Take My Hand and Walk with Me

It was a dark time or our family. Our finances were being depleted. Our insurance coverage was limited, as it did not fully cover mental illness. Our daughter aged out of insurance coverage, as it was only until she was eighteen, unless she was in college, and that was not happening. We had to turn to public assistance. I remember feeling awkward as we sat waiting for our turn at the social services office to apply. It was a humbling experience. Not all doctors accept this program as payment for their service, so we had to change care providers, including doctors, social workers, and her therapist. I had gotten that knowing feeling again regarding one of the psychiatrists who was pursuing a theory of neglect in early childhood development, causing the depressive episodes. I knew that was not the case as she was my firstborn. I may have made some mistakes in diapering or overdressing in cold weather. None of the above I believed were causes for this condition. Besides, we lived above her grandparents, who were a constant in her life. We relieved him of his involvement in her care. My guilt of neglecting the three younger kids became warranted when it was evident my fifteen-year-old needed some counseling. It was the beginning of an eating disorder. We worked through it with help from yet another therapist. It was a wakeup call for me as the result was my attention needed an adjustment and the home needed to return to a routine as close to normal as we could make it under the circumstances. My prayers these days were short, and my pursuit of God was sidelined. My anger and confusion over my sister’s death was beginning to subside as I grew in the knowledge of God and His character, His power. That’s not to say when I get up there I might ask, “What were you thinking?” Just saying.

And we know all things work together for good to those who love God, to those who are called according to his purpose. (Romans 8:28)

It was around the fifth year of this medical mystery that finally a diagnosis made some sense: bipolar disorder, also called manic depression. This was evidenced by periods of deep depression, followed by episodes of mania. The good news is that it could be treated by the right combination of medicine, but it would be a lifelong medical condition as it is a genetic chemical imbalance. It would have to be treated as the episodes emerged, triggered by a variety of life’s circumstances and stress. Hallmark in the diagnosis is the presence of mood swings. Not until the whole cycle is exposed to the professionals treating the patient can the right diagnosis be made. When the mania side appeared, they would treat the mania. When the depressive side appeared, they would treat the depression. None of this worked to stop the cycling. Support groups and coping skills are necessary in addition to the right medication to balance the chemicals in the brain to control the condition. Family awareness is also very important in observing signs of an eminent episode and to get the patient the medication adjustment and help that is needed. We were to the point now of weekend visits home from the hospital setting. I would drive her back on a Sunday night so she could continue her therapy sessions. I had to give up a partnership I had with my sister in a bridal shop because of the time needed to address all of the issues concerning this medical crisis. There were meetings with social workers, therapists, doctors, support groups that formed at the hospital. I was grateful my sister understood and released me from my obligations and took on the full responsibility of the store. She grew it into a successful business due to her expert skill at alterations. She made everyone look fantastic.

It was a typical Friday, kids at school, meetings with social workers, food shopping, laundry, school pick-ups, and a pick-up from the hospital for a weekend pass at home. I had taken my daughter to a healing service performed by a visiting priest who was said to perform healings through the Holy Spirit. There was a powerful move in the Catholic Church called the charismatic movement. Some of the sermons I heard were in line with what I was reading, and some things made sense to me. When my daughter’s friend invited her to a service at her church, my daughter accepted and continued to attend services there. The wonderful news came that my daughter was to be discharged from the hospital and would continue as an outpatient with just a weekly visit with a therapist near our home, and the therapist would contact the doctor for any needed medication adjustments. I had such a feeling of happiness and relief for my daughter. She had missed so much. The church offered my daughter a Bible, and she took it and began to read and learn. She attended Bible studies and church services with friends. Her outpatient therapy sessions continued for about six months when I received a call from her therapist. Her name was Virginia. She wanted to meet with me. I wondered what the news might hold. She said she was discharging my daughter. She saw no need for further treatment, except for a low-dose anti-anxiety medication. I thanked her for her input in my daughter’s life when she looked at me and said, “It wasn’t me; it was her God.” Evidently my daughter had shared her encounter with God with her therapist. It was all good. The spring came, and we anticipated a depression cycle. As we were on the alert for any signs of a possible needed medication adjustment, but it never came. That spring she was in Greece with her best friends, having the time of her life. Just before leaving for Greece, while out with friends, she met a young man. I am sure he thought he might be losing her to a Grecian god. He sent a huge bouquet of flowers to her hotel to ensure a date on her return. He courted her, and they were married on a spring day. She has never had an episode since. She gave birth to two handsome sons. She started a dance worship ministry in her church. She taught Sunday school. She established a day care business in her home so she could stay at home with her boys. She is mentoring a young single mother. She pursued the college education that was denied her due to the illness and at this writing is completing her goal of becoming a social worker.

So I will restore to you the years the swarming locust has eaten, the crawling locust, the consuming locust, and the chewing locust. My great army which I sent among you. (Joel 2:25)

Her sisters started to attend nondenominational churches. I became curious and attended some services also. It was such a different form of church, so foreign, but the teachings were awesome. Still not wholly convinced this healing was all God, I still clung to some notions that the medication was working and the diet changes played a part.

For he is our God. And we are the people of his pasture, and the sheep of his hand. Today, if you will hear his voice, do not harden your hearts as in the rebellion, as in the day of trial in the wilderness, when your fathers tested me, they tried me, though they saw my great work. (Psalm 95:7–9)