All the Things We Never Knew (33 page)

The amphitheater looked out on hundreds of ferns and oak, pine, and cherry trees. Ice hung heavy on the branches, distorting the trees into fantastical creatures. The lawn appeared crystallized, frozen and still. I smiled to myself, knowing how much David would have loved this setting.

Sophie saw three of her friends sitting in the third row and asked, “Can I sit with my friends?”

David would have said yes. Her buddies put her in the middle of the pack, one on each side holding her hand.

David's friends were, by nature, great storytellers, and one by one, they came to the podium to share tales of his humor and his great penchant for haphazardly planned adventures. One friend, Matt Palmer, told a story of a river trip in which all of them nearly drowned because David insisted on taking a Category 5 route, one of the most difficult types of rivers to navigate.

“He just kept telling us we'd be okay,” Matt said. “And we were. Until now.”

Another told a story of one of David's fishing trips, when he'd promised to take care of the food and drink. “When we opened the cooler, there was beer, bacon, and bread. I'd never been so constipated, or so happy, in my entire life.” The audience had tears in their eyes from laughing, not crying.

Colin had asked if he should come, and I'd said no—I thought it would be uncomfortable for everyone, especially David's family. But now, witnessing this outpouring of love for David, I wished Colin could be here, if only as a fly on the wall, to hear the stories of the man I'd fallen in love with. Colin only knew David as a person with a mental illness. He was so much bigger than that.

A friend of mine opened his Mac to start a slide show he'd put together for our family. He'd shown up days after David's death and offered to go through my carefully organized pictures, picking out ones that captured David's life. It was one of the most generous offerings in the days following his death. The musician played “Forever Young” as the images flashed before me.

There he was, smiling broadly, his oversized hands holding Sophie up to the sun at the beach—pride beaming from his face. I'd forgotten she was only two weeks old when we took her to the beach for her first stroll. The next photo was David feeding Sophie blended veggies in the highchair, him making a funny, wincing expression as she ate another spoonful.

There were several photos of him deep in a book in the corner. I'd remembered, when we first met, how I admired his ability to excuse himself at parties and family gatherings to read; toward the end of our marriage I'd resented the hell out of it.

Every indicator of David's illness, however subtle, had been there in the beginning for me to see—yet I'd embraced the exuberance and rejected the depression, never understanding why he could be so mean and irritable on the heels of so much charm and enthusiasm.

My mother handed me a Kleenex. She'd loved David always, knowing he was not the man in the pictures, but someone far more conflicted. She also understood why I stayed with him—my loyalty to family, our history.

 

PRIVACY RIGHTS AND THE CAREGIVER'S RIGHT TO KNOW

The Federal Health Insurance Portability and Accountability Act, or HIPAA, often frustrates parents and caregivers of troubled adult children. The law restricts release of personal medical information for anyone eighteen or older. It is helpful for patients wishing to protect their confidentiality, but for caregivers or parents of people with a mental illness, HIPAA places numerous roadblocks to accessing information regarding the care of a mentally ill patient in need. For example, it prevents doctors from talking with family members in detail about a loved one's treatment plan.

The challenge for many families is to communicate with both their mentally ill loved one and their care team. Our family had very little information about David' diagnosis, his care plan, or his ongoing suicidal ideation. We would have benefitted from more information, more updates, and a clear assessment from his psychiatrists and social workers.

Other families encounter the problem of noncompliance—patients who refuse their medication because they believe the side effects are more harmful than the treatment. It is extremely common for patients with bipolar disorder and schizophrenia to become noncompliant because of the belief that medication dulls their senses. Parents and caregivers are often helpless against HIPAA in demanding medication compliance.

Chapter Twenty-Four

“Deepak Chopra is here,” my producer said, poking her head into my office. “Should I send him up?” Inessa's soft, beautiful face was scrubbed, and her makeup was applied so carefully I realized she must have prepared herself for Chopra's visit. If only I'd done the same.

It was my first day back at work, and I'd made it through the first hour with a lump the size of an avocado pit in my throat. My boss had hugged me warmly. He was not the suit-wearing, authoritarian type of boss I'd had in television newsrooms. Dale wore Birkenstocks, ate organic food for lunch, and stopped working on his computer when a particularly great piece of music came on. “You going to be okay?” he asked.

“I'm in the right place,” I told him. “It's good to be back.”

“We missed you,” he said.

I kept my head down in the hallway, preferring not to have to look at the mournful expressions some people wore as I passed. Others offered sincere expressions of help: “If there's anything I can do . . .”

Yes, there is something,
I fantasized. If you could pay the mortgage, or walk the dog, or figure out how Sophie will get home from school while I'm at work.
If you could tell me how to get her to sleep in her own bed again, or how to deal with the anger of David's family or, for that matter, my own rage bubbling up inside. Yes. There
are so many things to be done.
David's creditors, many of them friends of our family, needed to be paid. And his debtors needed to pay his estate, but some of them refused, knowing a dead man can't testify against them in court. Instead of voicing any of this, I accepted the offers graciously. “Thanks so much,” I repeated over and over again. “I'll let you know.”

I slumped in my chair, already exhausted by the lethal combination of anxiety, fear, sadness, and guilt.

“Well,” my producer said, “are you ready?”

“Oh, yes, right.” Normally, I would have spent the night prior to the interview poring over highlighted sections of the author's most recent book. Instead, I'd held Sophie to my chest while her back heaved up and down in huge convulsions of grief and loneliness.

The door opened, and my producer said, “Sheila, meet Deepak Chopra.”

I stood and forced myself to smile widely and shake his hand firmly. He was wearing a gold Indian-style jacket, not a traditional one, but a designer version that was perfectly tailored to his waist and hips. His hands were supple and strong, a combination that struck me odd as I asked myself,
Since when do spiritual leaders use such great hand cream?

He didn't smile, but nodded calmly when I told him, “I'm humbled by your visit. Thanks for coming.” I looked down to see fiery red Nike tennis shoes on his feet and black designer jeans on a frame that looked fit and firm.

“Love your shoes,” I offered, and then I regretted it, confused by his interest in something so patently flashy.

“Thank you. Shall we begin?” He motioned toward the chair on the other side of the studio. He'd probably done twenty of these interviews already this week. Portland was the last stop on the West Coast book tours. No doubt he was exhausted and couldn't suffer small talk.

I nodded. He put on his headphones and placed both hands in his lap. His chest barely moved when he breathed. His eyes were so
brown they were almost black—so calm he appeared bored.
Bored?! Could Deepak Chopra be bored by me?

I sprang into professional mode, riding the sound levels on the board as he gave me a sound check, “One, two, three, four.”

“Okay, Deepak, can I call you ‘Deepak'?”

“Everybody does.” He offered a hint of a smile.

I took a big breath, steadied myself, and began, “Deepak Chopra joins us this morning on
Speaking Freely
; his newest book is called
Life After Death: The Book of Answers.
”

If I'd prepared myself the way I should have, the way I normally do, reading and rereading the publisher's notes, the author's bio, the prepared questions, I wouldn't have been so jolted by the words “Life After Death.” Instead, the lump in my throat threatened to explode, and tears squeezed out the corners of my eyes. My voice halted, then broke, and I couldn't continue speaking.

I hit the space bar on my computer to stop the recorder.

Deepak leaned back in his chair.

“I'm so sorry,” I said. “This is my first day back to work—my husband just died.” The flesh in my nose swelled up, and my voice sounded weak. I could not continue with the interview until I got myself under control.

Deepak nodded. There was no change in his facial expression, none of the mournful, twisted expressions I'd seen on others' faces when I told them of David's death. Chopra was a spiritual leader revered by millions of people around the world, and he couldn't even offer sympathy?

I prodded him. “Suicide. He shot himself.”

No change. His breathing pattern wasn't altered. He opened his mouth to speak, deliberately and carefully. His lips formed complete
o
's and
e
's.

“He is exactly where he needs to be, and so are you.”

“Excuse me?” My blood pressure surged. I suppressed a rage building in me that had been buried for years, one in which my emotions,
my
emotions, had been ignored, sidelined, minimized by the
people I cared most about. I loved Deepak Chopra; I'd read every one of his books, except for his latest. The least he could do was show compassion; Chopra
owned
the word compassion, for God's sake.

He folded his long fingers carefully on the desk and scooted forward in his chair. “What we're talking about is pertinent to the book. Would you like to continue?” he asked.

My cheeks flushed, and I felt my teeth grind together, a habit I'd never had before the last few months. “Yes, yes, of course,” I said. “Let me just start over.” I offered a weak smile. His lips turned up, slightly. He looked at the computer, so familiar with the process he probably could have run the recording equipment himself.

“Deepak Chopra is here with us today on
Speaking Freely
,” I said, relieved that rage had cleared the stuffiness in my nose. “His newest book is called
Life After Death: The Book of Answers
.” I sounded tight and hurried. I adjusted my tempo. “You've covered so many important spiritual topics in your previous books, but this must be the most pressing spiritual concern—what happens when we die?”

Chopra nodded. “I worked in the emergency room for many years, and I saw people in that final moment of death, filled with anxiety, fear, and trepidation. Now, contrast that with the experience I had watching my father die, in deep meditation, surrounded by the people he loved, in a state of peacefulness and grace. We can overcome our fear of dying and consider the fantastic possibilities that await us in the afterlife.”

“But science tells us that death is final,” I said.

“Correct, but the soul lives on, the bundle of consciousness that contains meaning and context and purpose and relationship. If you are in touch with that part of yourself, it is eternal and timeless; every experience is meaningful.”

I caught myself—my mouth was slightly ajar. Chopra's cadence, his tone, his calming nature, resonated so deeply that my head suddenly felt completely clear. I was totally and completely open to his message.

Chopra continued, “There is abundant evidence that the world beyond is not separated from this world by an impassable wall,” he said. “In fact, a single reality embraces all worlds, all times and places. At the end of our lives we cross over into the next phase of a limitless journey.”

“So,” I said, “the people who believe in heaven, meeting their relatives and all, do you believe their expectations will be met?”

Chopra chuckled. “Heaven, the afterlife, whatever, however you define it, it's all a reflection of your personal beliefs, expectations, and level of awareness. In the here and now, you can shape what happens after you die. By bringing the afterlife into the present moment, life after death opens up an immense new area of creativity. Ultimately there is no division between life and death—there is only one continuous creative project.”