Vilomah

The three years from 2013 to 2016 were the worst of my life. I am still recovering.

In June of 2013, I had a mental health crisis, diagnosed as an acute psychotic event and eventually bipolar 1 disorder. The loss of my mental health was crushing. I was fifty-two years old and married with two amazing young adult children. I had a great career as a physical therapist and was seemingly thriving in a master’s program. After a manic weekend with little sleep, racing thoughts, compressed speech, grandiose plans and euphoria, I was hospitalized in the psych unit. After a week of acute care, I transitioned to a two-week partial hospital program. Unfortunately, two months later, I sank into the other “pole” and struggled with a clinical depression. With a lot of support, love and compassionate psychiatric care, I gradually resumed working and carried on.

About a year later, breast cancer was detected on routine mammogram. Another loss: this time involving my physical health. Thankfully, it was stage 0 and treatable with lumpectomy and radiation. Compared to my mental health challenge, the cancer was easier somehow.

Through both my mental and physical health losses, I was fortunate to have compassionate, caring providers, as well as the ongoing love and support of my family and friends.

In September 2016, my life changed forever. After a frantic morning of trying to reach our twenty-seven-year-old son Liam, my husband found him, dead from an apparent drug overdose. The world stopped for me, hearing my husband’s voice on the phone: “He’s gone. He’s gone.” This will forever be my greatest loss.

Losing a child is not supposed to happen. It’s against the natural order. There is a word that represents this concept: vilomah. It is from Sanskrit, a term used to describe parents who have lost a child. Somehow, this acknowledgment of the depth of my loss brings a small measure of comfort.

I will continue on my journey of healing, although I know I will never be fully whole again. The natural order has been broken, and it can never be restored.

Susan Cunningham
Plymouth, Massachusetts