40 before 30
Even though I turn 30 next month, my sister turned 40 years old a month ago. My mother bought a Chinese cake at Ranch 99, you know, those Chinese cakes that aren’t as sweet as American cakes, with the canned peaches and grapes and mandarin orange slices layered in a totally unsweetened yellow cake base. No singing, nothing particularly joyful, just a cake to acknowledge a milestone in her life while Taiwanese news plays in the background. Afterwards, she went back into her room and closed the door behind her.
Her cocktail of drugs has kept my sister’s psychotic episodes in check, but it has had its consequences. She has gained rapid weight; more weight than me. When she’s doing “well,” her eyes glaze over - she’ll make simple statements and I do my best to answer in clear, concise statements and to talk about light subjects. Stuff that was taught to me one weekend when I sat in a Border’s, skimming through books of families of people living with schizophrenia. Sometimes she’ll burst into laughter, and when asked whats so funny, she’ll quickly reply, “nothing.” “Always laughing,” my mom would say. “And nothing to laugh about.”
Those are the good days. There have been bad days. I’ve written about those. I haven’t seen them in a while, but once every couple of months or so, my mother will make a frantic phone call late at night: “Wo bu sufu. Ta you shenbing le.” Literally: I don’t feel good. She’s sick again. How I interpret it: I don’t know how much I can take of this.
If there was any hope for her having a full recovery, it’s been gone for years. Any hope that my parents had for her to find a job, become an integral part of society through medication, all that has gone away; they - maybe it’s we, I’m not sure - want to keep her medicated. Being medicated is better than having her hurt herself, or people she doesn’t know. So she does what she knows - she takes public transportation early in the morning to a large metropolitan city like Berkeley or San Francisco, where I presume she walks around. “Preaching to the homeless non-verbally,” to paraphrase her, more or less.
Years ago, my parents would argue with her or lecture her or console her with suggestions, suggestions that have ranged from counseling to programs to experimental drugs to sending her to China to find her a doctor husband. Now, my parents are exhausted. My father has moved out. My mother is left to deal with the situation, bitter and angry.
That’s what saddens me the most about this whole situation.
And as for me: I will be her legal guardian in ten to twenty years, approximately around the same time I start deciding on separate living arrangements for my mother and father. I’m scared - fucking terrified - and I don’t know how I’m going to handle this alone, but I have approximately ten to twenty years to figure this out, and I won’t have time to be exhausted once the time comes.
My sister had her birthday last month, and I will have my birthday next month. Both monumental, for different reasons entirely.
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