Psychiatrists, doctors and family members who live
with depression
ANGELS ON
DUTY
By Edna de Paula
Soares
Translation: Yael Naveiras Soares
This essay is not intended to
blame anyone for what happened, but to call out for the attention of the
medical community (psychiatric especially) to be open-minded enough to realize
that the reality of their patients is other than theirs, and that their universe
(at least for the patients) is real and not imaginary.
He did not sleep that night. I
heard his steps on the corridor leading to the apartment door. I saw his shadow
passing the window of my room and he asked if he could come in. He was anxious.
He wanted to call two of my aunts at 4am. I asked him to wait after all, they
would get scared to get a phone call in the middle of the night. "I have
to call them, because tomorrow 'they' will pick me up" He insisted.
- "They who, son?" I asked. "The police." He answered.
"It's a delusion" I thought. "Lie down here, son. There's room
for you. " I said mentioning the left side of my bed. - "I'd rather
lie on the couch." He laid on the couch for a few minutes then got
up, put on a shirt and started to walk. I heard noises on the stairs and went
to check, but nothing moved outside. Later he returned, laid down in my bed,
and told me not to go to work that morning and asked: - "Mom, how do we
die?" I ignored the question, but in my mind I saw the rope. The same
rope that served to move our furniture upstairs.
At 5:50 the alarm woke
us up. He got up quickly, but I stayed in bed a little longer, after all I
would not work that day at the request of my son. I would take him to a doctor
because he did not look well. I called my work letting them know of my absence.
I picked up the cat and headed to the corridor that leads to the stairs for the
ground floor. The weather had changed. It was cold and overcast. The corridor
was damp and I feared slipping on the wet stairs. The cat jumped from my
arms and I made sure I would not slip. I went down some steps cautiously, when
I came across the most horrifying scene I had ever seen in my entire life.
He was always very healthy and
very handsome. He was bright, cheerful, athletic. His teeth were perfect as
everything else in his young body seemed perfect. He had dreams. He liked
psychology and was by nature a philosopher. I loved seeing him smile. How could
I not? he loved comedies. He dreamed to be a comedian as a teenager. The
teachers complained that he always found a reason to make jokes over everything
he thought his classmates might find funny, even when the teachers thought it
was a serious matter.
He had a bright future. But
along the way we encountered an evil that took his humor, his dreams and his
will to live.
In 2004 we began an endless
battle against what they call depression.
Around 18 years old André
presented some episodes of panic. It was his sister, him and I. I could not
wait, I had to take care of him, after all I would not let my child suffer and,
if he was helped in time, certainly there would not be a ramification. We ran
for the first psychiatrist. He prescribed a medication with the warning that if
he tried to commit suicide we should rush to the emergency room. The medicine
left him powerless on the couch for a month without even moving. We returned to
the psychiatrist. Thereafter the nightmare began. The first psychiatrist was in
the United States, where we lived then. André was disoriented, and without
seeing any improvements decided to go to another country. He believed his
problems might have been caused by the pressure of life there. We then sought
refuge in his father's country, Spain. We continued our search for a solution.
Some psychiatrists thought he might have Bipolar Disorder and they prescribed
drugs for symptom relief. Another one said that, that did not seem to be the
problem and he should be examined more carefully. Fortunately treatment in
Spain was entirely free, but unfortunately the doctor went on vacation and
could not continue treatment.
After this odyssey we were
back home in Brazil. At first we paid R$300.00 (equivalent to two-thirds of the
minimum wage) for a consultation whose value has increased over time and in which
the psychiatrist did not get any progress. André's sister and I did
incessant research to understand what was wrong with him. One of the doctors
told me that the medical community do
not like people to come to their offices with information previously
researched. It made me realize that he preferred his patients to live in
ignorance. Obviously the doctor does not live so closely with the patient and
because of that it is not possible for him to identify all the nuances of his
patients.
The disease worsened. However
externally no one would say that he was suffering because his appearance was of
a healthy man and still as handsome as ever. He had even been a model at a
time. That's when we scheduled an appointment with a renowned psychiatrist in Goiânia
(Brazil) to try have a treatment with him. One day he said to my son:
"Come on. You are young, handsome. Go find girls and have fun!" He
completely ignored the pain of his patient. André left the office desolated
without knowing where to turn. Another doctor told me when I asked what to
do "Do you not see that your son is psychotic?" As he shut the
door behind me. I obviously saw it, that was why I was there.
We continued our journey
tirelessly. Days, weeks, months and years dragged on without us finding the
solution. Pain and fear were immense. It was as if we were struggling between
life and death and often felt André was in a vegetative state. This was when a
doctor prescribed a medication. The most "modern and efficient" in
the treatment of Schizophrenia. The most expensive too. I collected all
the money we had, which was very little, because the expenses were great, and I
paid for the medicine. For two or three days it seemed that the symptoms were
fading, but after this short time André slept. He was asleep for about four
straight months, awakening only after much persistence from me to eat
something, or maybe take a bath. Back to sleep. He spent about twenty-two hours
a day sleeping. I felt that he was in a state of semi-coma, but no doctor truly
heard us. It was as if we spoke different languages. Every time we entered for
a consultation the psychiatrist diagnosed immediately without even paying
attention to what we had to say, and often without even lifting their heads to
look in his eyes. We noticed the arrogance and indifference of some
professionals and ambition of others. They did not treat their patients well
especially if the patient was a returning visit (there is no need of new
payment for returning patients) We got desperate, who should we turn to?
While hospitalized for a
month and ten days we learned about the mental health treatment center of the
city was then that we found some relief. A doctor, who we did not pay a penny
to, heard us carefully. We then began a more efficient treatment. André was not
schizophrenic. He seemed to suffer from PARANOID DEPRESSION. He started
to take a medicine called "sertralina" and it completely
changed the his mood. He was singing shaving, taking showers frequently and
went back to work after being "in bed" for a year and a half.
But unfortunately as the saying goes "everything that is good, doesn't
last long " was true in his case. Due to his improvement he could no
longer be attended by the team of doctors that were taking care of his case and
should then be transferred to another treatment center. Reluctant, we said no,
we begged. But the damn bureaucracy said his case was closed there. He
did not accept the change, but there was nothing we could do.
Needless to say his symptoms
returned and he deteriorated severely while still trying to work and live. Once
in a while murmuring a song, once in a while taking a shower or shaving, but
his pain and isolation intensified every day. We were losing our fight. He said
he remembered things that had happened to which neither his sister nor I
remembered. I told him it was just his thoughts. He replied "No,
they erased your memory. This happened, I remembered" In a place of
spiritual treatment they told us that he remembered facts of past lives with a lot
of intensity and confused them with this life. André asked me: - "Wouldn't
hypnosis help me?" Who knows? Perhaps a simple Hypnosis and the regression
had helped, as some doctors are trying in some countries. Why are doctors so
skeptical?
It was not for the lack of
faith or prayer. It was for the lack of desire to fight by those who were
supposed to help him. It was for the coldness and academicism with which he was
treated. I understand that medicine does not understand what is depression. I
understand that psychiatrists wish to maintain their status, but none of them
understands the pain of a mother to find in a cold and cloudy morning, the body
of her son hanging. André is gone. He did not want to kill himself, he wanted
to kill the pain. He wanted to live. He just wanted to be normal.
So, on the morning of July 23, 2013 the police came to our house and took his
body to the morgue.
The only writing that left
was a list that was done at my request, about what he wanted to say to doctors,
but was never told because no one wanted to listen. This is the list "I'm
afraid. A have a sense of desperation. I am afraid of dying, afraid of walking in the
street, afraid that if my mother died, afraid that my sister's future is
uncertain, afraid to go to jail without committing a crime, afraid to commit a
crime, afraid of offending people ..."
When he was five years old
his teacher asked him to write an essay about professions and André wrote:
"Doctors are angels that God gives us to ease our pain when we need
them." These angels failed him when he pleaded for help, or maybe they
were not on duty.
I still feel like I'm trapped in a nightmare from which I can not leave. It's
the first thing I remember when I open my eyes in the morning, the last thing
before going to bed and many other times during the day. Sometimes I pretend
that I forgot not to disturb others. Only time will tell what to make of this
pain.
Dear psychiatrists on duty,
DEPRESSION KILLS. Believe it. You are licensed holders to treat diseases of the
soul, you should listen more, witness more, love more. The depressed are alone.
They need help. They need someone with a heart. Enough with sedating the one
who suffers. We do not know what goes on in the mind of these
"different" people. And what if they are telling the truth? And what
if they are, indeed, seeing things not seen? And what if they are divided with
their body on earth but tied to a dimension unknown to us as Quantum
Science is beginning to understand?
Please, do not forget to
search, do not fail to hear, and especially do not forget to look into your patients eyes. Do not let others leave without having exhausted all
possibilities. What is known, it is already known, please seek what is unknown.
Search, believe your patients, feel their hearts, understand their gaze.
In memory of André, a young man
of integrity, good character and a big heart who was only 27 years old when he
gave up fighting.
