May 12, 2004
I got Krispy Kremes last night. Delivered straight from the Krispy Kreme store, a gift just for me from Andrew.
It's the little things, isn't it?
And Stew went back on his anti-depressants yesterday, so the two of us celebrated by having dinner out. Much cause for celebration -- after several days of no Effexor, the poor guy was transparently psychotic, even though he still had anti-psychotics. He'd reduced the dosage of those, in an attempt to make them last longer. And the Effexor ran out altogether. And the other pills weren't picking up the slack.
Whew. Interesting few days there. These things always happen before a weekend, when it's even more difficult to get scrips. His psychiatrist did call them in to Costco Friday, but Costco lost them. When he still didn't have any on Monday and couldn't reach anyone he called me, and I called his psychiatrist and had her paged. She had fired him recently, told him he needs ongoing care, so he feels rejected once again. He also tried calling his primary care doctor, NP actually, on Monday -- she's apparently retired, so there's no one there. This did not help the rejection theme. The health care facility his psychiatrist is referring him to for ongoing care is unsure they can help him since he is not yet on Social Security and has only private disability right now -- and no money. That's the problem. No money.
I was working a charity auction Saturday night, something I had not been looking forward to because of organizational conflicts and the board being unprepared for said auction -- any failures would come back to haunt me, as the person in charge of collecting the money. Anyway. So Stew called. He'd been to the store, and was certain people were after him.
Paranoid schizophrenia.
I told him they weren't. I made jokes. I asked him what he had to eat at his place. He looked at his cupboard and started laughing at the mac and cheese boxes because there were, he said, so many . . . . laughing is good, and I'd rather be around a psychotic who laughs than one who's contemplating homicide, but when he's like that the laughing is scary too, it doesn't stop, it has an intensity of hysteria in it that hints at deeper darker motivations. I hung in there and we eventually got it stopped.
And I reassured him he was safe inside his apartment, that no one would get him there, and that I would stop by on my way home with some dessert for him.
Someone usually gives me some dessert to take home. I don't have time, while I'm there with 100 people lined up waiting to see just me and no one else but me, to eat my dessert.
When I stopped by later that night, around 11 pm, he was okay, though visibly shaken and unsteady. Okay is a relative term around here. He had on his hooded robe, the one that makes him look like one of those little hooded guys in Star Wars who run around frantically, except bigger.
It's a good look for him some days. I gave him my half of a chocolate cream pie and quarter of lemon meringue I'd been given -- he doesn't like lemon meringue, but that's okay. I made sure he was settled, and doing okay, and would be fine for the rest of the night. "No one is after you," I told him.
Which then made him feel unwanted.
Sigh.
We do what we can.
And then I returned to my home, tired, late, just wanting to rest, Andrew waiting for me, to hold me and laugh with me.
Stew came over to my place on Sunday. I told him to come over and we'd go to the store. He showed up in his hooded robe, a first. He thought it was a good idea at the time. I told him it was okay to leave the robe, that we could go out with him wearing his shorts and t-shirt.
Anyway. He crashed several times over the weekend. And I shored him up, a temporary retaining wall strong enough to keep him from collapsing altogether. And Tuesday, finally, he got his meds. Now he can get back on track, continue with trying to put together a life centered around him and not his disability, which should be just a glitch and not the sun his life revolves around.
Day by day, that's how it's done, right?
It's the little things, isn't it?
And Stew went back on his anti-depressants yesterday, so the two of us celebrated by having dinner out. Much cause for celebration -- after several days of no Effexor, the poor guy was transparently psychotic, even though he still had anti-psychotics. He'd reduced the dosage of those, in an attempt to make them last longer. And the Effexor ran out altogether. And the other pills weren't picking up the slack.
Whew. Interesting few days there. These things always happen before a weekend, when it's even more difficult to get scrips. His psychiatrist did call them in to Costco Friday, but Costco lost them. When he still didn't have any on Monday and couldn't reach anyone he called me, and I called his psychiatrist and had her paged. She had fired him recently, told him he needs ongoing care, so he feels rejected once again. He also tried calling his primary care doctor, NP actually, on Monday -- she's apparently retired, so there's no one there. This did not help the rejection theme. The health care facility his psychiatrist is referring him to for ongoing care is unsure they can help him since he is not yet on Social Security and has only private disability right now -- and no money. That's the problem. No money.
I was working a charity auction Saturday night, something I had not been looking forward to because of organizational conflicts and the board being unprepared for said auction -- any failures would come back to haunt me, as the person in charge of collecting the money. Anyway. So Stew called. He'd been to the store, and was certain people were after him.
Paranoid schizophrenia.
I told him they weren't. I made jokes. I asked him what he had to eat at his place. He looked at his cupboard and started laughing at the mac and cheese boxes because there were, he said, so many . . . . laughing is good, and I'd rather be around a psychotic who laughs than one who's contemplating homicide, but when he's like that the laughing is scary too, it doesn't stop, it has an intensity of hysteria in it that hints at deeper darker motivations. I hung in there and we eventually got it stopped.
And I reassured him he was safe inside his apartment, that no one would get him there, and that I would stop by on my way home with some dessert for him.
Someone usually gives me some dessert to take home. I don't have time, while I'm there with 100 people lined up waiting to see just me and no one else but me, to eat my dessert.
When I stopped by later that night, around 11 pm, he was okay, though visibly shaken and unsteady. Okay is a relative term around here. He had on his hooded robe, the one that makes him look like one of those little hooded guys in Star Wars who run around frantically, except bigger.
It's a good look for him some days. I gave him my half of a chocolate cream pie and quarter of lemon meringue I'd been given -- he doesn't like lemon meringue, but that's okay. I made sure he was settled, and doing okay, and would be fine for the rest of the night. "No one is after you," I told him.
Which then made him feel unwanted.
Sigh.
We do what we can.
And then I returned to my home, tired, late, just wanting to rest, Andrew waiting for me, to hold me and laugh with me.
Stew came over to my place on Sunday. I told him to come over and we'd go to the store. He showed up in his hooded robe, a first. He thought it was a good idea at the time. I told him it was okay to leave the robe, that we could go out with him wearing his shorts and t-shirt.
Anyway. He crashed several times over the weekend. And I shored him up, a temporary retaining wall strong enough to keep him from collapsing altogether. And Tuesday, finally, he got his meds. Now he can get back on track, continue with trying to put together a life centered around him and not his disability, which should be just a glitch and not the sun his life revolves around.
Day by day, that's how it's done, right?
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