My vision was blurred, and even as I shook my head to clear the fogginess, I knew I wasn’t going to make it. There were 18 first graders in my classroom, and I was doing my best to stand and sing with them, moving to the beat of the simple song as my eyes rolled in my head and my body screamed its desire to curl up and disappear. Yes, I tried to keep going. But I was going down; it was that simple. I called over the intercom for their classroom teacher. I knew that if I fell asleep or fell apart it would not be good. She came to pick up her class, sympathy and questioning in her expression. Once the room was empty, the tears came in a torrent.
It was at this point that I made what was possibly one of the worst decisions of my life. I got myself together, and then I walked to the school office and asked to speak to one of the administrators. Add this to a long list of things I would undo if I had a time machine.
It had begun in January. I begged my doctor to change one of my medications because of weight gain I had experienced. It took a little convincing, but I left the office with a prescription for a different drug and another med to alleviate the temporary side effects. I was hopeful that this new med would manage my manias while allowing me to lose weight. That evening, I started taking a small dose of the new medicine while lowering the dose of my old medicine. Changing meds and doses is a tricky business, and I knew I might not feel immediately positive effects. But again, I was hopeful. At the end of three weeks, my old med had been completely replaced with the new.
The first time I noticed a problem was during a church service one Sunday morning. I had trouble focusing on the pastor’s words, and I felt groggy. I hadn’t slept well the night before so I shrugged off the strange feeling. I took a nap that afternoon and felt somewhat better. The relief was short-lived, however. It became harder and harder for me to get up with the alarm each morning. I began setting it later and later, taking my shower at night and getting up with just enough time to dress and throw my hair up into a quick ponytail. At first, the grogginess eased by around 9:00, then 10:00, and the progression continued. I felt like a walking zombie.
By the beginning of March, fog was my closest companion. It took everything I had to even show up for school, much less be any kind of teacher. Some days I just couldn’t and would call in sick. Somewhere in the back of my mind I knew I was headed for trouble, but I was in survival mode, as they say. I stopped going to church because I couldn’t even stand up in the choir. I stopped talking to friends on the phone because I was afraid that half of what I said wouldn’t make sense. And then one Thursday at school, I fainted. The police, fire department, and ambulance all responded. In a town our size, a 911 call apparently means excitement for everyone. I saw my two administrators standing in the hall as the EMT’s wheeled me out of the school building. And I wasn’t sure the expressions that I saw were those of concern. I missed school on Friday, came back on Monday, and the incident was never mentioned. I just kept going more and more slowly each day, wondering how long the “temporary” side effects were going to last.
So, here we are back to that fateful day that I lost it in the middle of a class. I am not sure why I thought going to the administrators to actually tell them the truth was a good idea. I should have told them I was sick, that I was vomiting, that I felt faint; I should have told them anything but the truth. Looking back, I cannot believe that I couldn’t see the obvious. But then again, it is hard to see through fog and think through sludge. I went to the office, asked for administrators, walked with both of them to a conference room, and immediately broke down and wept. I know I saw concern in their eyes, and because of that, I felt comfortable letting down my guard. I am not sure what I expected, but nothing could have prepared me for what took place.
I remember my head administrator asking me what was wrong, what was going on to upset me so much. I tried to explain to them the medicine changes, the depression, the grogginess. They looked at each other with inscrutable faces.
“Laurie, it is obvious that you are not doing very well. Have you considered a leave of absence?”
I had considered a leave of absence. I considered it impossible. My husband was a student and graduate teaching assistant. My disability insurance would not even cover half of my paycheck. I simply couldn’t afford to take time off from work. I tried explaining this to my administrators.
“I can understand your concern about your family’s financial situation,” Mrs. Jones said. “But, Laurie, you are missing a lot of school anyway. It is affecting the students and it is affecting your teaching. We have to think long term; we have to think about your future at this school.”
She wasn’t straightforward, but I knew what she meant. I was speechless. In the teaching world, having tenure meant your job was supposed to be secure. I knew she was threatening that security, but I pretended not to catch her meaning.
“Then I am so glad I am tenured so that I can get through this problem with my job and my family’s welfare intact.”
“Well, Laurie,” Mrs. Jones replied slowly, “Sometimes tenure can come into question when the children or the school suffer due to the teacher’s teaching or excessive absences.”
Let me say first that I did understand her position. I knew the children were being affected by my absences and inability to focus. But I also knew that my condition was considered a disability. At that moment, I knew that if my job was directly threatened, I would do everything in my power to make sure I remained employed, even if it meant legal action. I knew that if it came to that I might lose, but I wasn’t going down without a fight.
“I know my attendance and my teaching have been sporadic lately, and I am troubled about that and how it affects the students. I really believe that the medication change is to blame. I was not experiencing any of these problems with the other one. I probably just need to see my doctor as soon as possible and have her start me on the old meds again. That should bring me back into focus.”
The administrators looked at each other again. I wondered if all of this talk was a formality. Was my job already gone?
“Laurie, I do think you need to see your doctor as soon as possible. Why don’t you go ahead and leave for the day. Try to see that doctor. And let us know if you need time off from school.” Mrs. Jones looked me squarely in the eye. “And when we return, we need to sit down and discuss some things.” And with that, they both stood up; the meeting was over.
I left the meeting in a fog; but this time it wasn’t medication induced. This time the fog was full of two emotions: abject fear and anger. I was terrified of losing my job because I knew what it would do to our family. Not only would the money be a problem, but I carried our insurance. I needed medication and a doctor’s care. My husband has type 1 diabetes, so he needed all of his medication and supplies. There was no way we could take care of our health without insurance. I was also angry. Would we have even had that conversation if my affliction was cancer or multiple sclerosis or something else that was more tangible than mental illness? I suspected not. My mind and stomach churned as I drove home. I knew the doctor wouldn’t be there on a Friday, but I hadn’t told my administrators. I went home, made an appointment for the following Monday, and collapsed onto the couch.
That Monday, the doctor agreed that my medication should be changed, and returned to school on Wednesday. I did have a conversation with my administrators, but I’ll save that wonderful tidbit for later. I think it’s time to start from the beginning.
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