At this moment, my brother is lying on the sofa in the living room of my apartment. It is 7:30 in the morning, and he looks very peaceful. But underneath this appearance is the story of his struggle — or, I should say, our struggle — with his mental health.
I firmly believe that if Jimmy had had proper care from the beginning, his situation might have been nipped in the bud. This is the story of our experience interacting with the hodgepodge of services provided to the one in five people in our country who will eventually need counseling, medication or perhaps hospitalization.
The day I realized Jimmy was struggling, I found him in his bed, mumbling. His bed was soiled. I became frightened and bewildered. I comforted him and tried to change the bedding and his clothing.
A friend had come with me because I was worried. Jimmy was not answering his phone. He was not getting together with his bandmates. I did not know what I would find when I arrived at his place, and it shocked me. After doing what I could for him, I went home. But restless and too upset to drive, I went back in a cab to stay with him for the night.
For the next three or four weeks I spent most of my days and nights at his house. I hoped to get him on his feet. I wanted to feed him nutritious meals and let him know he was not alone. I was frightened and very stressed.
I made a doctor’s appointment for my brother and got him into a shower that morning. I did not know at the time that the dizziness he was experiencing was caused by anxiety. Jimmy looked terrible. He had lost 30 to 40 pounds. I was certain he would be hospitalized. The stress was taking a toll on me too.
When Jimmy came out of the appointment, he had a prescription for antidepressants. Jimmy told me he thought they were “artificial happiness.” Overwhelmed by his financial situation, Jimmy abruptly sold his house. With several friends, we began to pack up his belongings. We had about three weeks to make arrangements for boxes, a moving company and a dumpster. Jimmy was unable to assist with any of it.
We persevered. Moving day came and went. My brother came to stay with me until we could find appropriate housing for him. Jimmy’s friend of over 50 years suggested a care center where he could have nursing services, regular meals and physical therapy. Jimmy refused. He would not take the antidepressants or go to counseling. I felt despondent.
He stayed with me for over a month. I tried to reason with him about taking the antidepressants and getting some counseling. He refused, and I reached my limit. He had to move. He ended up at a granddaughter’s house for several weeks. He would not eat meals with her family. He rarely came out of his great-granddaughter’s bedroom, which he had taken over. His granddaughter eventually called an ambulance. The physicians recognized his depressed state and arranged for him to be sent to the Center for Geriatric Psychiatry in Hillsboro. He was there for five days. I had high hopes we might get to the bottom of his issues.
Jimmy told the staff not to tell me about his situation, which I understand is common for people forced to stay in a hospital. After about five days, they released him. I was not aware of any other assistance from the hospital.
After his release, he found an inexpensive motel room. The proceeds from his house allowed him to pay the $80 a day. I tried to tell him it would be cheaper to find an apartment, but he did nothing. He had a couple of leads on trailers for rent but the transactions fell through.
His eating habits were poor: frozen bean burritos and an occasional trip to a fast food restaurant.
Finally, I could not stand his living situation any longer. I picked him up and moved him back in with me. He confessed that he did not want to live alone and felt unmotivated to find other housing.
Jimmy is undoubtedly improved since the day I found him in bed, but he is still not back to his original self. He used to have a passion for music, always playing in a band. Now, he doesn’t care much about his personal belongings. He loved movies. That is now gone from him, too.
I took a family class with the National Alliance on Mental Illness, or NAMI. I learned that many people end up homeless in Oregon because of what I view as vague and ineffective resources surrounding mental illness. Families give up. They have no power to get their loved ones into care. And living from hand to mouth in a tent aggravates or even causes mental illness in the first place.
NAMI helped me see some of my brother’s idiosyncratic behaviors. Rather than thinking he’s stubborn and intentionally difficult, his reasoning is truly a part of his belief system. No amount of begging, cajoling or threatening will change his point of view.
The NAMI program helped educate me, and I’m grateful for it. However, it is insignificant in the face of the larger issues created by a mediocre for-profit health care system that continues to serve our society and people like my brother Jimmy so poorly.
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This article appears in January 8, 2025.