see David following him.
Thermos retrieved, I got back in the driver’s seat and watched through the rearview mirror as Peter buckled himself in. Then I sped out of the driveway. David heard the car leave, ran to the door, but couldn’t open it. He pulled a kitchen chair up to the counter and stole a marshmallow from the cupboard, then went in to his little aviator bear, Radar, and fell asleep.

        When he woke up, there was a strange lady in his room, with a phone in her hand. He heard the front door slam and his mom’s footsteps in the hall.

At that time, I hadn’t yet seen the popular movie, Home Alone, but had heard the plot and dismissed it out of hand as unbelievable. How could parents fly to Paris and leave their young son asleep at home? How could a mother go on vacation and leave her child?

I’d done just that.

I love the comedic actor, John Candy, who plays Gus Polinski in Home Alone. Gus and his fellow polka-band members have rented a large van to drive to Milwaukee after their flight is cancelled due to a winter storm. The mom is snowed-in as well, and Gus offers to give her a lift to Chicago, on the way to Milwaukee. Riding in the back of the van with him, the guilt-ridden mother asks:

“Have you ever gone on vacation and left your child home?”

Gus answers:

“No. No...but I did leave one at a funeral parlor once. Yeah, it was terrible too. You know, I was all distraught and everything. You know, the wife and I, we left the little tyke there in the funeral parlor all day. All day! You know, we went back at night, when, you know, when we came to our senses, and there he was. Apparently, he was there all day with the corpse.
"Yeah, he was okay, you know, after six, seven weeks, came around, started talkin’ again. But he’s okay. You know, they get over it. Kids are resilient like that.”

It took a long time before I could laugh about that day. I never asked David what he thought about it. I suppose at first I didn’t really want to hear. And now he can’t tell me.

Mesa Falls Half Marathon

Two years ago

At 11:00 p.m. on August 12, 2015, our identities forever changed. From that moment until the day I die, when I say, “We have six children”, I will wonder: should I mention David? Do I want a total stranger to feel forced to offer condolences? Will sharing my grief cast a pall on a casual conversation? Will I be judged as malingering, wallowing in my grief, not moving on? Will I be the one judging myself harshly?

So, I continue to say, “We have six children”, but constantly debate whether to bring the subject of David’s death into first-time conversations.

Mesa Falls Half Marathon

On Saturday, Matt completed 31 of his 50 planned marathons (His goal is to run one in each state). He had chosen the Mesa Falls Marathon in Ashton, Idaho, since it coincided with our annual Summer Retreat and total eclipse trip. Peter and Matt ran full marathons, R’el, Xiomara, and Annie ran half marathons, Sam and Savannah ran the 5K, and I walked the half (in 3 hours and 44 minutes: my personal best).

Within the first mile of my walk I struck up a conversation with Karen from Indiana, a woman very near my age. We were setting similar paces, so we ended up walking the entire route together. Somewhere near mile 8 of 13.1 the subject of children came up and I said, as I always do, “We have six children.” I didn’t immediately mention David, and debated a bit, but when she asked with sincere interest where each lived, I included David in my tally.

It felt like a turning point. I took a leap and risked the label of malingerer. I realized that part of my story of motherhood is David’s death and my grief. Anyone who thinks about it (including myself) and has a gentle heart will recognize that I never will ‘get over it’. The risk is mostly an internal struggle in me. I build a wall around my heart. I don’t bring it up to preempt anyone else criticizing me, even silently.

Path of Totality

Two years ago

David died on a Wednesday, August 12. Since David donated his body to the U Mass Med School in Worcester, we made no immediate plans for his burial: his body might be in Worcester for up to two years. With no body, we could have no wake and needed no funeral home, so we had visiting hours at our home Sunday afternoon and a funeral at our church that evening. I was deeply touched by all the family and friends who came to mourn with us.

The next morning, Monday, we packed up and left for our annual Summer Retreat with our kids in the Catskill Mountains in New York. Several months before, we had rented the house with the understanding that we might not be able to use the house if David couldn't travel. Sadly, , we were free to spend the week away from home.

So we spent the first full week after David’s death together in the beautiful Catskills. With all my focus on David for the previous 17 months, I hadn’t planned for the Summer Retreat: I couldn’t predict whether or not we’d actually go. Five days after his death, looking through a picture-window at an idyllic view of meadow and hills, I began a schedule of who would be around for each meal. Days of the week across the top of the paper, a column of names at the side: Jim, Mary, R’el, Peter, Matt--------I plunged into the chasm between Matt and Annie, where David’s name had always been. For 24 years, six was the salient number: six seatbelts, six Christmas stockings, six colored tumblers at the table, (a different color for each child: David’s was a beautiful blue). Suddenly I plummeted into a world of fives. I felt like I’d fall forever.

American Solar Eclipse 2017

Last February, our friend, Lee, told us about the August total solar eclipse. After 40 years, he could still vividly describe the previous solar eclipse he had witnessed. Inspired by his fervor, Jim searched online and rented the last house in Island Park, Idaho, near the path of totality. His cousin, Laura, graciously agreed to host us for the day in Rexburg, Idaho, so we could be in the path of totality. The eclipse coincided with our Summer Retreat, and we all were able to meet in Idaho.

I can state emphatically that being in the path of totality was totally worth the effort. As we watched (with our approved solar eclipse glasses) all the gradations from 1% to 99% of totality, we could see that the difference between 99% and 100% is “like the difference between day and night, literally. It’s like turning a light on and off. There’s no in-between. Either you’re in the path of totality or you’re not.” (nationaleclipse.wordpress.com) As CNN reported, "Even at 99% obscuration, the Sun is still 10,000 times brighter than it would be during totality!"

And what was the difference? The intense view of the sun’s corona blooming out of the pitch-black moon, the dark blue dome of the sky, the horizon still light, like a gentle sunset surrounding us in every direction.

Moon surrounded by the sun's corona (R'el Rodriguez)

I’d heard that the animals and birds in the area would go crazy during the sudden change from day to night. As we experienced totality, we whooped and screamed, mocking ourselves with shouts of: “The animals are going crazy!”

After the eclipse, we drove to Shelley (2 ¼ hours to drive 40 miles in post-eclipse traffic) to visit with Jim’s mom and other relatives. Aunt Arlene is an especial favorite of mine. We share a common bond: her son, Doug, died at age 24 in a horseback riding accident. A very different loss: Doug was riding alone in the wilderness and was missing for days before his body was found. Doug died fifteen years ago, so Peter and Arlene are further along in their bereavement, but it’s still a very tender topic: you never get over it.

And as I reflect on the peak experience of the solar eclipse totality, I feel a twinge of survivor’s guilt, that I’m intensely alive and David is dead. Am I less of a mother to feel such powerful joy? It’s a rhetorical question, but an emotional-charged one. Intellectually I realize I’m not heartless to enjoy my life to the fullness. But there’s a piece of my heart that hurts when I realize I’m not thinking of David constantly.