Shrouded in Shame

Multiple hospitalizations occur for some people with severe mental illnesses, in part because it takes times to figure out the most effective drugs for regulating a set of symptoms. But they also happen because people with mental illnesses are oftentimes less able to recognize changes in their mood, thinking, ability to interact with others, etc., when their symptoms flare.

My husband, Steve, was fortunate. He was hospitalized only once for his mental illness. It occurred following a psychotic break in 1995, when he was diagnosed with bipolar disorder. He spent a month at St. Rita’s Hospital in Lima, Ohio, near where we grew up. (We now live north of Pittsburgh.) He was an inpatient for two weeks, then spent another two weeks in Day Hospital, where he continued to receive services but was considered well enough to go home at night. He stayed at his sister’s home in Lima during Day Hospital, and the kids and I visited on weekends.

Even though Steve was hospitalized not far from where he and I grew up, few of our family and friends visited him. And he received only a handful of get-well cards. I also struggled with openly acknowledging Steve’s illness. When one of his local friends asked where he was, I said, “He’s been through a difficult time with work and needs to be away for a while.”

At the time, I was writing a column for our local newspaper. Although I never wrote directly about Steve’s illness, I naturally was drawn to subjects of personal interest; one was the discrepancy I saw in how we treat people with mental and physical illnesses.

Shortly after his hospital stay, I explored the idea in one of my columns. I wrote about the differences I saw in Steve’s experience and that of a friend who was seriously hurt in an automobile accident. Still feeling embarrassed by Steve’s illness, I portrayed the patient with a psychiatric illness as a woman, although the experience—including the picture our five-year-old daughter drew for her father while he was in the hospital—was Steve’s. Here’s the column, published the month after my husband was released from the hospital.

Visitors Brighten Any Hospital Room

I visited a friend in the hospital recently; Anthony was in an automobile accident that crushed his pelvis and left the right side of his body bruised and battered.

When I got there, two of Anthony’s coworkers were in the room. They brought him a bouquet of helium balloons with a pen-shaped hypodermic needle dangling from a ribbon. Attached was a note that read, “Wishing you a speedy recovery. You can still hold a pen, so we look forward to seeing you back in the office soon.”

Anthony’s room faced the backside of the hospital and overlooked the steam vent from the laundry room, but inside it was bright and cheery. The small dresser and windowsill were crowded with flowers; a stack of greeting cards were on his bedside table.

Even though Anthony was grateful to be alive, he was struggling with the extent that the accident had disrupted his life. He wouldn’t be playing softball with his league that summer, and the 24-foot motorboat he kept in his barn would remain idle. Teaching his seven-year-old daughter to water ski would have to wait until next summer.

Anthony remained in the hospital for almost a week, but a steady stream of visitors helped pass the time. At home, neighbors pitched in, making meals and transporting his kids to their after-school activities. With time and the support of others, Anthony will eventually regain a sense of control over a life disrupted by the accident.

Not everyone facing life-altering hospitalizations enjoy the open support of others, though. My friend, Margaret, who was in the hospital because she has bipolar disorder, was alone in her room when I visited. She was alone when I got there, sitting dazed and confused in a shaft of light coming through a locked window.

Shuffling slowly across the room to greet me, Margaret looked dull; her face was inexpressive. The medication she took quieted the demons within, but they also clouded the light in her eyes. Dark shadows circled them now. In her early forties, she looked sixty.

At Margaret’s bedside was a single red carnation in a milk-white bud vase, a gift from her husband. He visits on the weekends, but Margaret’s three young children aren’t allowed in the psychiatric ward. Her sister and brother, who live nearby, stop frequently, but few others were there during her long hospital stay. She passed her days sleeping and attending group therapy sessions, where she was learning how to put her life back on track. Several cards were on Margaret’s bedside table, one from her mother, another from her husband’s parents, and a third from a life-long friend who shared Margaret’s secret.

On the wall was a picture of a large, misshapen heart outlined in glitter that her five-year-old daughter drew. In one corner of the picture was a rainbow, in another a bright yellow ball with rays streaming downward. Scrawled inside the heart, her daughter had written, “I lov yu Momy.”

Margaret’s hospitalization threw her life into turmoil, complicating her teaching career and leaving her feeling confused and alone. Ashamed at being unable to control her own mood, she suffers in silence, plagued, like Anthony, by circumstances over which she has little control.