Depression

When my mother's mother died, I was a hot mess.

We called her Memaush and she was everything I was going to be when I grew up. She had no filter, she loved everyone so much she cried every time you left. She wore muumuus. She dyed her hair varying shades of blonde and yellow. She told you exactly what she thought of everything you were doing and loved you through it. She read romance novels and watched soap operas. She exclaimed "Oh God!" every time she had to rise her arthritic body out of her chair.

I loved Memaush, even though (because?) she was the only grandparent who would argue with me.

When Memaush died, she had been under hospice care for a few months. I was with her the day she died. Her face was sunken and thin as often happens with the dying. Yet she was beautiful. Her skin glowed and her gorgeous blue eyes were wide open. She didn't want to miss a thing.

After she died, a series of things happened that made it difficult for me to grieve. At the reception after her funeral, my husband and I were relegated to a back room because our infant son had a high fever and we were trying to figure out what to do and how to make him feel better. I didn't get to laugh with my family about Memaush moments or cry with them about how much she loved us.

We soon drove home from Florida to Virginia. The morning after we got home, I got a phone call at 630am that my other Grandmother (who I was the primary caregiver for) had been taken to the hospital. She had been independently living, with me checking in. Now she was in the hospital for a fractured back.

I drove to the hospital, numb with grief and not sure what energy I had left for the crisis ahead. I faced the trauma that is an elderly woman with dementia in a hospital with short-staffed nursing. She was confused, deprived of her glasses and hearing aids, and drugged up.

I signed the paper for her to have a procedure to mend her back. They wheeled her tiny body on the hospital bed down the hall with me by her side, holding her hand and telling her that I would be here when she was done. I walked with her as far as I could, I would have gone into the operating room if they let me.

I waited and waited. I finally got to see her again, still drugged and confused.

She had a distinct look of fear every time I left her. Leaving the hospital every night felt like abandonment. When I arrived each morning, I had to correct all the mistakes that had been made in the short time I was gone. Rehab was worse.

By the time I got my Grandmother back into a routine with more attention from myself and some hired caregivers, I finally had a moment to breathe. Over a month had passed. When I breathed, it was into lead lungs. Everything was heavy. The days were too long, the nights too short- I could not sleep long enough. The days ran together. Tears leaked out of my eyes onto my pillow every night, but I couldn't even have the satisfaction of a solid sob.

I walked around like a zombie, but before it was cool.

I had no oomph. No feelings. No sadness or happiness or anything. It was all grey and meaningless. I functioned. I existed.

It occurred to me that I was depressed. I got really annoyed with myself for being depressed. Leave it to me to go and get depressed. Now I was completely useless. People with cancer and lupus get more stuff done than I do! I was depressed and angry at myself for letting it happen. How could I?! How could I be so stupid to go and let myself become so completely useless and stupid? What excuse did I have for being depressed? I have a cute kid, a good husband, a place to live. I was absolutely without any excuse for my depression. I thought that depression should be reserved for those who have really terrible lives.

Someone said candidly: welcome to the club. But I didn't want to be in the club. Was this a club I could never leave? I felt powerless.

I decided I should see a therapist. See if someone could knock me out of my fog and give me a good kick in the butt.

The therapist seemed nice, but I kept hoping she'd have something for me to do and say to force myself to have a little more energy in the morning. I just couldn't get the heavy blanket off my body. Then one session she said something that made something inside me click.

"I think your depression is your grief."

Grief? I was stunned. A light went on in my head. Memaush. I never got to grieve her. I had to skip over it. I did a crap job at grieving, and now here it was, rearing its ugly head.

So I thought about Memaush. I thought about my grief. I thought about my depression and how it might not have been all my fault. I thought about being sad and then I felt sad. I thought about being happy and then I started to feel happy. I have no idea why this particular phrase and time clicked for me, it wasn't like I didn't have this information earlier, but something inside me said: you might be OK.

Someone turned the sun back on. Not sure why or how it had been turned off. I preached a sermon about my journey into depression and newfound hope and felt the warmth and comfort that maybe I wasn't crazy with each "Me too" that was whispered to me on the way out the church doors.

It's been over five years since that really rough go with depression. I've had some days when I'm scared that depression might take over again, that I might fall back into the black hole. I stand looking into it thinking: yikes, that looks pretty scary, I really don't want to go back in there. So I freeze. I do very little for an entire day. My husband and I have an understanding about those days. I can tell him if I need to have a night of comedy shows, or if I'm going to go to bed early. He knows that I will have better days where I will help with the dishes and the laundry, but it isn't that day.

I've had some days when I wonder how I ever could have felt so low when the world is so full of wonder. How on earth could I possibly not find joy? I am outside and feel the warmth of the sun and hear the birds chirping and think about how much possibility is packed into my uniquely beautiful life. It seems impossible that the darkness ever had that much power.

I've learned over the years that being gentle and having grace for myself is one of the best things I can do. Give grace for the days when I don't do a whole lot. Give grace for the days when I don't connect with a whole lot of people. Give grace. Carry the grace over from the days when I'm awake enough to see the beauty around me. Carry the grace over from the days when I feel buoyant and carefree.

Grace continues to be my best medicine. Grace for myself, grace for others, grace.