Mental Health Association in New York State, Inc.
(Publication Archives)

Community Connections, Fall 2002

Recollections
By Christopher Mastro

It was period one, English nine class, my twelfth year as an English instructor. Soon after taking attendance, the door quietly opened and my building principal summoned me into the hallway. His demeanor made me uneasy as he strived to make eye contact. Next, the words stumbled out of his mouth, informing me that my father had called the school to relay the message that my mother had passed away earlier that morning. My father requested that I meet him at the hospital as soon as possible.

Self-preparation for this very scenario had begun in mid-December when my mother's physician had assembled my family, informing us that the prognosis for my mother's survival was six months maximum. Naively, I eventually accepted this time speculation as sufficient to personally prepare myself mentally, emotionally and hopefully, spiritually so when this actual moment arrived, I would be ready to accept and endure this immeasurable loss in my life.

Approximately 45 minutes later, I entered the drab foyer of the hospital where I was born. The atmosphere of hospitals had become all too familiar and commonplace for me, always provoking an overpowering melancholy. My mother, for the past 25 years, had spent a wealth of her life in these places…mainly, the E-wings…the psychiatric wards…the cruelly labeled "loony bins" as the ignorant, insensitive bystanders who would never comprehend mental illness would refer to them.

Since the age of 12 as an only child, I vividly recall stark images of coming home daily from school in the late 50's and 60's not to a plate of cookies and a glass of milk, but to the horrid, mostly unintelligible groans of my mother somewhere in the vast house, often emanating from the floors of either her bedroom or the bathroom. Exhaustingly striving to gently lift her limp, languid body, somehow, my strength always persevered and I was able to place her back on the bed to then soothe and caress her until finally, her demons would momentarily cease, her rhythmic breathing signaling the salvation of sleep. This had become and would continue to be a dreaded, painful almost daily ritual for me, a ritual which abducted all sense of happiness and security in my late childhood and adolescent years.

I would then remain fixated on the clock until my father promptly returned home from work to, once again, resume the rigorous, never ending duties of private duty nurse for an innocent, kind, giving, and caring woman who somewhere along life's path fell prey to clinical manic depression, crippling rheumatoid arthritis and infrequent, unsuccessful suicide attempts, all of which seemed to commence shortly after she experienced menopause.

Holidays were habitually dreaded in my home; my mom's most formidable bouts often occurred at Thanksgiving and, most of all, during the Christmas season. Her shocking realization that she was no longer competent to perform the usual, typical maternal chores of cleaning the house, decorating, preparing the repasts and purchasing and wrapping the presents would seemingly propel her into an even deeper, all-consuming depression marked by overwhelming feelings of total inadequacy and self-deprecation.

The letters I received at college from her were nightmarish and my greatest frustration and melancholy arose from my inability to leave school and steal her away from her daily terrors. The horrifying, agonizing screams of others in her ward, scenes of ghastly, bizarre, human behavior, other helpless, pathetic victims who had also succumbed to the oppressive dark nights of the soul. Incessantly, in an attempt to maintain my own sanity, I would attempt to fall asleep in my dark college room silently repeating to myself, "My mother does not belong there with these other people! She only needs love, kindness, and compassion, not wrist restraints and electroshock treatments.”

Upon arriving at the hospital that April morning, I scanned the hallways for my father, son of Italian immigrants, child of the Depression, a medic in the Pacific front in WWII who had survived the unspeakable horrors of wartime, assisting in countless surgeries under enemy fire, earning him the Bronze Star for bravery. Locating him outside a small private room, I saw a man who had faithfully and lovingly held vigil at home at his wife's bedside, not simply for the past agonizing four months but for the great duration of their marriage.

My father, now in his eighties, was truly the epitome of a loyal, loving soul mate for over thirty years. As a result of my mother's continuous health problems, he had never really "lived" the past 25 years, his utter existence relegated to medical caretaker. But, he persevered with dignity and integrity because this was all he knew. As I grew older, I concluded that his heroism, self-sacrifice and saintliness with my mom most likely equaled and surpassed any of his deeds of valor in the war.

Gently embracing in the hospital hallway, he revealed that he had awakened at 4:00 am that morning to discover my mother's breathing somewhat forced. He fell back asleep and upon reawakening at 6 am, she appeared gone. After exhausting all means of life-resuscitation himself, he immediately called the paramedics.

Then, we began what seemed like an infinite sojourn down the sterile corridor to see my mom. She lay encased by a shroud up to her face on a solitary stretcher. My thoughts suddenly shifted back to two nights before, the last time I would see her alive. The malaise she had finally succumbed to was classified as "complications from neuropathy," an often undetectable cancer which ultimately can destroy the motor and sensory nerves in the body.

As we leaned over her, I spasmodically broke down in tears. What about my personal time for preparation? My father's strong hands touched my shoulder and I could faintly hear his muffled cries echo mine. My mother was dead at the age of 68.

Over two decades have passed since that April day in 1981. Although now in my fifties, I often find myself drifting into sadness, confusion and despair as I think back to the years with my mother. I ponder her life of suffering and agony, my father's miserable existence as he worked two jobs to support us, help put me through college and valiantly struggle to pay the insurmountable medical bills. In addition, I also ponder the virtual absence of any normalcy in my late childhood and entire adolescence while I diligently cared for my mother.

Many years elapsed before I sought professional counseling and, eventually, therapy, where finally I could safely share this story with, ironically, a total stranger who miraculously possessed the powers to allow me to bare my soul. It has all brought me a certain degree of consolation, self-understanding and relief but sadly, acceptance still remains a distant star in some far away constellation. It is my great hope for others who have shared a similar experience that our sometimes desensitized society will ultimately reach the conclusion that mental illness is, indeed, an illness, one which demands compassion, proper and rigorous treatment and open lines of communication within one's family. It is a condition which can be debilitating, unfathomable and horrific, often striking without warning or reason, and often claiming remaining family members in its wake.

Each year without failure, when I visit my mother's graveside on the anniversary of her death, I speak to her and pray her afterlife is a life without suffering, pain, depression and anxiety; then I finally envision a peaceful, radiant all-consuming smile returning to her face. I love you, mom.

posted 9/17/02