These past eight weeks

October 6, 2014
Day 159

It's now been eight weeks since Andy's Uncle Fai has been in the hospital.  I haven't talked about it a whole lot here, but we still go every day to visit him, usually in the evening after work for about 45 minutes to an hour, sometimes more.  It doesn't feel like much considering the seriousness of his situation, but when you add in driving time, it's a big chunk out of our weekday evenings.

He still can't talk, as he's all tubed up all over and has a tracheotomy in to help his breathing, so even when he is awake and alert enough to see we're there, he can't talk to us, and often doesn't even look us in the eye.  I imagine he's depressed to some degree, or in pain, or just very tired, and it's probably all of that and more.

We walk into the ICU each evening and wave hello if he's awake, then wash our hands before approaching the bed.  And then it's always the same routine from there.  I look at his heart rate and his blood pressure, I check his blood output, urine output and yes, even the other-stuff output, all to see what color everything is.  I'd never have guessed I'd be so interested back when this all started, but I've learned to be happy when the colors are all exactly as they ought to be.

After washing our hands, saying hello, and looking at all his fluid output, we glance over at his IV tower to see what medicines he's on, and how much of each one he's currently getting.  Fentanyl and pantoprazole are the only ones I know offhand, the latter easy to remember because I pronounce it as if it's a dish I'd order at my favorite Italian restaurant.  "Yes Mario, I'll take the pantoprazole with bolognese sauce, please.  Thank you, my friend."

Can I just say again though: eight weeks!  For 56 days now, Fai has been laying in that bed, in the ICU at Nassau University Medical Center, with nothing but a nurse's station and some curtains to look at.  He's got no TV or even a radio there, and he's asleep or drugged up enough to be very sleepy most of the time anyway, but this has been going on for close to two full months!

I can't help but think to myself, what have I done with the last 56 days I haven't been laying in the ICU?  What have any of us done with our lives these past two months?  While Fai is laying there in bed, his stomach still distended, still not sealed from the original operations, medicines going into him all the time, and other tubes taking fluid out of him constantly, the rest of us have been going on with our lives.  And what have we done?  What have any of us done with our freedom from hospitalization and illness?

These past eight weeks, Uncle Fai has been bedridden in a serious, sometimes critical medical situation he has no control over.  He's at the mercy of his doctors and nurses, and can only nod his head or occasionally squeeze our hands in response to the random blather and conversation we offer when we visit.  And then, each evening, we leave him there, and we return to our lives back home.  We turn on the TV, or go back to our computers, and we forget again.  We forget he's in there sometimes, and we forget how good our lives back home really are.

So take a moment, wherever you are, to be grateful.  Be grateful for your health right now, and your life right now.  And if you can, say a prayer for Fai, or send him your positive energy and well wishes through the air.  You don't even need to wash your hands first. 

Thank you!

All the other beautiful days

August 15, 2014
             Day 107

Today's entry won't be too long, because I'm working on just three-and-a-half hours of sleep, but also because there's been a lot of sadness this week already, and I'd rather not overdo it at this point.

First things first, a fact: Today is the 6th anniversary of the day suicide took the life of my friend Sal.  I purposely phrase it that way because I've come to see over time how his mental unclarity obviously got the better of him.  He didn't end his life after careful planning and months of agonizing over his choices.  The illness, in whatever form it affected him personally, just took over his brain enough to convince him of a lie.  It told him he had no other choice, though he always did.

I never judged Sal for his action that day, because to me that'd be like judging someone for crying.  When pain reaches certain levels, certain responses just happen.  Tears just happen, emotional pain just happens, and yes, even depression in all its scary, acute forms, just happens.  None of us are in any place to judge, or even casually pretend to understand what goes on inside a person who becomes a victim of suicide.  We don't share the same headspace of those who get to this point, so we have no right pronouncing our wisdom on the situation. 

Depression sucks.  Suicide sucks.  And people who pass judgment should seriously just shut the fuck up, and remind themselves how difficult this life we're living can be at times.  Suicide is a choice, but it's a choice that manifests from cloudy thinking, not clear thoughtfulness. 

When someone you love is taken this way, you're left feeling like hope itself has died, as if all possibility for a happy ending in life is forever marred by the fact that depression claimed the life of a dear soul.  My friend Sal was a very, very dear soul.  Like most 26-year-olds, he loved to party and have fun, but he was also a fierce friend, especially to those he respected and loved.  On one day six years ago, he lost an internal battle we didn't realize he was fighting.  And that just sucks.  Suicide just fucking sucks.  But sometimes it isn't enough to want to have joy.  You've got to believe in the joy you cannot see through all the cloudy thinking. 

When suicide claims a life, it's important to remember all the joy the person left behind, and not the last few moments of sadness.  For all the trauma Sal's loved ones went through in the months following his passing, the actions of his last day were just a few moments in the bigger picture of his abundantly beautiful life.  And it's that abundantly beautiful life that I know he would want to be remembered for.  Whether it's cancer or murder or any other disease or horrible ending, what one of us would want our last day to be remembered above all the other beautiful days we've lived? 

So we remember Sal, and we remember all of our loved ones who have passed this way, for all the other days.  So many cherished memories.  So much life.  So many beautiful days. 

My clinical depression

August 14, 2014
             Day 106

In 1996, I was a mess.  One person even described me as being completely crazy.  I was sad, I was confused, and I was lost.

And then it got worse.

And then, it got worse than that.

In 6th grade, when I was just 11 years old, I began feeling attracted to boys instead of just girls.  The feeling grew until 9th grade, when I was in an all-boys Catholic high school, and felt very much attracted to my classmates.  By the time I joined the monastic life and became "Brother Sean", I felt by taking the vow of chastity, I was vowing to give up women, which wasn't all that difficult to do!  Since I was 18 then, and never did anything about my other leanings, I felt they would just stay dormant in me, asleep, and not cause me any problems.  Throughout college though, even though I was a vowed Catholic monk, I found myself still thinking about my classmates at Manhattan College, and the feelings were just getting too difficult for me to contain.

On January 1st of 1997, just a few minutes after midnight, I came out to another person in my religious order.  It was the first time I'd ever said the words out loud to anyone, let alone myself.  And though the moment was extremely painful for me, the equivalent of passing a stone I'd guess (an emotional stone for sure!), the day that followed was one of the happiest I have ever experienced in my almost 40 years of life on this Earth.  It was just such an amazing feeling knowing someone else now knew my biggest secret, and I felt like everything would now be better.

It wasn't. 

The depression got even worse now, as I realized not only could I accept being gay, and think that maybe even God wasn't judging me, but now I was reminded of my situation.  I was a Roman Catholic monk in a very conservative religious order, and escape was not an option.  I literally felt completely helpless, completely powerless over my life.  I'd told God I'd be his servant, and I wasn't going back on that promise, no matter what feelings I was having.

I don't know what kind of "crazy" I must have given off in those days, but my religious superiors noticed it, and decided to get me help.  I was brought up to Dunwoodie Seminary in Yonkers (Saint Joseph's Seminary), and introduced to a psychologist named Paul Moglia.  The day I met him, Paul was giving a standard psychological test to a group of men studying for the Deaconate.  I learned he was the official psychologist of the Archdiocese of New York, so I knew I was in good hands.

He gave me a series of tests, asked me to answer a whole bunch of questions and even draw a few items, and then later told me I was suffering with clinical depression.  I can't tell you exactly how I felt when I heard this, but I must confess there was definitely something good about it.  Paul helped me see right away that there was something chemical going on in my brain, and the severity of my emotional lows were not the result of something bad I'd done, or any truth I happened to believe.  He also knew right from the start that I was gay.  I didn't have to tell him, because my religious superiors had informed him in advance.  (They'd gotten it out of me in what was its own extremely difficult conversation days earlier!)

Six months followed all this, and I went to see Dr. Moglia once a week for the entirety of this time.  I was told not to tell my fellow Brothers where I was going.  "If anyone asks, say you're going to visit the other community," is what they told me.  My depression and my struggle in general was my new biggest secret.  Not only was I a closeted homosexual, but I was a closeted clinically depressed homosexual too.  And throughout this time, I was also in my final semester at Manhattan College, pursuing not one but two degrees as a double major. 

At some point right near the end of my battle with clinical depression (and it was absolutely a battle), my doctor finally said he'd done everything he could for me, and would be happy to keep seeing me, but said I absolutely needed medicine for my condition.  He spoke to my religious superiors directly, and I did as well.  They said no.

They didn't just say no, actually.  They told me the Holy Spirit would help me, and not medicine.

My doctor, who you'll recall was the official psychologist of the Archdiocese of New York, was livid.  He contained his emotions, but he was very upset that these people were denying me basic healthcare.  He suggested we take the next step, and secretly talk to my parents.  They didn't know what was going on really, but they knew I had lost an awful lot of weight, and wasn't very happy.

And then, before any of this secret medical help even happened, I was summoned to meet with my religious superiors out of the blue one day.  "You're not happy here, we think you should leave the religious life, and we think you should leave right now."  The words aren't exact, but trust me, they are pretty much exactly how it went down.  (I'd failed out of their high school as a freshman, so this was now the second time in my life I'd been told to leave the premises.)  An hour after the meeting, I was dropped off at my parents' door, just a handshake and a wish of good luck to end it.  Four years of my life had just disappeared in a puff of smoke.

Now I can't tell you how to heal clinical depression, or how to treat whatever version of it you might be suffering through, but I can tell you that seeing my psychologist was more helpful than I can even put into words.  Seeing any doctor, especially if you have a great rapport with the person, is one of the best things you can do to help heal your hurting head space.  And for me, getting out of the religious order was enormously helpful too!

Though the day itself was one of the worst I've ever had, the days afterward slowly got better, and I had a new sense of hope and optimism about my life.  I had no money to my name, no bank account, and very little possessions, as I'd given most away when I joined the religious order, and only took a few boxes back out with me when I left, but for some reason, just getting away from some of those people really was the best thing for me at that time.

No, I can't tell you how clinical depression works, or how exactly to fight it, but I have learned it's a cruel fate for anyone to go through.  You feel lost and alone, depressed beyond measure, and nothing can help you feel better.  You need professional help, and nothing short of it.  And even before getting the help, you need to admit you need the help.  You need to surrender to the help others can and will be happy to give you. 

If there's a person, a group of people, or a situation that's making you feel this way, you need to get away from them, even if just for a little while.  And if you're a friend or spouse or family member of someone who's going through what seems to be depression, you need to help them do this.  Don't guilt them for needing to run away for a little while, even if just metaphorically.  Encourage it.  Obviously, don't let them be alone any more than they need to be, but if some kind of escape from responsibility or schedule will help ease their brains, please consider helping them through that.  And most importantly, find a professional psychologist to help too! 

If you had a broken arm, you'd want to get treated immediately.  The same is true for depression.  It needs to be treated through tender care and careful counseling.  It helps soooooo much, trust me! 

I'm no doctor.  I can't help you with all your pains.  But look one up in your area if you need to.  Most work with health insurance companies too, so you may only have to pay a copay.  And if you don't have insurance or money, please talk to me or someone else close to you for help.  No guilt!  If you're in need of medical help, your loved ones will help you however they can.

My particular story may sound unique, but depression itself is unfortunately far from rare.  Too many live through it without telling anyone, and so many others battle it with drugs and alcohol (or many other programs, communities, and tactics) instead of dealing with it the right way, with qualified professionals who know how to help you. 

As Professor Albus Dumbledore put it, "Help will always be given...to those who ask for it."