This is the second week in a row that I am taking my dad to his ECT treatment in New York City. For those of you who don’t know, ECT stands for Electroconvulsive Therapy, better known as shock treatment. First introduced in the 1930’s as a treatment for severe forms of depression and bipolar disorder as well as schizophrenia, ECT became more widespread in the 40’s and 50’s. When my dad, who suffers from severe depression and anxiety, became resistant to standard forms of drug therapy and was hospitalized for depression about 10 years ago, ECT was first introduced to us as a form of treatment.
I freaked out, and refused to let the hospital use such an archaic, antiquated, inhumane form of treatment on my father. I began to do research, asking many Psychiatrists about the use of ECT today, and was told that yes, it is a common treatment for drug-resistant depression. And thus began my father’s successful treatment of depression through ECT.
Over the last decade, my dad has become increasingly dependent on maintenance ECT, and if he keeps up with his treatments, he needs one every other week, sometimes stretching to every three weeks. Unfortunately, he missed several treatments a month ago, and slid back into a deeper depression. He is now back to weekly sessions, and they are in the evenings. My brother has been taking the five hours out of his time to take my dad since the summer. I have filled in several times, and the last two weeks, because of my brother’s travel schedule, I have been the lucky assistant to my dad.
Here is what it’s like to take my dad to ECT: Pick him up at his assisted living facility at 6 PM (This is a forty-five minute drive from my CT home). Help him into the car, buckle him in, and fold up and store his cumbersome walker in the back seat of my car. Drive him to New York City, about a half-hour away, and listen to dad’s incessant complaints about his miserable meaningless life, how he doesn’t understand why he’s depressed, and hearing about his resistance to the treatment he is about to receive. His depression causes him to speak in endless loops of repetition, and it requires a great deal of inner fortitude to listen with empathy.
After dropping him off at the entrance to the hospital, I attack the streets of New York, looking for free parking on the street so as not to pay the exorbitant parking lot fees. Last week I was lucky and found a spot within a few minutes. I hope I have the same luck this week.
Walking back to the hospital in the frigid New York cold, I help my dad change into the two hospital gowns (one open in front, the other in back) and special socks that my dad needs to wear. I cringe a little at seeing my dad undressed, it just doesn’t feel right, the change of roles, daughter changing father. I imagine that it is humiliating for my dad to have to be so dependent on his children. I gird my loins for what I know will be an endless wait until the treatment begins. Thank Gd for the television in the waiting area, its mindless buzz numbing some of the sadness in the room. Looking around at the other ECT patients, I notice a wide age span. From a Hispanic woman in her 30’s to my 89 year old dad, they all have one unifying force, the weight of depression. I am hit with a profound sense of heartbreak at the struggle of these people who are dependent on ECT in order to live the semblance of a ‘normal’ life, one that I sometimes take for granted.
At 8:30, my dad is finally called in. I now have an hour of blissful aloneness, time to read, take a walk around the city, or just stare at the television and vege out. Last week, in my exhaustion, I chose to alternate reading with mindless TV viewing. At 10:00 PM, I helped my dad change back into his street clothes, walked him through the emergency room to the exit, and sat him down to wait while I fetched the car.
Heading back to his apartment, he was subdued and silently ate the cookies I had brought. He was hungry after fasting for the eight hours prior to the ECT, which involves general anesthesia to numb the pain associated with the convulsions. It was a pleasant ride back. I took my dad up to his room, helped him undress and get ready for bed, and quickly hit the road back home, arriving at 11:30 PM, tired and wired, unable to sleep.
Tonight, I begin the process all over again. My dad has already called several times to tell me that he doesn’t want to go, that he feels that the treatments make him worse, and he hates going. He also expressed his concern for me driving the distance and taking so much time out of my life. It helps a lot when he shows some empathy for me. My heart feels a little more open and ready to accept this task that I have agreed to undertake. But I am still dreading the long evening ahead.
I will bring my ipod and listen to some uplifting music and podcasts to help pass the time. I will read my book, The Power of One, and I will work really hard on having the open heart and compassion that my father deserves. Depression is a lousy disease, and it effects so many, the one who is depressed and all the people who are close to him/her.
I have learned to cope with my dad’s depression by:
1) Taking better care of myself. I make sure to set boundaries with my dad.
2) I limit how much complaining and droning I will listen to. I allow a minute or so of negativity and then I move to # 3 & 4.
3) I change the topic to an uplifting one.
4) I don’t ask “how are you?” because the answer is usually negative. Instead, I ask, “what have you been up to?” or “tell me something good that you did today”.
5) When I visit dad, I make sure to build in something positive to bookend my visit. I set up a lunch or coffee date with a friend right after the visit, or I take a walk in a nearby park. Last week, I bought myself some new clothes at a nearby store before my visit. Positive self-care goes a long way to help balance the difficulty of hearing complaints and negative talk.
Do you have experience with depression? If so, how do you cope?
