Having a friend in the hospital for mental issues has made me wonder why I'm not in there too. I've been severely depressed at different times in my life. God knows I've been extremely stressed at other times and overly anxious about what will happen.
I had serious depression when Daddy died. I knew the end was coming and there wasn't really much anyone could do for him. He was in a coma but I couldn't sign a DNR because he was always a fighter and didn't want to die in a hospital. I was the one who took him to the hospital (guilty feelings for being the one who took him there the day after Thanksgiving when he was having difficulty breathing while at a surgical clinic -- he never came out of the hospital).
I had given them permission to intubate him in the ER. When he was able to speak again he was so glad to be alive and wanted to have a big birthday party as soon as he got discharged. They extubated him on his birthday while in ICU. That told me that I had made the right choice. But a few days later he choked while in dialysis and was "down" for about 10 minutes before they revived him. Now he was in a coma. The doctors told me he probably wouldn't make it and that he would have severe brain damage. I didn't believe or want to believe. He began to respond to my voice and Anna's. Others said it could've been just involuntary movements. When my brother came from California, Daddy blinked when asked if he was in pain. I had to leave the room to cry because I knew he was still alive and thinking inside. The brain scan was "inconclusive" which meant I couldn't give up. Later that day, I asked him to move specific parts of his body, he struggled but he was doing it. Then I asked him if he wanted to be intubated and he nodded. So I gave the doctors the OK to intubate. But he got a really high fever from an infection and they were never able to intubate him. I left that night and told him if he wanted to go it was OK and that we would all take care of Mommy. That night the hospital called me around 4 am to let me know his condition was worsening and there was nothing more to do but to give him pain medication. I had to give them permission to not save him again. We were all at the hospital with him when he died.
My depression stems from the guilt I feel. I took him to the hospital. I was his health care proxy. As long as I believed he was getting better, he did. Even when everyone else gave up, I didn't. My older brother told me that I had to let Daddy go. When I finally did let go and told him it was OK to die, he did. I live with the guilt of giving up on him. Is that insane? Well, it sent me into depression for months.
Some people noticed the difference in me while many others had no idea how deep my pain went. Everyone else seemed to go on with their lives while I couldn't. I swore I would never make another life-or-death decision for anyone. But, then a year later, our dog was deathly ill. Sure he was really old. So was my father. But I had to ask the vet to put him to sleep. This put me back into the depression I had just gotten over. I just had an integral part in the death of another living thing. I would never make a good soldier. But that's besides the point.
So, that is my excuse for being depressed -- guilt. Whether it's rational or not, I don't know? I haven't reached a point where I don't cry thinking about it. People say that time will heal the pain. I'm still waiting.
There are times when I crave a certain thing to eat. For the last few months, it's been zeppoles. No.....I am not pregnant! I just want fried dough sprinkled with powdered sugar. We used to get them from the Feast of San Gennaro on Mulberry St. 
