Shit. Sometimes I just don’t know how I’m going to continue down this road. Sometimes I feel so disheartened. The situation with my brother just keeps deteriorating and it won’t stop until he’s dead. I don’t know if trying to continue my withdrawals during this period makes sense, but it’s already going to take a couple or more years to get through–I just don’t want to make it go on any longer–but am I being masochistic??
I started withdrawing from Risperdal again a couple of days ago. I awoke at 4:45 this morning. I got six hours of sleep. My most reliable source on withdrawal uses 6 hours of sleep as the minimum you should get while withdrawing–a few days here and there with less is also to be expected. Sleep is bound to be disrupted and it’s just part of the deal. But my experience of six hours of sleep is simply that it is not enough. Not enough to feel half way decent the next day. I’m tired. And I’m scared. In November and December of last year I had the nasty experience of having withdrawn from Risperdal too quickly. I put up with awful symptoms for 2 months before reinstating a bit. I’m now mildly traumatized by the experience which is making me loathe to tolerate any discomfort at all. How much is too much?
And my brother–oh God, my brother. It’s tearing me up. Not everyday. I go periods where it’s in the back of my mind, but then something happens to make it come crashing back into my reality front and center. Jesus, it’s just so painful. And with the withdrawals making me more sensitive I really start wondering just how much I can handle.
He’s in the hospital now. He had his first round of chemo this time around a couple of weeks ago. This round of chemo is really just to try to give him a couple of more months, if anything at all. It’s not at all guaranteed to do that. His white blood cell count dropped precipitously low a few days ago. He’s developed a serious infection. He’s got a high fever, dehydrating diarrhea and is not able to keep any food down. He was scheduled to have chemo again on Thursday. You can’t have chemo if you have an active infection. It can kill you. He doesn’t know yet–or is in denial–that he won’t be able to have chemo. He is grasping to this chemo as his last lifeline. He still sometimes talks about maybe making it. It’s more than heartbreaking. Talking to him is excruciating. His spirit is gone.
I know today, that my attitude is being shaped entirely by the tragedy of my brother’s cancer. I have these dark moments and then I tend to catastrophize. Give me a good night of sleep and a bit of distance from the latest drama about my brother and I should perk up. It’s just I always remember what it’s been like in the past (now quite distant) when the ugly darkness seemed to go on forever. I have to remember that now my life is different. I’m supporting my health in numerous ways and it seems that things over all are indeed much better. I have to remember my favorite cliche which sometimes annoys the hell out of me, “this too shall pass.” It always does, doesn’t it?
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Gianna,
Yes, it passes. Many years ago I was speaking to a pharmacist about my daughter. He told me this: “don’t get on her rollercoaster.” He talked to me about standing alongside of her, supporting her, not allowing myself to “get on the coaster with her”, because then in fact, I would not be emotionally available to her for the support she needed[still needs me].
This pharmacist was many a day the only person who understood what I was living, and always encouraged me to never give up. He told me eventually that he had a bipolar daughter; who was repeatedly hospitalized, and at the time he told me his story–his daughter was 25 and successfully living in NYC as a designer[forget if its clothes, etc.].
It was a relief to hear him tell me this: “there is light at the end of the tunnel, a brilliant and good light.”
I was uplifted and listened to this wise man’s words and gift of encouragement.
One day someone else was working there. I inquired as to where my pharmacist was—“he quit.”
I never got to thank him for his encouragement, or say good bye. I also remember thinking, without that support how could I do this?
Then I realized, that I was already ‘doing this’. I consider him a guardian angel placed at the right time in my life to teach me wisdom.
This will pass, though it’s painful Gianna, just stand alongside your brother the best you can.
Take care,– Stephany
Gianna,
Yes, it passes. Many years ago I was speaking to a pharmacist about my daughter. He told me this: “don’t get on her rollercoaster.” He talked to me about standing alongside of her, supporting her, not allowing myself to “get on the coaster with her”, because then in fact, I would not be emotionally available to her for the support she needed[still needs me].
This pharmacist was many a day the only person who understood what I was living, and always encouraged me to never give up. He told me eventually that he had a bipolar daughter; who was repeatedly hospitalized, and at the time he told me his story–his daughter was 25 and successfully living in NYC as a designer[forget if its clothes, etc.].
It was a relief to hear him tell me this: “there is light at the end of the tunnel, a brilliant and good light.”
I was uplifted and listened to this wise man’s words and gift of encouragement.
One day someone else was working there. I inquired as to where my pharmacist was—“he quit.”
I never got to thank him for his encouragement, or say good bye. I also remember thinking, without that support how could I do this?
Then I realized, that I was already ‘doing this’. I consider him a guardian angel placed at the right time in my life to teach me wisdom.
This will pass, though it’s painful Gianna, just stand alongside your brother the best you can.
Take care,– Stephany