I wasn’t scared of the surgery for the reasons most people are afraid of going into the hospital. I trusted my doctors. It’s that I had to go off of my psychiatric meds in order to do it. My Carson therapist and outreach worker and support group were great getting me ready, but no one can be ready for your dead mother lying in the hospital bed next to you.
My Carson worker didn’t leave my side—not before I went into the Operating Room, and not after. She kept reassuring me that even though it felt real, the things I was seeing and hearing would not last. I made myself small in the corner of my bed, but her body kept touching me. My Carson worker said she did not see anything there, but that she knew that I felt it and saw it and that she was going to stay with me until it went away.
They wouldn’t release me until I showed them I could hold down food. Who could hold down food when they’ve put your dead mother’s crushed up bones in it? My Carson workers held my hand—she tested the food for me; she promised me that the food was okay. I cried the whole way I ate that meal. I could feel the crunching in my teeth, and I could hear my Carson worker’s soothing voice.
I can tell you now that it wasn’t real, but it feels real when it happens. She never tried to convince me out of how strongly it felt, but she wanted me to know that it wouldn’t last and that she would be there the whole time.
That’s what I say now to others in group—that they need to keep working towards recovery—keep coming to group to find stronger mental health. The worst of it won’t last, and we’ll be there the whole time. I will be. Just like Carson was for me.
By JAC Patrissi
