Doug was Five, I was 30
Doug’s whinny voice irritated me like fingernails grating on a chalkboard. Dave and I didn’t know the reason until we took Doug to see an ear-nose-throat specialist. He said Doug had swimmers’ ears and he had to have tubes surgically inserted to drain the fluid. Symptoms of swimmers’ ears can be muffled hearing full or feeling plugged up in the ears. No wonder he was so crabby. One morning I was particularly irritated and I slapped his face. I was humiliated, how could I do that to my child? He still wanted to go to kindergarten that day so I went to the classroom and told his teacher what I’d done. Right after that, I went to mom’s house. She told me she once slapped my sister Sophie's cheek so hard it left an imprint from her class ring. It was comforting to know I wasn't alone, but I still felt awful.
We in lived Melrose at that time and a few other kindergarten mothers lived just several miles from our house. We formed a carpool, but it didn’t work for me. When it was my turn, I had to drive four miles each way to pick up kids and take them home after class. The other moms didn't have to backtrack, they just stopped at our house on their way to town. It was a time-consuming for me. I didn’t speak up so the other moms had the advantage.
I was also particularly busy at that time. I had a young family, was sewing custom drapes at home, and went to church at least four times a week: Sunday morning, Sunday night, Wednesday night and Bible study.
We were also involved in building a business, Amway. Dave called friends and acquaintances to see if we could share this successful business opportunity. He scheduled appointments three days a week. Making the calls stretched Dave’s tendency to be shy. I was nervous before, during, and after. I was worried people wouldn’t be interested. There was a weekly meeting in Roseburg and training meetings two times a month in Eugene. There were also big quarterly conventions in Spokane or Seattle which included speakers. Zig Ziegler was my favorite but all that activity was stretching our busy lives and finances to the limit.
One morning I was washing Doug's face. I felt a lump on his cheek, concerned I took him to our primary care physician. He referred us to our dentist to see what the problem could be. X-rays showed Doug’s teeth were not the cause. The next morning, he came into the bathroom whispering “Cut, cut, cut.” He’d cut his bangs short and uneven; a cheap chop haircut.
Our doctor referred us to an ear-nose-and-throat specialist. He had to have explorative surgery which was scheduled on a Monday. That Sunday afternoon Doug tripped on the fireplace hearth at a friend’s house and he got a nasty cut on his forehead. Dave and I took him to the emergency room to get stitches which they sewed with black thread. Doug was so relaxed, not like me, he fell asleep while the doctor was sewing up the gash. So, Doug, had bangs cut too short and stitches on his forehead, he looked like a pirate. Monday after the surgery he looked like someone had cut his throat and sewed it with more black thread. The accumulation of the three mishaps left him looking like someone had severely beaten him. My mother’s heart didn't handle it well.
Doug stayed in the hospital for two nights because a drain was put in the wound. The second night a nurse suggested I go home to get some rest. I clearly remember I turned to leave the hospital and I started crying and couldn't stop. My stress had reached a boiling point, it was more than I could bear. I was having a nervous breakdown. I’d had mental struggles before. I wondered if more mental issues would arise up in me. They would.
The initial diagnosis was cat scratch fever which seemed plausible. The doctor was merciful, he suspected lymphoma but didn’t say so and if he’d told me that, I would have fallen apart. My mom and Dave’s mom stepped up to help while I learned how to navigate life. I was overwhelmed with the smallest details they all felt like a big deal for me, even making a simple bank deposit. It was months before I was myself again.
The lump on Doug’s face was like a boil. It opened and drained time after time, making it necessary to see the doctor. Later, he said the biopsy had been sent to a lab over several states away. Finally, we got a diagnosis of atypical bacteria, a strain of avian caused from a bird that flew over.
My depressed mood resulted in my inability to separate myself from Doug’s needs. A counselor at Melrose School invited me for a chat. I wasn’t sure what prompted the invitation. She told me it was from my extended stress. I was enmeshed with Doug. The dictionary defines enmeshed as, “Caught in a net, entangled or involved and intertwined.” I didn’t know where Doug ended and I began, it was my problem, not his. She offered to counsel me weekly. I was suspicious and wondered if it would conflict with my Christian beliefs. I declined but I wish I had agreed, I believe it would have been helpful to hear her insight. In the months following my breakdown, I wondered how many mood swings a person could have in a single day and if I would ever be myself again. It was a scary ride up down, and around like a rollercoaster.
A speaker a counselor came to our church. I don’t remember how much I heard of his message but I do remember one comment. He said if he was counseling a person who is having trouble coping with their world he recommended they see a biochemist. Dave and I knew we needed help, could this be the right answer for me? The biochemist’s office was in Portland, a long drive but we felt assured that I might get some answers. When Dave and I pulled into his parking lot the sign posted on the building read, “Chiropractor.” It was unsettling because my dad went to see one when he was having back trouble, how could the doctor help me if I didn’t have back trouble? I filled out an intake form and some of the questions I hadn’t been asked by a physician. The doctors’ interview was extensive and we scheduled an appointment for further testing.
Mom and I drove to Portland. I had instructions to bring a boiled egg, honey, and orange juice. They were going to be used to test my blood sugar. I thought I’d get a needle prick but he clearly had another way. I ate some of the egg, and honey, and drank orange juice every thirty minutes and as the morning wore on I got more and more restless. Mom and I went out for a short walk but back inside I was waiting and pacing, wondering when we could go home. The doctor said I had low blood sugar. I thought great, that means I could have more sugar, but I was wrong. I had been eating more and more sugar and hiding it from my family. Red hot cinnamon candy, Coke-a-Cola, and lots of cookies. My children and I loved Freakies, a sugary cereal that could rival any candy bar.
My bloodwork also showed I was low in some minerals due to poor absorption. He did a RAST test for any food allergies. I was allergic to wheat, egg whites, and nightshades including potatoes and tomatoes. The last two are my favorites. I went home with strict instructions for what I couldn’t eat: no potatoes, pasta, sugar, and finally no caffeine. That was the hardest for me. I was used to getting the energy from the caffeine but it was a stimulant I didn’t need. The restricted diet lasted six weeks then I returned for an appointment. The multiple trips to Portland, blood work, and vitamin and mineral supplements to get my system back in balance were expensive. I knew I had to follow the instructions carefully to merit spending that much money.
The doctor recommended I go for a thirty-minute walk every day. My neighbor Marla was happy to join me, it was good therapy to walk and talk and develop a friendship. We did an exercise where we would lift our arms up then sideways and then thrust back and forth to avoid getting, “bat wings,” or “lunch lady arm flabs.” I imagine it was entertaining to see two adult women flapping their arms like birds but we were having fun and we didn’t care if it helped.
All of those things: a healthy diet and regular exercise put our whole family on a path to better health. Good came out of bad, the breakdown was no fun, but in the end, it benefited our lives. Gradually I felt more like myself and then even better. God works good out of bad that is how he works, that is who he is.
My breakdown was the first indication of the depression I suffered long after my boyfriend had broken up with me. Then there was terrible postpartum blues which were an early indication of my mental illness. My journey was far from over.
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