Slaying those Dragons – Part Two

In May of 2004 I had a heart attack, not a massive one mind you, it was relatively mild but serious enough to stir up some psychological problems.  In all candor, this was the start of many of the bigger symptoms of depression, the depression was already there but it got a little worse.  Until then, I really felt like I was ten foot tall and bulletproof, the heart attack cut me down to size and reminded me that I was a mere mortal, just like everyone else, what a shock to my system.

Until then, I had been living erratically, busying myself more than anybody should ever be busy if they want to maintain a healthy life.  I was working full-time, active on several boards and committees, and my life was go-go-go, all the time.  I would grab a burger and fries in between meetings and catch a nap when I could, sleep and a healthy diet was at a premium.  I used all my vacation time on board activities, never taking time for myself, the surprise really wasn’t that I crashed, it was that I lasted so long before I did.

After the heart attack I became obsessed with living to the fullest, I mean really obsessed.  I should have slowed down but I didn’t, I just made trivial changes to my eating and sleeping habits , and kept on going.  What did change however, was my penchant for self-care, and for the condition of my home.  Hey, I had to sleep didn’t I, after all I had a bad heart, I really didn’t but self-pity overruled the doctor’s opinion.

My fear of dying didn’t kick in full-force until my sister Suzanne died suddenly of heart complications on September 26, 2005.  I was close to my sister and the grief over her death really threw me into a tailspin.  It was then that I reached out to a counseling agency for help.

People who need counselors tend to fear them, I know I did.  The fear of having to discuss your life with a stranger is normal, but it’s necessary if recovery is to take place.  Counseling has been one of the greatest tools in my ongoing battle with depression and PTSD (Post Traumatic Stress Disorder).  A few months with a counselor and things started falling back into place for me. 

It’s hard, I know, to reach out when you are feeling stuck, but reaching out is the most important thing to do at that time.  At the time, my family was dealing with their own grief and their own issues, and I had entangled them so much in my web of self-pity that I didn’t feel it wise to reach out to them so I reached out directly to a counseling agency.  It didn’t really matter who I reached out to, I needed help and help was there.  If there’s nobody that you feel you can reach out to, family, friend, etc., there are crisis counselors, and crisis lines available in just about any location, and they are trained to help you, I know, I’ve used both in my current crisis and they helped me a lot.

I cannot emphasize enough how important it is to reach out to someone when you feel you’ve run out of options, reaching out is tool number one in my toolbox, and if there’s no one for you to reach out to, reach out to me at rivet.luc@gmail.com.  It would be my privilege to set up a time convenient for both of us so that we could talk.

Talking to someone who understands, is tool number two, whether it be a friend, a crisis line, a counselor, a support group, or someone who has been through the same situation, talking helps a lot.  You don’t have to suffer in silence, reach out and touch someone, as the phone company slogan says.

Love you all!

Luc 

Let’s Talk About Mental Health

A year and a half ago, I was in the grips of major depression, all faith and hope were gone, and I really believed I was going to die, I wanted to die.  There were dark clouds of pessimism and despair hovering over me, and it shames me to say that I wasn’t even able to look after myself properly.  My home was a disaster area, I had poor hygiene, and I would cry for no reason at all.  I was a wreck!

There was a crisis, there always is, it didn’t precipitate the depression, that was already there, but it precipitated the need for action.  Only one other person knows what I am about to share publicly, I was desperate and had pretty well resolved to disappear, to go away and end my life peacefully somewhere where I wouldn’t be found.  Selfish of me, I know, but rational thinking wasn’t my strong suit back then, but a lucid moment did find me and I reached for the phone.  The rest, as they say, is history.

It’s painful to remember those days, and it isn’t easy to share, but on this, World Mental Health Day, it seems appropriate to end the stigma and share my story. 

Even though one in five Canadians suffers from a mental illness at some point in their lives, we don’t talk about it.  The stigma is so great that those suffering from mental health issues would rather suffer in silence than risk being judged by those they love.  Wouldn’t it be great if the whole world started talking about it in a caring and compassionate way, how many lives could we save, how much misery could we avert?

My own story ends well because people were willing to listen when I was ready to talk.  The love and support from my family and friends helped me to cope with my illness and brought me to the right people, places, and things to help me recover.  Although my life is not perfect today, depression still rears its ugly head once in a while, on most days I am genuinely happy, and when I’m not, I know that I have a network of people who really care to turn to.

It takes more than medication to cure mental illness, it takes an entire community of caring individuals, adequate resources, and informed supports.  Chances are someone you know is dealing with a mental health issue, be the friend they need, and talk about it!

Love you all!

Luc

Death Becomes Me, NOT!

Death is highly overrated, I did it once, and I don’t particularly care ever to do it again.  It has a way of sneaking up on you, of knocking your socks off, and convincing you that life is nothing more than a prelude to your eventual demise and if truth be known, it wasn’t even the slightest bit dramatic.  I saw no bright light, no bridge or tunnel to cross, no fanfare whatsoever, I was alive and then I wasn’t, that’s it.  How disappointing!

Death stalked me, and found me on November 30^th, 2007, the night of our city’s annual Santa Claus Parade.  I don’t remember that day at all, and any details I could or would supply would be second or third-hand information so I’m going to limit my discussion to only the critical information.  Fact, I was clinically dead for five to seven minutes, long enough to suffer major brain damage (the verdict is still out, but I don’t think I did), and thanks to a few of my coworkers, John Warner and Walter Tidd and their nonstop application of CPR until the ambulance could navigate the parade route, I was resuscitated and kept alive long enough to reach the hospital.  I survived the ordeal.

My sudden death was caused by a possibly genetic problem with the electrical system of my heart, more commonly referred to as an arrhythmia.  There are different types of arrhythmias, but the type that I am more prone to is called ventricular fibrillation, a condition where the heart just flutters and is unable to pump blood, leading to death.  This is when the doctor rubs the magical paddles together, yells “clear,” and then sends the body bouncing off the table in grand fashion.  I’m not sure how many times I was “paddled” that night, but I know it was more than once.

Because of my erratic heartbeat, and the possibility of future incidents, I was implanted with what is known as an ICD (Implantable Cardioverter Defibrillator), and after twenty-four days in hospital I was released on Christmas Eve and got to spend Christmas with my family.  All went well until January 18^th, 2018 when my ICD malfunctioned, giving my heart five shocks it did not need, which sent it into a tailspin and led to another few weeks of hospitalization and a replacement ICD, and that is when my mood started to change.

I received the very best Cardiac Care throughout my ordeal, and I will forever be grateful for that, what I didn’t receive was any type of mental health care, no counselling, no coaching although to be fair that may have been included in the outpatient Cardiac Rehab they offered me a couple of hours away from my home, which I chose to skip for economic and accessibility reasons.  The heart had been taken care of but my mind, now a mess, was starting to sink into some kind of abyss, and the more I wanted to talk about my ordeal or about how I was feeling, the more I was shut down and reminded that I should be grateful that I made it through, and move on!

The following year I practically lived in the emergency room of our local hospital.  Any twitch, spasm, or heartburn sent me running to the ER and because of my recent history, they would connect me to monitors and settle me in for the night, I could sleep then because I knew that I was in a safe place.  At home, my mind would run incessantly and convince me that death was waiting in the shadows for me, that it felt cheated and would claim me very soon to complete its cycle.  I didn’t want to die; I wanted to live, damn it!

About a year into my recovery I met a doctor who wasn’t about to coddle me and tell me how it was always a safe bet to come to the hospital whenever I had any sign or symptom that could even be remotely connected to my heart, this is what the other doctors did, no, Dr. Groh, she was different.  She was firm but kind when she told me that there was absolutely nothing wrong with my heart, but if I continued to act as if I was going to die, it would eventually lead to heart troubles.  She prescribed a ten-day supply of Ativan and ordered me to speak to my family doctor about it.  By the time I got my appointment with Dr. Britton-Foster he already knew I was coming, Dr. Groh had written to him, and we talked about some of the issues I was facing, he prescribed an anti-depressant that was also good for anxiety and my mood started to change, a little bit.

There would eventually be a Cognitive Assessment, a Psychiatric Assessment and a diagnosis of Post Traumatic Stress Disorder from the day that my ICD malfunctioned, as well as a consensus by medical professionals that I was majorly depressed.  My medication was adjusted, counseling was suggested, and I was on my way.  I did attend counseling, but just for a short period of time, I had convinced my counselor that I was doing what I needed to do and that I felt great, and the therapeutic relationship was considered successfully completed.

There were episodes over the next several years but only one major one, in January of 2011, when my heart stopped a few times, resulting in further hospitalization.  Until now I had been faking it until I made it, acting as if everything was great in my world and apart from the decline in the condition of my home, things really did seem to be going well for me.

After the episode, my mind relapsed into my old thinking patterns, and I convinced myself that I was going to die.  I stopped caring about my appearance, about my home, and about life in general.  I honestly believed that death was imminent and would literally get upset because it was taking its sweet time to claim me.  Now don’t get me wrong, I wasn’t suicidal, I didn’t want to die, I just knew I was going to, and if I was going to, then there was no use prolonging the agony.

In February of 2016, I finally reached out for help.  I had had enough of pretending that my life was perfect when it wasn’t, and I knew that the mess my life was in would only get worst unless I took certain steps to change myself.  I let go of all shame and opened up to people about how I was feeling, how messed up I had allowed my life to get and was determined to do whatever it took to get well.

I agreed to a course of counseling in the form of Cognitive Behavioural Therapy (CBT), to another Psychiatric Assessment, and to a medication adjustment, and decided that I couldn’t hide behind the stigma anymore.  My only chance at true recovery is to make sure that the people close to me are kept informed of what is happening in my mind, in my life, and in my home.  It’s a long and tedious process, but I am doing what I need to do, and slowly but surely my life is becoming a wonderful experience, and I can honestly say that today when I say that I am doing great, I truly am.  I won’t hesitate to tell you if I’m not. 

Love you all very much!

Luc