walk with me, continued

As promised, a few more stories about the kind of support I was blessed to received from dear friends during the worst of my illness. Do you think you could do anything like this for someone you know?

* * *

-How can we help...?

Jem is beyond stressed. I've told him, of course, you can tell the guys at prayer group what's been going on with me. I know he needs support. The guys are great; they hold him up with their encouragement. I don't mind that they know. I figure it's always good to have prayer. One of the couples have been friends of ours for several years, we often get together for games nights. Tonight they are over at our house. My friend repeats,

-Seriously, we really want to help. J, I wish I could come and spend time with you during the day, but I work all day. But do you need meals? Is it easier for you to be home or to come to our place? How are you doing for grocery trips?
-Wow, well... we could use meals sometimes. Jem is doing all of the cooking these days.
-Absolutely. We'll ask the other couples in the prayer group too if they can bring a meal once in a while. And how about this: we'll do your grocery shopping every week.
-What? No, we couldn't ask you to do that.
-It's no problem, we go every week anyway. Just send us an email with your list by Thursday evening, and you can write us a check when we bring the groceries by.

At the end of our evening, Jem tries to return the board game we've been borrowing from them for months, but they refuse it.
-No, you guys keep it. It seems to be something J can enjoy.
It's true, over the past few weeks that Carcassone game has become not just a helpful distraction, but a VITAL one. I can't even watch a twenty-minute TV show without being totally distracted by some danger to my unborn child. But for some reason, I can get lost in Carcassone.

L and C, you may never know how much we appreciate you walking so closely with us.

* * *

Jem has been planning to go to this hockey game for weeks, but I can't be left alone. I've asked my friend N to come over for a movie night. When she arrives, I'm at the kitchen sink, rinsing a dishcloth to wipe the table.
I'm so glad to see her, but I don't step away from the sink.
-I'll just finish cleaning up the kitchen and then we'll start the movie. Is that OK?
-Sure, no problem. How've you been?
-Oh, not great....
I go on rinsing, rinsing while we talk. I tell her some of my worries. She listens. She tells me a bit about her week. Fifteen, maybe twenty minutes later, I think I've managed to wipe the table, but now I decide I HAVE to clean the sink. I'm still rinsing the same cloth.
-I'm so sorry, this is taking me way too long. It's just, how do I know...? Is it clean? When is it safe? Have I rinsed enough?
-J, it's all you've done since I came.
She says it quietly, with no reproach.
I'm trembling. I finally manage to put the cloth down, dry my hands. We sit down and start the movie, but I can't concentrate. All I can think about is that I need to clean....
I tell her, don't worry about me, I've seen this one before. I'll just be a minute.
I leave to clean the bathroom. She stops the movie and comes to find me.
-It's OK, J, that's plenty clean. I think you're done. Come on, let's go watch the movie.
I let her take me back to the living room.
By the end of the evening, she's offered to come and get me the next day and take me over to her place. She'll do that often throughout the rest of my pregnancy, keeping my blood sugar level with her barley-and-cream concoctions, walking with me, keeping me entertained, taking me shopping, letting me feel useful playing with her daughter.
From the bottom of my heart, thank you N!

* * *

I'm with my dear friend E, who knows all about my deepest fears and darkest miseries. We've been out shopping, she's asked me about the last few days, how I'm doing. She's reminded me again, God is not punishing you, J. I'm struggling to believe her though.

We walk up together to her apartment, and she puts her sleepy baby girl down for a nap. I look longingly at a slumbering baby. I so wish I could sleep. I haven't slept more than three or four hours a night for the last month or so. Panic wakes me and won't let me lie down again until I've cleaned this, thrown out that.

-Do you want to have a nap?
-Nah, I wouldn't be able to sleep anyway.
-Well why don't you try. Here, I'll put a clean sheet on the couch.

I lie down, grateful. My mind is still whirring: but my hands are dirty, my hair is dirty, what if it gets on my face while I sleep? But I close my eyes and try to breathe slower. I sleep.

E, that was the best nap in weeks.
E, your firm, gentle wisdom walked me through several of my very worst days.

Walk with me

I must stop procrastinating these long-promised posts on supporting someone with a mental illness. It's a tricky topic, but I believe it is one of the most important we've touched on so far. That may be why it has taken me so long to get up the courage to put it out there—I'm afraid I won't do it justice. I admit that's a perfectionist/OCD fear, so I'd better face the fear and do it anyway!

If you know someone with a mental illness (and odds are, whether you know it or not, you do) and you want to be a blessing to them, you'll likely face some eggshell-delicate situations. If you really engage with them as a Christian brother or sister, you will have to wrestle with their pain, their guilt, and plenty rather muddy theological issues. And if you walk alongside them any distance, you'll find it impossible to avoid the muck and mire of their suffering.

In the next several posts, I tell stories of the blessings and support I received from amazing friends and family during the worst of my illness. It is my hope that you will find inspiration to do something similar for a person you know.

* * *

It is the fourth month of my pregnancy. I'm just home from my trip overseas, still down with a scary unknown tropical illness. Some friends have invited Jem and I over to their house for lunch. They don't know how much I've been struggling, but they ask how the pregnancy is going. I don't yet know that my worries are about to blow up into panic attacks and OCD, but I already have a sinking feeling of slipping hard and fast into another depression. I tell them about being sick, and my guilt and fear, and they pray for me right then and there.
Hearing someone pray for me out loud is powerful. I know I'm not forgotten; they're reminding God about me. These same friends continue throughout my pregnancy to ask about me, send cards, even bring over a meal. They keep praying and I'm buoyed up by their strength.

* * *

It's one of the few Sundays I make it to church during the second half of my pregnancy. One young mom walks over to me and asks how I'm doing. Now I've lived with mental illness long enough to know that trying to hide it is neither helpful nor ultimately possible. So when she asks with honest interest, I reply,

-I'm doing awful.

-Is it nausea still?

-No, no, panic attacks, actually.

-Oh! I know!

Seriously?, I think. That's not the response I expected, but wow is it good to hear.

-You do?

Indeed she does, and though her situation and anxieties were not all the same as mine, she really can understand. She spends time with me, walking me through her illness and recovery, and all the resources and materials that helped her get through. Knowing that I'm not alone, that someone else nearby has actually gotten through something similar is tremendous comfort.

Dear friend, your pain became comfort for me.

* * *

Another panic attack. Jem's at work, I'm shaking and crying over spilled rice: I've heard of food poisoning from rice. The offending grains are all over my counter from dinner last night. Should I use bleach?

My pregnant self is suffering a serious blood sugar dive, but I can't prepare food on that counter.... I don't know who to talk to: I can't reach my mom, Jem's not answering his work phone. I'm hungry and thirsty, but panic-paralyzed.

Finally, in tears and desperation, I walk upstairs to our landlords'. I'm so embarrassed that I can't even clean up rice, but I need help! I know they are the kind of people who will try to understand, and are willing to help. They have already driven me to a psychiatrist appointment, and have borne with my recently way-too-frequent laundry and long showers.

They aren't home, but their mother who lives with them is sitting on the couch listening to a book on tape. She's a dear, godly lady, over ninety and losing her vision. A real prayer warrior; I am aware she prays for everyone she knows. Even though she can't see me, she knows I'm upset. She gets up, walks over to me, holds my hand for a long time until I stop shaking. The touch of her feather-soft hands brings me slowly back to now. My pounding heart quiets.