I am keeping my promises.
Last week, an article came out in the Boston Globe about spouses and mental illness. The picture gracing the beginning of the article may have been familiar to some of you. There we were, Paulie and myself, having a laughing moment in the Dracut Public Library, where I work.
That was one of the only laughing moments there have been of late.
I have been inpatient at Emerson Hospital for the last two weeks, as of today. I will be here at least 3 more, as I am undergoing Electro-Convulsive Therapy (ECT, or "Shock Therapy" to those in the biz) for the foreseeable future.
I will receive these treatments every other day for the next 3 weeks. I am wheeled down to a surgical unit, and an IV is started. A blood pressure cuff is placed on my ankle, and leads are glued all over my forehead. The blood pressure cuff on my ankle is so they can see when the seizure in my body is taking place, the leads are for giving the electroshock current. I am given a mask of oxygen to wear and breathe in deeply as the surgical staff do a "time out": they repeat my name, date of birth, procedure to be performed, and other relevant information to the procedure. They lower the head of my bed and tell me the medicine will burn in my arm for an instant before I am asleep. After I am asleep, they will administer a paralytic, so that when my body seizes, the only thing that moves will be that ankle and foot, below where they had placed the blood pressure cuff at the beginning of things. Once the seizure has taken place, I will "come back" into the room, awakening from anesthesia. Then I get wheeled back to the unit, and I continue with my day.
There are those who may be horrified by the idea of what I've just explained, but the fascinating part is that this is considered one of the most effective, safe, and "miraculous" treatments for refractory (or "treatment-resistant") depression.
I live most of my days here in a feeling of profound depression. I sleep too often, eat too little, and just want to go home. The woods of Robert Frost's "Stopping..." are lovely, dark, and deep, just like the sleep that washes over me during ECT treatments.
But I am keeping my promises.
Last week, an article came out in the Boston Globe about spouses and mental illness. The picture gracing the beginning of the article may have been familiar to some of you. There we were, Paulie and myself, having a laughing moment in the Dracut Public Library, where I work.
That was one of the only laughing moments there have been of late.
I have been inpatient at Emerson Hospital for the last two weeks, as of today. I will be here at least 3 more, as I am undergoing Electro-Convulsive Therapy (ECT, or "Shock Therapy" to those in the biz) for the foreseeable future.
I will receive these treatments every other day for the next 3 weeks. I am wheeled down to a surgical unit, and an IV is started. A blood pressure cuff is placed on my ankle, and leads are glued all over my forehead. The blood pressure cuff on my ankle is so they can see when the seizure in my body is taking place, the leads are for giving the electroshock current. I am given a mask of oxygen to wear and breathe in deeply as the surgical staff do a "time out": they repeat my name, date of birth, procedure to be performed, and other relevant information to the procedure. They lower the head of my bed and tell me the medicine will burn in my arm for an instant before I am asleep. After I am asleep, they will administer a paralytic, so that when my body seizes, the only thing that moves will be that ankle and foot, below where they had placed the blood pressure cuff at the beginning of things. Once the seizure has taken place, I will "come back" into the room, awakening from anesthesia. Then I get wheeled back to the unit, and I continue with my day.
There are those who may be horrified by the idea of what I've just explained, but the fascinating part is that this is considered one of the most effective, safe, and "miraculous" treatments for refractory (or "treatment-resistant") depression.
I live most of my days here in a feeling of profound depression. I sleep too often, eat too little, and just want to go home. The woods of Robert Frost's "Stopping..." are lovely, dark, and deep, just like the sleep that washes over me during ECT treatments.
But I am keeping my promises.
