Waiting

Sometimes being a caregiver to my husband, Herb, who suffered from severe anxiety and depression, was more than I felt I could handle.

Watching Herb for signs that he might be considering suicide was a 24-hour job. At times he would become so overwhelmed with sadness that he’d call 911. “I can’t live like this anymore!” he’d wail to the dispatcher. The police would arrive and talk him into going with them to the psychiatric wing of the local hospital. I’d follow the police and sit in the waiting room with Herb—sometimes for up to four hours. Upset by his neverending sobbing, I’d find myself holding my breath, which I’ve realized I do unconsciously when I’m extremely stressed. “Breathe. Breathe!” I’d remind myself. I felt I was forever wasting my life in waiting rooms.

Eventually, Herb was put in long-term psychiatric care. I never knew if he would come home again. I cried. I read the Bible for comfort. I especially loved the story of Nebuchadnezzar in the Book of Daniel. He waited seven years before God healed him of his madness. I clung to the hope that God would heal Herb.

We waited for 20 months until Herb was allowed to come home. It turned out the wait was worth it after all.