A State Hospital Christmas

Christmas on the road

December 27, 2015 ~ We knew a while ago that my son would be spending Christmas at the State Hospital. That thought took a minute to get used to. Schizophrenia has stolen enough from us already, but I obstinately decided that it wouldn't steal Christmas, too. One day he told me, "this is going to be the worst Christmas ever" which made me all the more determined to make sure he wasn't excluded from any of our Christmas traditions. I've got this, I thought. I've done hard things before. I can do one more.

But my heart......it just never can keep up.

I found myself in a silent rage over the unfairness of this illness. In addition, I was a little stressed out over how to make it the best it could be for one hospitalized family member, while not sacrificing the joy of it for everyone else.

To bolster resilience, I looked for fresh Christmas music to love. I took note of the beautiful Christmas lights the State Hospital put up. Herds of deer roam the campus of the hospital and when I saw them I'd take time to sit and watch how peaceful they were. I did a little United Way volunteer work for families struggling in their own way to make Christmas happen. I reminded myself frequently that this experience wasn't unique to us and other people were dealing with much harder things than this. Buck up, Buttercup and all that.

I tried, really I did.

Still, there was a darkness that followed me around that couldn't be shaken, no matter what I did. How could I have a heart full of gratitude for so many blessings but still be unhappy? Surely there was something wrong with me since gratitude is supposed to equal happiness.

I've learned from experience that getting out of my own head and doing things for others is the best way to win these battles. Having spent plenty of time near the unit and the patients, I decided I wanted to do something to make their Christmas better.

So I worked with the director of the unit to prepare a Christmas Party in a Box for the patients. In the box was everything the staff needed to have a party on the unit - treats, drinks, games, puzzles, and activities. I shopped and planned and envisioned their delight.

I thought that would do it.

It didn't. The darkness remained.

So I contacted the director again and told her that our family wanted to purchase a small gift for each patient to open on Christmas morning. She graciously obliged and, through the use of Kohl's Rewards, I was able to find $14.00 fleece blankets for $3.50. My daughters and I wrapped each one carefully, as if they were gifts for the baby Jesus himself, and then delivered them with the party supplies and a small treat bag of candy for each patient.

I thought that would do it.

It didn't. I was still being followed around by a dark cloud.

To top things off, we had hoped that he'd be well enough to at least be able to have an On Grounds level, where he could join us in something of a home environment in the small cottage on campus. But he wasn't well enough, and I knew that Christmas was going to have to happen in either a visiting room that seats 4-5 people comfortably, or the slightly bigger conference room that's perfect for meetings but not so conducive to a family gathering. There are 11 of us - three of whom are five years old and younger.

Help.

Christmas began to feel like one big problem and, honestly, I just wanted it to be over. I realized that all I could do was try to take Christmas to him as best we could. So we showed up on Christmas Eve with food and games and a Play Station and a cooler full of drinks and enough merriment to get us through. Even the staff, who learned a long time ago that we're one of "those families" were a bit taken aback when we came marching in. They are such understanding and patient people. Thankfully, they gave us the conference room, which gave us slightly more space and - bonus! - a white board for Pictionary.

We laughed and ate and built some great memories, which is a decent definition of a good Christmas, in spite of location.

And then I met another mom on Christmas night who had shown up quietly with a couple of presents for her son, visited for a little bit, then slipped away into the night. She and her son both seemed pretty happy with the arrangement and I realized then that I had probably over-thought things. AGAIN. I guess she made her choice and I made mine, but I wondered if perhaps she has adjusted better to this situation. She seemed to have a peace about her that I've never felt.

Most importantly, the thing that finally cast out the darkness was what occurred on the 23rd, the day of the patients' Christmas party. We just happened to show up for a visit at the same time the party was supposed to start. The staff we encountered seemed excited about it and everyone we saw commented on it and thanked us for it. It was fun to see them getting ready for it.

Toward the end of our visit, a nurse and a psych tech brought us a garland made from the paper stockings I'd supplied as part of an activity. Each patient had written a thank you note to our family on one of the stockings, and the staff had strung them on green ribbon as a decoration to hang. Some notes were just a scribble. Others were more complete expressions of gratitude. In shaky handwriting was evidence of the effects of mental illness and the side effects of the medications being used to try to control it.

I was so incredibly touched by it.

What we had given them was so small and yet, as I looked at each little note, I discovered how much even the smallest of kindnesses meant to them.

These beautiful people, battered by mental illness and discounted by the outside world, had brightened my life more than any Christmas song or festive experience I had tried. It was the most amazing thing and I will never forget it. I will hang that garland every Christmas as a reminder of what it feels like when we reach out to others and, in our reaching, find that we've received more than we ever could have thought of giving.

And isn't that the story of Christmas? We reach for our Savior with only one thing we can give, and receive more than we could ever imagine. And the people who taught me that will never know how, in their simple way, they changed Christmas for me. This Christmas, yes, but probably every Christmas for the rest of my life.

God bless them.