“Oh, girls, I’m so happy to see you both,” our mom coos.
Killian pulls a chair up, so she can sit between Adrianna and me. “Killian, it’s good to see you, again.” She gives him a hug.
“You too, Mrs. Winters. You look good.”
“Oh, thank you.” My mom blushes, and I stifle my laugh. Killian seems to have that kind of effect on all the Winters women—even the one who’s gay.
Dr. Burns begins, “We wanted your mom to be in this meeting because it is her health we’re discussing. After the last few weeks of close evaluation, we have determined your mother was in fact misdiagnosed. It’s actually something that is very common, especially since the symptoms are alike. Looking at her history, the different psychiatrists diagnosed her with MDD: Major Depressive Disorder. What we’ve determined is your mother actually has Bipolar Disorder. While the symptoms are similar, the medications are not.”
Dr. Clay continues, “Oftentimes you might’ve thought your mother’s medications were working. She would have good days, and you probably assumed it was because of the medications. But then when she would have bad days, you thought they weren’t working, and so you did what most people do. You took her to a new doctor to get reevaluated.”
My heart plummets in my chest as I listen to them. They’re describing exactly what we went through, and what we did the last fifteen years.
“I see the look on your face,” Dr. Clay says. “Don’t do that. Don’t feel like you’ve let her down. She doesn’t feel that way. Do you, Sarah?”
Everyone turns to my mom. “If it weren’t for my daughters, I wouldn’t even be alive right now.” Tears fill her lids. “Nobody could’ve known. I didn’t even understand it myself. The highs, the lows. The depression. I hate that my daughters spent their childhood without the kind of mother they deserved.”
“Oh, Mom, we love you. We just want you better,” I tell her.
“And I appreciate that, but now that I’m able to see things more clearly, I need to take responsibility. I failed my family.”
“Mrs. Winters,” Dr. Clay says, “have you spoken to your counselor about your feelings regarding this matter?”
“I have,” Mom says. “We’re agreeing to disagree at the moment.”
Dr. Clay laughs. “Okay, please make sure you continue to speak your thoughts. While accepting responsibility is a good thing, you weren’t aware of what was wrong and didn’t understand what was happening. I don’t like you using the word failed.”
Mom nods in understanding.
“So, what now?” Adrianna asks.
“Now that we have a firm grasp on your mother’s situation, we continue to treat her. We’re going to keep her here for at least another few weeks. Bipolar is treatable, but it’s also about learning how to live with it. She will continue to see her counselor here and be monitored closely. Once she’s discharged, in the beginning, she will need to see a counselor several times a week. She’ll need to live a life free of as much stress as possible. We want her to work on figuring out how she can accomplish this. Bipolar isn’t something that will just go away. It’s something she will have to be aware of and manage every day.
My stomach knots at the thought of my mom having to deal with this forever. I was so sure her being here would mean she would be fixed. But from what they’re saying, the only thing they can offer her are heavy duty Band-Aids. She’s going to have to deal with this for the rest of her life.
“Mom, how are you feeling?” I ask her.
“I feel really good,” she says with a confidence I don’t think I’ve ever heard from her before. “I feel calm and less anxious. I’m beginning to feel like my body and my head are actually my own.”
I reach over and place my hand on top of hers and squeeze it. She gives me a watery smile. And I vow once she gets out of here, I’m going to make sure she never loses her smile again. I’m going to sell the house and find us a place to live, and I’m going to make sure she takes her meds and sees a counselor. The last fifteen plus years were a rollercoaster between heaven and hell, and I will never let her get back on that ride again.
The doctors continue to explain the diagnosis and treatment plan some more, and when they’re done, they let us know we can spend some time with our mom in the visiting room.
“Dr. Burns, can I ask you a question in private?” I ask as everyone stands.
“Sure,” he says.
Everyone steps out of the room while we remain inside. “I was just wondering…Bipolar Disorder, is it…can it be genetic?”
The doctor gives me a quizzical look, so I elaborate. “My mom wasn’t always like this. I can remember the good times from when I was little. There weren’t many, but there were enough to think she wasn’t born like this.”