The Intruder of the Mind

Over the course of 21 years, my mother's reason, emotion, and behavior progressively surrendered to schizophrenia.¹ Almost a third of her life was like a twilight existence² of bizarre delusions and hallucinations. These effects from the disorder unfortunately overshadowed her courage, the bravery marshaled to endure her battle with this cruel untreated brain disease. The following discussion unfolds a chronicle of Mom's journey; observations by her adult children on how she faced the intruder of the mind.

Vibrant Years

Like many with schizophrenia, my mother's story has a “before the disease” part. It marks a vibrant side, a time of her life filled with rich personal and interpersonal experiences. A middle child of 3 offspring, Mom was born in 1933 and reared in Detroit. The family persevered through the nation's economic woes created by the Great Depression. In general, she had an unremarkable childhood and adolescence until pregnancy abruptly ended her high school education. My father, a marine at the time, quickly proposed and married Mom in March 1952, much to the chagrin of her intensely religious parents.

Eight months after the wedding, the newlyweds welcomed their first child. Although inexperienced at parenting, they preferred more autonomy from their families and ventured westward toward suburbia. Perhaps, an attraction for the suburban experiment³ seduced them to build a new home in a garden community, a small city within the metro-Detroit region. A contract was signed for a 3-bedroom ranch house to be constructed; it included a basement, but no garage. By 1960, Dad had become a white-collar worker commuting to his office while Mom stayed home with their 3 daughters and son.

Desirous to provide a religious role model for her family, Mom pursued membership in a local Lutheran church. The decision required her to be baptized and confirmed in a denomination quite different from her parents. She then convinced my father to invest in a Christian education for their children. Even though it entailed considerable financial sacrifice, each child was enrolled for the elementary years at a Lutheran school.

Moreover, beyond routine church attendance, Mom volunteered to function as a youth sponsor. Within conservative Lutheran churches throughout the United States, there was a national youth organization, the Walther League. Its mission centered on helping adolescents in Grade 8 through 12 to know Christian doctrine and actively serve their community.⁴

The effectiveness of my mother's mentoring within her church's Walther League chapter was unmistaken. Several social activities like pool parties were held at our house. Frequently, the high school students would visit, often unannounced, and talk at length with Mom. One female member lived with our family for a brief time while she worked out some kind of conflict with her father. And, it was not uncommon to hear my mother described as cool, easygoing, available, and approachable. Only a safe adult person would have generated that reputation.

Although a young woman parenting 4 children, living in suburbia, operating as a common 1960s homemaker, and volunteering as a youth sponsor, Mom decided to complete her own education. Pregnancy derailed the first attempt at a high school diploma. But, in May 1964, a general education certificate was earned at a local community college.

The First Obvious Leak

At the age of 35, my mother yearned to do something “different” with her life. The most appealing option was to return to the workforce to pursue gainful employment. A former telephone operator with Bell Telephone while in high school, she procured a similar position in 1968 at an upscale 2-story department store located in Farmington Hills. The retail store was owned by an entrepreneur, a young man, only 5 years older than she, and known for being kind and understanding.

However, in less than a year of service, Mom was fired. The termination was predicated on a confrontation. She had approached the store owner and declared having the ability to read minds. His message of being attracted to her and wanting to meet had been received. Moreover, she had driven to their “so-called” designated location, but he never arrived. Angered by the “no-show,” Mom pronounced the owner a coward for not coming. Her boldness and assertiveness, usually positive character traits, had become misguided by erotomanic and grandiose delusions⁵; the first signs of the transition to a different reality.

Raging Moments

In 1970, some of my mother's mental anguish erupted with the first shot across the bows aimed at her. Periodically, she patronized a restaurant near our home. One evening, Mom swallowed several pills of an old prescription prior to departure. Sometime, while eating at the diner she passed out and was swiftly transported to Wayne County Hospital.

After this self-destructive attempt, anger and aggression were directed toward objects. Annoyed and frustrated about the dishes not being washed, Mom heaved a major portion of the dish collection, dirty and clean ones, at the corner of the kitchen. Shards of dishware were everywhere requiring the family to use plastic plates for several months. Another incident involved the books located on the shelves in the vestibule area of the living room. Something irritated Mom, and she proceeded to pitch most of the book collection onto the floor. The final event entailed her grabbing Dad's alcohol collection, whiskey and scotch bottles, and hurling the containers toward the kitchen corner. Vividly, I remember feeling appalled about the immense amount of broken glass covering the kitchen floor.

Looking back, these raging episodes could have been veiled attempts at coping; Mother “fighting back” at the strange and terrifying disturbances in her mind. Maybe, she was signaling for or demanding assistance. Whatever the explanation, it was unfortunately muffled by the stunning nature of the outbursts.

The Dam Broke

A few more years passed before the family clearly realized Mom's brain had become her worst enemy.⁶ On the outside, she simply appeared unhappy, withdrawn, and easily agitated. But, internally, a nightmare raged, a reality fully exposed in 1972.

The first unveiling of this roller coaster ride⁶ between sanity and insanity was a violent gesture. One afternoon, while my sister was ironing in the dining room, my mother exited her bedroom with an unusual make-up application (e.g., tortoise blue eye shadow, red lipstick, and red rouge) and walked into the kitchen. She picked up a butcher knife, came back around the corner, and shook the blade at my sister declaring, “I know what you are doing and I am going to kill you.” This prompted my sister to yell back, “I am here; it is me, nobody else.”

Although this incident was the scariest encounter between my mother and a member of the family, the behavior correlates with her odd comments. For instance, she passionately argued there was a group of people who were “mind-bending.” They supposedly kidnapped the whole family (except her), imprisoned everyone, replaced each member with an exact replica (a humanoid robot), and maintained on-going surveillance of the home. The prison was labeled the “bind” or “purgatory.” And the replicas knew the location of this jail and were complicit with the plot against the family. Daily, the controlling persons zapped Mom of physical strength hindering her efforts to free loved ones from incarceration.

Furthermore, my mother had regular conversations with an invisible audience, the “mind-bending” persons. In these long discussions, she talked and paused as if listening to responses. Frequently, her tone of voice became altered to seemingly emphasize a point. Some of her comments sounded like a monologue, almost sermon-like. Other times, she would simply hiss at them.

A second suicide attempt landed Mom in a psychiatric hospital, Elosie, connected with Wayne County Hospital. This incident entailed another overdose. But, she mixed the drugs with a considerable amount of alcohol leading to a serious injury. A painful fall down the basement stairs forced my father to request emergency medical technicians to attend and then transport her to the hospital.

Mother endured 21 days in the Kay Beard building of Eloise.⁷ At the end of the impatient experience, the family was given the diagnosis, schizophrenia. Surprisingly, the medical professionals did not recommend a permanent stay; a decision she welcomed. Aftercare plans were nonexistent; there were no antipsychotic prescriptions or therapeutic referrals. But, in the words of my father, a “crazy” mom was better than no mom for his children.

Looking back, both suicidal attempts may have been additional requests for help in shutting off the hideous thoughts and voices in mother's mind. Perhaps, the knife threat was a rescue gesture, Mom trying to retrieve her daughter from purgatory. Whatever the motives, the family again did not detect them. It was as if we were overwhelmed and distracted by the decomposition process engulfing Mom's mind, personality, and lifestyle. Nothing forewarned or prepared us for this disease. And, even though we were caught off guard, the family never pursued information, psycho-educational seminars, or books to understand the persecutory delusions and auditory hallucinations⁵ and how to cope with them. We simply experienced her schizophrenia, a kind of “on the street” education.

Shattered Hope

The decade following the diagnosis of schizophrenia was grueling. Naming mother's disorder did not create extra turmoil; it was actually inconsequential. The family struggled more with the permanency of her radically altered lifestyle. When she did not snap out of the dark funk, we had to face shattered hope. Our naiveté about the cause and course of the brain disease turned into a blinding curse.

The woman who was once attractive, confident, kind, discerning, and popular became a social recluse, a sullen figure, and a “mumbler” of paranoid notions. More specifically, Mom's daily routine entailed staying indoors, usually for 22 h, sitting on the living room couch, and watching children television programs such as Sesame Street or Mr Roger's Neighborhood. Her only exodus was a 2-h jaunt, to eat at a local restaurant, walk around the local mall, and possibly shop for household items (e.g., groceries, cigarettes, and coffee). These excursions were accompanied at first by my father and later on by the youngest sibling when my parents divorced.

Mother lost interest and pleasure⁵ in all of her old habits such as visiting friends, painting, writing poetry, or watching theater movies. While in the house, she was dressed in pajamas. Outside the house, the usual outfit included knit pants, sweatshirts, and sandals with white socks; she would never wear shoes or a winter coat.

Goal-directed behavior became problematic.⁵ Mom stopped preparing family meals and would not assist in cleaning the house. Maintaining good hygiene screeched to a halt. She rarely took showers; Mother did not want the people in the “bind” to see her naked body.

Her sleep cycle became irregular, almost nocturnal.⁵ Mom slept or more precisely napped on the couch, never using the mattress in her bedroom. Frequently, nighttime discussions with persons in the “bind” turned into long episodes of screaming accompanied with vulgar remarks. Hoarseness or “losing her voice” was the common consequence of these verbal tirades.

There were noticeable appearance changes. Dark brown circles or rings appeared around her eyes, possibly, a dietary issue. Weight accumulated on her medium-sized frame of 5 ft and 5 in. At one point, she was up to 220 pounds. And there were the yellowed stained fingers from nicotine dependence.⁵ Daily, she smoked about 3 packs of Herbert Tareyton, a cork-tipped non-filtered cigarette.

Moreover, a number of odd ritualistic behaviors⁵ emerged. First was a finger gesture. Using the right index finger, Mom would circle the mouth of her glass once or twice prior to sipping a drink. A similar but larger circle would be made over her favorite spot on the couch prior to sitting down. And the same circling motion would be done over her stomach when she experienced indigestion. Second was an arm gesture accompanied with an audible utterance. Randomly while sitting down, she would raise both arms and blurt out a quiet sounding noise, “shhwus,” seemingly to repel some unseen force. Third were the infrequent sexualized gestures and curses. On the back door steps, Mom would sit with both of her middle fingers extended and profanely curse at invisible persons.

An Abrupt End

In the late 1980s, mother's health plummeted. Lifestyle habits probably contributed to the deterioration. One evening, Mom complained about swollen feet and considerable chest pain when she laid flat on her back. These concerns prompted a swift trip to the hospital. And surprisingly, the diagnoses indicated congestive heart failure along with adult-onset type 2 diabetes.

Lack of insight⁵ sabotaged a possible recovery process. Initially, my mother was complicit with taking medications and going to the doctor appointments. But, over time she refused the substantive dietary and exercise alterations along with medication refills. Ten months from the first hospitalization, Mom went into heart failure; extensive cardiac damage led to her passing at the age of 56.

Death brought both sadness and relief. Mother's smile, laughter, and pithy comments were (and still are) missed. But, the untreated battle with schizophrenia was over. The intruder of her mind could no longer torture; the voices silenced and the paranoid notions ceased. She was at long last free.

Looking back, it is tempting to play the “what if” game. Would my mother's life been different if a medication and therapeutic regimen had been utilized or the family had been educated about this “no-fault” disorder or the mental health delivery system had offered more assistance? Possibly! But, such speculations will not erase the brain disease or change any aspect of Mom's journey. A more gracious and realistic perspective is that during those 21 years, she and the family confronted daunting circumstances and tried to face them as best as possible.

Moreover it is also tempting to remember Mom only in a tormented state or from a “motherless” vantage. Yet, such shortsightedness overlooks positive experiences and effects. My siblings and I enjoyed a nurtured childhood, received thoughtful gifts on several Christmases, were frequently humored by her dry wit, and appreciated the frequent expressions of concern for our welfare. And the most enduring positive effect from her tenacious battle with schizophrenia was resiliency. It was as if we were infected by a tenacious determination to thrive, specifically to maintain sibling cohesion, raise our own families, and pursue meaningful vocations.

Life with my mother was (and remains) a paradox. My siblings and I hated the disease and ached from the loneliness of a preoccupied parent. But, we loved her and can now applaud the courage she marshaled to face the intruder of the mind.