In Mid-March, my husband began his first hospitalization. A stay of 35 total days, involving the facility’s Partial Hospitalization Program and Intensive Outpatient Program. All of the other big feelings had been felt and there was a sort of numbness when I dropped him off that first morning. We both were hopeful and afraid of what the next days would bring.
Husband is now twenty days into his program, but I still feel those emotions from the first day. I’ve been his advocate and care manager for the last two years. Every doctors appointment, every medication, every reaction, every new symptom, all of it I tracked and brought up with every specialist. That first day, I handed it all over to the office manager. She was kind to me, sensing my hesitation, “Did you want to stay with him or were you planning to leave?” she said with a smile. It caught me off guard because in my core, I felt I was supposed to be there with him. I knew everything about his care and treatment! Husband didn’t know how to answer the questions or what the answers were! He didn’t know how many medications he’d been prescribed or how many doses he had left. Pushing my objections down, I resisted the urge to say I was staying for the day, instead opting to stay until we finished filling out the paperwork.
And then… I left. I left his care in his own hands.
Husband had already withdrawn his tender hand from mine, I quickly grabbed it and gave a quick squeeze, “I love you. If you need anything… ?” “I promise to call,” he said as he was ushered into a room for more introductory appointments. Then I walked out the door of a large building three cities over from our home.
My trademark phrase for parting with him, “I love you, if you need anything, you can always call me,” “I know, I will,” had provided me with less comfort than it normally would. Dazed I walked to the elevator punched the “G” button with a star next to it and wished I could stay to protect him. These people didn’t know him, how could Husband trust them? How could I trust them?
My own history and experiences with medical care are difficult to say the least. Women patients are often doubted by their doctors, their concerns being waved or prescribed away before they are taken seriously. I sadly fall into this category. Most health appointments are surrounded by anxiety and great preparation on my part, often in the form of endless notes and documentation for each concern.
All of this proved helpful for diagnosing a new condition and was an invaluable resource when we began Husband’s bipolar diagnosis. But the point still remained, I didn’t trust these clinicians to care for my uncharacteristic husband. He is gentle, thoughtful, and kind, would the therapists see this? Or would they bully him into a mold based on a few impressions? Would his fellow patients scare him into not sharing his experiences?
In its place was the stark fact that one-third of patients admitted for psychiatric services are readmitted within a year.
I booked a self-care appointment for myself for a few hours after I’d drop Husband off at the facility. There had been so many tears in the previous days and weeks – and I fully expected to be a snotty mess.
It came in waves. Waves of memories and dreams tossing me from one lament to another. Occasionally, I’d find my footing on a sandbar, comforting myself in the importance of this program, Husband would learn how to cope with his diagnoses and balance life, but then crashing down around me was our hopes for a large family with several children joyfully playing in a living room. In its place was the stark fact that one-third of patients admitted for psychiatric services are readmitted within a year.1 The reality of rehospitalization loomed the second he set foot in the building. A close friend whose husband was also bipolar had more than seven hospitalizations in the span of ten years. I found my footing in some hope in something the program administrator said at one point. “We have a 5% readmission rate, we credit it to the holistic approach for our program. If our patients complete their entire prescribed program, PHP, IOP, everything, they will have the skills necessary to return to life outside.”
Sitting in my Honda Pilot in the city parking lot, I imagined a familiar handsome man, weary and overwhelmed, talking with strangers. There are plenty of psych hospital stereotypes one thinks of, but I’ve seen a more realistic side of mental health than tv and movies portray. Patients are truly in crisis, needing more support and kindness, than padded rooms and straightjackets. Sometimes support does come in the form of hand mittens to prevent self-harm, sometimes support comes in the form of music therapy and rewriting lyrics for yourself. It’s just that these people didn’t know Husband the way I knew him.
Three weeks later, I find I’m still dazed. He is learning to take care of himself, he’s learning to manage his mania and depression. He’s filling out cognitive behavioral models and practicing acceptance. He’s waking up at the same time and going to bed early. He’s investing in hobbies. His personality and joy have returned, but there is a new sense of purpose and intention I haven’t known in him before. Small inconveniences don’t cause the same reaction and we’ve rearranged the kitchen cabinets because he realized some items were inaccessible for me.
At the end of April, he doesn’t need me to be his advocate as much as he did in March. He is still learning and he has fifteen days left as he transitions to Intensive Outpatient Program (IOP) three days a week. He can speak for himself – and I know how this sounds – but what about me? In all of this process from symptoms, to diagnosis, to medications, to hospitalization, I haven’t had to think too long on what it means to be the wife of a Bipolar husband.
Growing up, I dreamed many a dream of being a stay-at-home mom and caring for my family. It’s just… this isn’t what I thought it would be. I laid down those aspirations pretty early on, I should have known when we got married a few days after our state shut down due to COVID. But being the wife of a bipolar husband is a different task altogether, especially one who has her own neurodivergence herself!
Husband has four weeks left. We both have some major growth and adjustments in the coming days. I can already see the impact PHP has had on him, I’m intrigued to see how it continues to trickle into our marriage.
Hello M.P.! I see you reading my posts, and thought I'd check in, especially when I read the title for this one, as I've written a memoir of caregving (ALS).
This is raw and real and eye-opening--thank you for sharing. It sounds like an amazing program--and that is so SO valuable in our rushed world! Wishing both of you and your extended family strength and courage and peace.
What a gift it is to be able to write as we go through life, too--so many times I have been overwhelmed with gratitude for this!
God bless.