About The Book:
A surprise sink-or-swim lesson at the tender age of nine
opens this gripping memoir of love, mental illness, and care giving. A swirling
narrative carries readers from pre-WWII Illinois to the infamous Oregon State
Mental Hospital of the 80s and forward along a harrowing chasm carved by
dysfunctional parents, inhumane social systems, and driven by Dr. Nanette
Davis’s powerful love for her mentally-ill sister and son. Raging Currents
spans mental health therapies from sedation and isolation, to twelve-step programs,
tough love, and modern neuroscience-driven treatments.
From the childhood of a strong-willed, fiercely
independent, and curious girl to the roles of supportive sister, wife, and
mother, Davis shares her life’s foundation, development, and endless devotion
to those she loves. Expertly weaving social norms in compelling prose, Davis
offers the wisdom and reflection of age through the clear-eyed recollections of
a trained sociologist. Her ever-increasing understanding of compassion is the
bedrock of this insightful and vulnerable telling. Raging Currents offers more
than an inspiring memoir: it provides practical advice and solace for modern
caregivers, friends, family, and people living with mental illness.
Keywords: bipolar disorder; compassion; family
caregiving; memoir; mental illness; schizophrenia; dual diagnosis
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CHAPTER
TWENTY
Welcome to Bedlam
Sharon!
Storming
through our Portland, Oregon home day and night, I knew my sister must leave.
Her insanity cut like a knife through our lives. Finally, I faced the phone
call I’d been dreading. Dad needed to keep his word, after our agreement for me
to bring Sharon from Chicago to my home, where he would take care of the rest:
fly up from California and take my sister home with him. Why was he stalling? I
left that message on his phone a week ago, and he still hasn’t returned the
call. Sharon was ready to go. I was ready to shove her out.
We
had made a deal. Dad proposed: “You told your Mom last Sunday, when you called,
that you plan to be at your sociology conference in Chicago. Why not bring
Sharon back with you after you finish? You’re the one who mentioned she’s too
alone there in the big city. Once she’s on the West Coast, I’ll fly up from San
Diego. It’s only a short hop away. You can do this for me. I’m too old now for
that long flight to Chicago, and Anne can’t travel that far either. She gets
too nauseated from flying.”
“Ok,
Dad, I’ll let you know when I have Sharon safely in my home,” I agreed as his
reassuring words murmured in my ears.
Now,
I’m trying to follow up on his promise to pick up my poor, deranged sister, as
he agreed. After about five minutes of inane phone conversation, he finally
blurted out: “I can’t take your sister. You know, Anne can’t be expected to
take care of Sharon in her elderly years. She’s been very involved with her
beloved granddaughter, who’s over here half the time. Sharon will be fine with
you and your family. You know, I’m not married to her mother.”
“What
are you saying, Dad? I’d barely moved to Portland, and you lay this assignment
at my door. I’m in the midst of trying to establish myself and the kids: new
city, demanding job, difficult colleagues, and Jim five hours away in
Bellingham. We have a commuting marriage now. Taking on Sharon would make this
an untenable situation.”
Perhaps
I had a misbegotten vision, but I had dreamed of Sharon, intact and happy,
living in sunny California, keeping up her beautiful tan and meeting eligible
men. Anne was part of the fantasy. That gracious lady, an absolute jewel, would
look after my precious sister, and bring her back to health. We could all visit
together once Sharon was restored to normality.
I
made more phone calls with the same message. “You have to take Sharon. Keeping
her here is unthinkable.”
But
Dad was not budging. “You know, I’m not married to her mother.” And then a
final closure. “Don’t call me anymore about this. You heard me. My answer is
no!”
What
a lame excuse… “not married to her mother.” I could not believe he kept
repeating that ridiculous phrase to me. My mind raced with the injustice of it
all.
First,
my father tried to unload my mother on me, and now he’s doing the same thing
with my sister. I vowed last year, in the midst of our family turmoil, that
once we were resettled, I wanted to keep my family calm and happy. How could I
possibly achieve that looking after Sharon?
I
brought her back, all right, dismayed and disgusted with my father’s deceit. I
couldn’t manage her. He deserted us both and abandoned Sharon, the same stunt
he pulled when he left Chicago and retired in California. Our parents simply
left her behind. What kind of parents do that? He expected me to understand
him, but unbelievably, he had no idea what I was going through. He left me
holding the bag, a bag I was terrified to look inside. And he used his second
wife as the reason he couldn’t take care of Sharon. Why me? I knew nothing
about the adult Sharon or how to help her. My nerves were in shreds realizing
that my father made the situation normal for himself, while he, in his words,
threw me to the wolves.
* * *
After
arriving in Chicago for the conference, I encountered a series of mishaps and
disasters. Once the plane landed, I rushed to my hotel, took a quick shower,
registered for the sociology conference and evening festivities, and located
Sharon’s apartment on the near North Side. My plan was to visit her the
following day when we were both fresh and rested.
On a
bitterly cold December day, I hastily grabbed a cab to Sharon’s apartment, some
considerable dollars away from my hotel, knocked on her dingy apartment door,
jumping from one foot to another to warm up. No answer. I took a quick taxi
back and read my carefully crafted research paper to a yawning audience.
Feeling defeated, I rushed again to her apartment. Silence. The door remained
shut tight against me.
Time
seeped away. I felt anguished that I had taken on this clearly impossible job,
while trying to set up a new home, build my career, and seek tenure in an urban
university. The kids needed me to help them put down roots in their new schools
and neighborhood, and to support the teenagers in their search for part-time
jobs. The biggest hurdle turned out to be negotiating family time together on
weekends. Jim and I faced the looming prospect of bringing the two parts of our
fragmented family together on infrequent weekends and holidays.
It
did seem crazy to take this long-distance position in Portland. Jim and I took
turns commuting from his base in Bellingham, Washington, but as an administrator,
his free time was extremely limited. In the beginning, Jim did the commuting
because traveling with the children complicated our situation. After I moved
the children to Bellingham and got an apartment, it was my turn to do the
commuting.
Keynote:
A swirling memoir from retired sociologist Dr. Nanette Davis gives readers a vulnerable narrative reflecting on care-giving and treatments of her mentally-ill sister and son.
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