Oct. 10th, 2019 12:08 pm
Insufferable
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muckefuckYesterday I spoke with Mom for the first time since she dropped us at the airport Sunday night. She sounded alright so I broached the subject of grief counseling. She tells me she isn't ready to join any sort of support group but that she is going to see about finding a better psychiatrist. I was touched to hear that the two who had most recently treated my brother (one decided to leave private practice to become a hospitalist) reached out to her to offer their sympathies.
She also said something which echoes what I've heard from others: "I take comfort in the fact that at least he's not suffering any more." She told me that my sister's response to hearing that was, "I can't do that." I have to say, I'm with my sister in this regard. "At least he's not suffering anymore" is something you tell the survivors when someone dies of a terminal illness. I heard it when my husband died of incurable cancer three years ago. But their situations didn't have much in common.
Monshu's condition left him bedridden and dependent on IV feeding. By contrast, my brother lived independently, getting about on his own, cooking for himself, pursuing hobbies, and even going out on the town now and again. That's the kind of life Cameron had after his symptoms started but before his unsuccessful second operation: subject to certain limitations (restricted travel, hospitalisations), but otherwise much like mine.
Schizophrenia is serious and chronic, but it's not fatal. It makes one more likely to die by suicide or be killed by police. A substantial percentage end up homeless with the associated increase in health risks. On average, people with schizophrenia die about 15 years earlier than members of the general population. But nobody dies *from* schizophrenia. The leading causes of death for people with schizophrenia are still heart disease and cancer, just like they are for the rest of us.
Amid all the talk about how M.'s life was limited by schizophrenia (and it was a big subject at the memorial), what I wish everyone would remember is how much it *didn't* limit him. He had bad days and even weeks when he didn't really leave his place; so do I, honestly. But he also went to movies, parties, lectures, family events, etc. He came on family vacations and made trips around the USA with my mom. All around his apartment, I found evidence of the fun things he'd done, was doing, or was planning to do.
I'm sorry that's not comforting. It's not comforting to know that all of us could die at any time, whether we're in the prime of life or struggling just to survive the day. But I find it less comforting to talk about living with a chronic disability as little better than not living at all.
She also said something which echoes what I've heard from others: "I take comfort in the fact that at least he's not suffering any more." She told me that my sister's response to hearing that was, "I can't do that." I have to say, I'm with my sister in this regard. "At least he's not suffering anymore" is something you tell the survivors when someone dies of a terminal illness. I heard it when my husband died of incurable cancer three years ago. But their situations didn't have much in common.
Monshu's condition left him bedridden and dependent on IV feeding. By contrast, my brother lived independently, getting about on his own, cooking for himself, pursuing hobbies, and even going out on the town now and again. That's the kind of life Cameron had after his symptoms started but before his unsuccessful second operation: subject to certain limitations (restricted travel, hospitalisations), but otherwise much like mine.
Schizophrenia is serious and chronic, but it's not fatal. It makes one more likely to die by suicide or be killed by police. A substantial percentage end up homeless with the associated increase in health risks. On average, people with schizophrenia die about 15 years earlier than members of the general population. But nobody dies *from* schizophrenia. The leading causes of death for people with schizophrenia are still heart disease and cancer, just like they are for the rest of us.
Amid all the talk about how M.'s life was limited by schizophrenia (and it was a big subject at the memorial), what I wish everyone would remember is how much it *didn't* limit him. He had bad days and even weeks when he didn't really leave his place; so do I, honestly. But he also went to movies, parties, lectures, family events, etc. He came on family vacations and made trips around the USA with my mom. All around his apartment, I found evidence of the fun things he'd done, was doing, or was planning to do.
I'm sorry that's not comforting. It's not comforting to know that all of us could die at any time, whether we're in the prime of life or struggling just to survive the day. But I find it less comforting to talk about living with a chronic disability as little better than not living at all.