My mental health issues ever so problematic for me, led me to a reclusive life. One in which I only went out for doctor appointments and groceries. I stopped taking care of myself. Stopped eating right or drinking right. I was passively trying to kill myself. The last time I had threatened to kill myself, my daughter informed me that there would be no memorial service for me. She had had enough of my threats. I kept my struggle to myself and acted on my self loathing and desire to die.

I scrambled for attention from my daughter who wanted less and less to do with me. She would have been fine only talking once a month. Which was too much for me to bear. SO, I drummed up a story that I had cancer. The last time my daughter had seen me, she saw my skeletal frame and was worried I was death’s door. I used this to my advantage. I was referred to a hematologist who also happened to specialize in oncology. I had my family fully convinced that I had cancer and was not long for this world. This drew in the love and sympathy I needed. I needed to know I was loved, that I mattered to my children and to my sister. I convinced my daughter to come with me to fly down and hear the results of my blood work. By this time, I had fully convinced myself that I had cancer and I was going to die The power of the mind should never be underestimate. If you believe something so hard or for so long, it becomes your reality. Being the dutiful and faithful daughter she had always been , she flew down and went to this doctor with me.

I attempted to control the meeting, asking all the questions and following up from my previous visits. I asked clarifying questions followed my script. The doctor presented his findings and said I needed to go to my Gastroenterologist, to get an endoscopy or colonoscopy or both. Then to my surprise, my daughter spoke up and asked about “my cancer”. The doctors eyes got big, he looked from my daughter to me and asked, “Nancy, who told you that you had cancer.” I was caught. My mouth dropped open and my daughter leveled her eyes at me while she waited for my answer. I stammered in my response. I tried to put it on the doctor that had referred me to this one. Then my daughter, doubled down. She point blank asked the doctor, “in your expert medical opinion as a hematologist and an oncologist, is there anything in those test results or blood work that would lead you to believe that my mom has cancer.” I cringed as he simply answered, “No.”

The doctor left the room, but like a dog with a bone, I refused to accept his answer. I told my daughter that I could still have cancer and it was in my stomach. That was why this doctor said I had to go to the Gastroenterologist because the cancer was in my stomach and he was the one that could and would locate it. As we left the office, my daughter was arguing with me so I corned the doctor and forced him to repeat, what I heard. My daughter followed me and she repeated her question verbatim. He once again asserted that I did not have cancer.

This trauma I had caused my children, was probably the reason they dragged their heals to come to my aid when I truly needed their help. When I truly was on death’s door. In a telephone conversation with my daughter I had slurred my words and dropped off in middle of our conversation. She called the EMS located in my county to have someone come check on me. I convinced them I was fine and they left. My daughter was not convinced, she sent a neighbor to me the next day. This neighbor told me she was taking me to the ER and I needed to get my stuff in order to go. (Insurance card, ID, change of clothes, etc…) She called my daughter and told her she needed to come down that I was not okay.

My eldest sister and my daughter were established as my durable power of attorneys. My daughter still uncertain about the legitimate status of my health asked my sister to go to the hospital and get a report from the doctor. The report given was that I had acute kidney failure and I was malnourished. That I was not making good decisions for myself and someone needed to take over my care. My children arrived the next afternoon.

I was angry when they showed up. I gave them one of those, “if looks could kill,” expressions. I was ready to die, I was ready to be done. When I saw the hurt in their eyes as they looked at me, my heart changed and I softened toward them. I was being given a chance to reconnect with both of my children. That day, February 15^th, 2016 my daughter became my full-time care-giver.

I don’t know how they did it, but my son and daughter managed to pack up my entire two bed, two bath condo, in just two weeks. The doctors were able to reverse the kidney failure and released me into an assisted living/ rehabilitation facility to heal before my move up north to be with my son and daughter.

An important aspect of my life at the time, for which I would me remiss, in not divulging, is my mental health issues led me to a reclusive and hoarding life style. I was a clean and organized one, but I had become a hoarder none the less. I had plastic bags everywhere. They lined the hall way, they filled my cubboards and covered my guest room bed. Plastic utensils were in my dresser, cedar chest, not to mention cabinets and pantry. I had a refrigerator, freezer and pantry stocked full of food. All sorted by expiration or by date of purchase.

I had become perpetually afraid of the day I could not get out and grocery shop, so I did a lot of buy one get one shopping sprees. On everything. I had at least a dozen loaves of bread through out my kitchen and dining room. I had dozens of boxed of cereal that filled my guestroom. I had toilet paper and paper towels everywhere. My children showed me a photo of what would have been the equivalent of two pallets full. Pallets that stretched to be at least 10feet tall. Much of which they gave away to the people that came along side them and helped them pack, move and unpack my things. This was why I marveled at how much they had accomplished in such short order.

I was mortified to have my son, daughter and those that came to help, see this. To have them go through all my things and see just how bad my mental health had become. OCD, anxiety and fear ruled my life. My children did not get on to me or upset with me or ridicule me. They laughed about how much of everything there had been and how at least they knew, I would never have gone hungry or run out of toilet paper. My guest room closet had also been full of food and cereal boxes. My children helped feed some families with the excess of what I had.

I had a lot of physical pain to contend with along with my mental health issues. I had chronic back pain that crippled me, I had a ligament detached from the back of my knee and had to wear a brace to properly support my knee. My feet perpetually hurt, do to deformity and botched surgery from years before. I had rheumatoid arthritis all over my body and my hands were gnarled up from it. Hence my fear of being unable to get out and get things for myself. This physical pain also contributed to my desire to not live anymore. My depression intensified exponentially.