My Grandmother Died in a Home for the Mentally Ill. I am Pround of Her for Fighting Her Depression

 

My paternal grandmother died in what was then called a psychiatric institution. Less kindly, it was sometimes called a lunatic asylum, which makes me wince — though it’s still commonly used when we talk about hospitals that treat mental illness. 

My grandmother suffered from depression, which sometimes manifested in catatonia, meaning the person is unresponsive and does not speak. I grew up without knowing any grandparents. My parents were forty-plus years older than me, and my grandparents were gone by the time I was born. I have only stories, and those I cherish most involve my dad’s father, who was a Klezmer-style musican, and his wife.

I was told my grandmother had long, red hair that hung past her waist, blue eyes, and an overwhelming gentleness. Our family has only a few photos of her, but they show a beautiful woman in a long, voluminous-looking dress. She supposedly loved Charlie Chaplin movies and called my father and his twin brother the Katzenjammer Kids, after a popular cartoon featuring two very mischeivous boys.

My father remembers being ten or so when his mother stopped speaking. His father had a “drinking problem,” according to my dad, and was once hauled off to jail for creating a whiskey still on the roof of the apartment where the family lived. I can get no concrete details about whether drinking issues led to my grandmother’s depression — or whether (as I suspect) her condition was more of a hereditary one.

What my father did share with me is that his mother’s depression was severe and she had to go to the hospital. He can’t recall how long she was there, but she apparently returned home suddenly one day, cooking and making the beds. Not a single word was spoken about where she had been or why she had been away. I am not surprised, knowing how hard most cultures try to avoid talking about mental illness.

Read more on Medium.

Photo of author's grandparents; property of the author.