Just Talk to Someone

     Forty years ago Gordon began to have a feeling of self-doubt, cried in his cereal and asked if this was all he had to look forward to in life.  When he began to argue with his superiors, I asked him to seek help for his depression as I did believe DEA had a counselor that he could have seen.  

     At the time, I was taking Social Work courses at Armstrong State College and learned of the therapy Masters Degree Social Workers provided.  I wanted him to talk to someone to get to the bottom of what was bothering him.  Was this a real case of depression or just a mid-life crisis?  He would say, “I can just talk to you.  I don’t need to talk to anyone else.”  I tried to tell him I was not the one he should talk to, as I was too close to the situation.  

     For the next several years he talked, and I listened. He talked about his work at the time and how he felt about it, but he never shared past activities.  I would occasionally ask a penetrating question. He would easily avoid it, and I did not want to raise his anger by continuing to probe.

     While we lived in Washington, DC, he required surgery and his depression was becoming worse.  I talked to his doctor and suggested he make a referral for Gordon to see a psychiatrist before he operated.  Because Gordon was very good at covering, the doctor did not feel the referral was needed.  My statement was, “I live with him, and I know he needs it.  If you make no referral, you deal with him after surgery.”

     He saw the psychiatrist and was promptly started on antidepressants.  Seeing psychiatrists and taking varied kinds of medication for depression was part of his life for the next twenty-five years.  During this time the doctor would see Gordon every three months for about fifteen minutes, ask him how he was doing and refill the prescription or try a new drug.  They never were interested in what caused this depression.

     The last psychiatrist he saw in New Bern was someone I worked with, and I got to know well.  I asked him to refer Gordon to a Social Worker to help him to deal with the cause of this long-time depression.

     The social worker was a male, forty-five years old and a veteran.  I believed Gordon would respect this person and perhaps finally open up about what was bothering him.  The first visit went well, and I thought we were finally going to get to the bottom of things.  During the second visit, however, he said he had found another job and was moving on.  Gordon would see his replacement.  What a bummer!!!

     The replacement was a young woman somewhat new to the profession.  Well, that didn’t go well.  He just danced that chick around, and by the end of the session, she discharged him as she did not understand why he was there.

     For the next eight years, he talked, I listened, and the depression only became deeper after our move.

Avoiding Reality

  Though out our married life, happy hour was the high spot of our day.  Most of our days were spent on our own careers. I usually was working full time or at least four days a week as an RN, and Gordon worked forty to sixty hours a week as a Border Patrol officer and then as a DEA agent. Frequently he was away from home for weeks or months at a time.

    This was the time to catch up with what each of us was doing and what the children had accomplished or what trouble they had gotten into. This was the tool we used to keep him current on family affairs.

    As his depression deepened, the sharing continued, but the alcohol also helped him hide from his monsters.  Instead of one drink, it became two or three hefty ones. This increased intake also developed two personalities.  When we started happy hour, he could be a pleasant, cheerful person ready to share the day’s activities.  By drink three, he became combative, argumentative, and fault finding. He knew better how to do everything.  He became a person I did not like.  Life was no picnic. If I pointed out the fallacy of his remarks, he became more combative.  To solve this problem, I talked to him as I would an Alzheimer's patient - don’t argue, steer the subject to something more pleasant.

   As he continued to drink, he spilled his food at dinner and also fell several times.  The solution was for him to go to sleep early.  In the morning he was again the pleasant husband I married.  That is if he did not spend the night wrestling with the monsters in his nightmares.

                                     PTSD or Aging

    Aging in place can be a problem, but moving and aging just aggravates someone with PTSD.  For a few years after we moved, I could not determine if aging or PTSD was the cause of Gordon’s depression and paranoia as they were running neck and neck for control.

Before we moved, we did have some medical problems, but with the help of our doctors, we had them under control.  During a routine GI series, Gordon had several polyps removed and needed to be followed every three years.  He had had open heart surgery, but all was well.  My problems were low back pain and difficulty sleeping.

    After we had settled into our new home, our bodies started to fall apart.  Our blood pressures went from high to low, and Gordon fell several times due to the low pressures.  Both of us suffered from pain in the knees and required treatment.  Gordon developed GI problems which resembled Crone’s Disease.  After a day at the museum, I developed a stress fracture in my right foot and needed a walker to get around.  I still had difficulty sleeping, but now had nightmares at the times I could sleep.  We were one big mess.  With all this medical trouble, we had new doctors who did not really know us, and we felt lost.  Thank goodness I was a retired RN.  I could just imagine how others with no medical training would be able to cope.

    During this time of readjustment, Gordon withdrew into himself believing we had just moved here in preparation for death.  He seemed to lose all of his spirit and did not try to develop new friends. Instead, he turned to his vices, alcohol, and cigarettes.

View of a caregiver

Depression Deepens After Move

   As a Geriatric Care Manager, I had counseled many friends on the dangers of moving their parents to new locations.  The earlier the move is made, the fewer problems will develop.  The whole family needs to discuss the needs of the senior being moved and the ability of the designated caregiver to provide the needs.  If problems come to light, they have to be addressed before the move.  We had done all of this.  We took our time to search for a home, and all the children were on board with the plans.

    However, within two weeks, Gordon’s dreams turned to nightmares, and his depression became darker.  His antidepressant medications were increased, but there wasn’t too much change.  I encouraged him to make contact with some of his friends from the past.  This was slow going, and when he did make contact, it quickly disappeared.  He withdrew into the house and only went to the grocery store or had coffee with one old friend.  Other than that, he would only leave the house if I were with him.

    As we all know, caregivers need time for themselves.  I had always wanted to learn more about painting with watercolors and discovered an old friend, Peggy Cone, was teaching at the college.  By the end of the summer, I was enrolled in a class one morning a week.   This gave me one morning a week on my own.

    Gordon still had his golf clubs and wanted to play golf. Of course, that meant I had to play also.  He bought me a set of clubs, and I played for a few months and quickly got back into the swing, but I became a casualty to low back pains.   He did finally develop a few golf friends, and I was off the hook.

   As you can determine by now, being a caregiver for someone with depression requires one’s whole self - body and soul.  One can get lost quickly.

                        Nightmares Stoke the Depression

 

     We quickly settled into our new home which I referred to as our long term condo.  Since the new house came fully furnished, all the curtains, furniture, and accessories matched.  It was clean and orderly, and all I had to do was relax and putter around.  I was in heaven.

     However, that was not the case for Gordon.  Even though we had lived in Savannah before, we still had to reestablish new contacts to continue our lives.  We needed to find a new bank, doctor, service station, and grocery store.  Old friends and businesses needed to be contacted about our move.  He had taken on this responsibility after he retired and had done it well for the past twenty-three years.

     With each of these decisions and contacts, there was always doubt.  There were also more frequent nightmares that added to his anxiety.  He would toss and turn at night and often called out and swung his fist at the dragons in his dreams.  I stayed well out of range and softly nudged him to wake him.  Some nights were completely filled with restless sleep, and on those mornings he would need several hours to separate real life from his dreams before he could tackle his chores for the day.

 

                                      Moving with PTSD

    We were in our mid-seventies, and I believed it was time to move closer to one of the children.  Since our daughter who lived in Savannah was our designated caregiver, we chose this location.  The fact that we had lived in Savannah between 1972 and 1983 was also a deciding factor.  I always said, "When dementia sets in and short term memories begin to fade, we will still remember the street names and how to get to the hospitals."

     Gordon had dealt with depression for many years, and I knew this move would be a bit difficult but didn't know how much.  All I can say is PTSD moved right along with us.  In fact, sometimes I felt it brought its legions with it.

     As we planned for this move, he voiced doubts even though we had purchased a fully furnished house no more than two miles from our daughter.  Of course, our decision was made in 2010 just as the bottom fell out of the housing market, and PTSD just latched onto that little tidbit and carried it deep into my husband's psyche.

     The house would not sell, and we were holding two mortgages.  The mortgages and PTSD had a great time messing with Gordon's mind.  Luckily, our neighbor was a great help and suggested we move on with our life, and he would keep an eye on our house until it was sold. 

 

Ella Mae Rayner, RN Ret.

www.rayneradventures.com