Trafford Publishing: Stephanie's Storm: A Promise Kept

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Stephanie's Storm: A Promise Kept

by Rachelle Knighton; edited by Elizabeth Gruenberg

181 pages; quality trade paperback (softcover); catalogue #04-1446; ISBN 1-4120-3618-6; US$18.50, C$21.00, EUR15.50, £11.00

The author has created a poignant story of her young daughter's valiant struggle to survive the tempestuous storm of mental illness. An amazing, compelling story of love and courage.

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About the Book About the Author Excerpts Catalogue Information

About the Book

Stephanie's Storm provides unique insight of life as a victim of manic depressive illness and its affect on other family members. Through poems and diary entries written by her daughter, the author creates a vivid picture of the pain and torment such an illness can cause, and the joy every moment of happiness brings.
From the age of 11 until her death at 17 Stephanie rode the storm of manic depressive illness. With remarkable honesty, the author shares her deepest thoughts and private moments to create a poignant story of her daughter's valiant struggle with mental illness, in an attempt to improve public understanding of such an illness while reaching out to those in need to say, "you are not alone."

About the Author

Rachelle Knighton resides on the Mississippi Gulf Coast. She is a successful, energetic, and dedicated teacher. Through the sale of this book Rachelle hopes to increase public awareness and understanding of the plight faced by victims of mental illness, and their families.

Excerpts

PROLOGUEMy Daughter, Stephanie
She was a fascinating person and still is to those who knew and loved her; my daughter, my Stephanie. Few people who knew her ever realized or understood the life she lived, so are unable to understand the valiant and courageous person that was hidden inside. Only those having the misfortune to live through life touched by mental illness can fully understand the courage it takes to continue the struggle on a daily basis, to live a normal life. I witnessed just a struggle as I raised my beautiful, yet tormented little girl for seventeen years.

Stephanie was also one of the most sensitive and loving people I have ever known or will ever know. She was a unique person, forced by a terrible illness, to live a life that consisted of severe mood swings that alternated between periods of high and irritable behavior to a devastating sadness, with normal periods in between. She suffered from the classic form of manic-depressive illness. Diagnosed at the age of 12, my daughter lived the last five years of her life with a courage I have yet to see in another; fighting to overcome this illness and to live a normal life. In the end, my daughter, my Stephanie, lost the battle, but this book is not about her death but instead the life she lived.

CHAPTER 5Just the Three of Us

Stephanie's hospitalization was never kept a secret; that would have been impossible. Looking back, though, I wish she and I had been prepared for the reaction others would have to her illness and treatment. We were not, and paid dearly for it. In her ignorance, my daughter was very honest about having a manicdepressive illness, explaining in detail, to anyone interested, the symptoms and treatment involved. How could she know the damage such honesty would cause until it was too late? Remember, at this time, entering the seventh grade, she was only twelve years old.

Stephanie suffered from a mental illness, but she was not stupid. Shortly after her release from the hospital, during what should have been a happy time for her, her friends began to disappear. Amazing, don't you think? Children she had always spent time with, spent the night with, gone places with, were no longer allowed around her. No longer did Stephanie have sleepovers, no one came, she was no longer invited to friends' homes, to birthday parties, etc. My twelve-year-old daughter, because of the ignorance of others, became an outcast. She was aware of the reasons; her friends told her, unaware of the hurt they inflicted. How was I to fight that? I tried talking to some of the parents, explaining her medication, and assuring them that I would be present in case of problems. I received many compliments on the wonderful job I was doing, how much Stephanie meant to them, and of course, if I ever needed them just to call, but whenever an invitation was issued the answer was always the same; they had other plans.

I do not deny that my daughter had a serious illness. I was well aware of it; I lived with her. However, Stephanie was capable of all the things a young girl enjoys, including friendship. At no time was she ever a threat, especially to a friend. Just the opposite, if she considered you her friend, you could do no wrong in her eyes, manic or not.

Naturally, due to the pre-conceived notions of others, normal reactions of anger by Stephanie were suspect. Anyone who has survived the adolescent age is well aware of the gossip and jealousy that is a part of this growing period, especially between young girls. The phone becomes a permanent fixture, never leaving your child's head, until you begin to wonder if surgical removal is required. Gossip runs rampant leading inevitably to an argument. Parents have no control over this, however hard they may try, and at some point hear their sweet child swapping insults over the telephone. No parent wants to acknowledge such behavior in their offspring, but are eventually forced to admit that their child, their little darling, can at times be an obnoxious brat. Relief comes over coffee, talking to other parents, comparing notes, and the realization that your child is not alone. I was not always so lucky. Stephanie, when experiencing anger, no matter how normal it may be, was considered manic. I am not saying I approved of her behavior, nor the language she sometimes used, but it was no different than the language coming from the other end of the phone. Stephanie was a human being, therefore she had the right to experience human emotions. She had the right to become angry. She had the right to laugh at a good joke, cry at a sad ending, experience fear of the unknown, and, when the situation called for it, she had the right to become mad as hell! Several times, following an argument with a student or a peer, I would be the recipient of abusive phone calls from parents. My daughter was crazy; I should have her locked up, or "Why isn't she in an institution?" were only a few of the comments screamed at me over the telephone. Strange that this behavior, coming from adults, was acceptable, but Stephanie's anger at another was suspect. I've never claimed to have perfect children, far from it! Stephanie, however, had the tendency to tell you exactly what happened, including everything she said or did, simply because she was convinced she was right; assuming that I would agree with her. I would guess, if forced to tally them up, that she was wrong as many times as she was right. She was very stubborn in her views, but I do not believe the definition of stubborn is crazy.

CHAPTER 10Why My Daughter?

Stephanie, it was discovered, was anemic, suffered from a hormone imbalance, and had clusters of pre-cancerous growths in her vagina. I was given a biopsy to be taken to the hospital, and other tests were to be taken in the future. Stephanie had always had hair growth on portions of her face, removed with facial hair wax, but had begun to have abnormal hair growth on her stomach that I was unaware of. Stephanie visited with the doctor while I sat in the waiting room, not knowing what was really going on. I had expected a normal check-up, having taken her to other doctors previously, and was not prepared for the news that awaited me. I am still filled with anger when I think of the pain she endured, needless pain that could have been treated earlier had the other doctors checked her properly. How does a doctor miss growth clusters beginning at the entrance of a woman's vagina? I took the biopsy to the hospital so I know what they looked like. How could anyone miss them?

Stephanie left the doctor's office that afternoon convinced she had cancer. I spent the ride home refusing to accept that. I refused to believe that such a terrible thing could happen to us, and if it did, we would find a doctor to cure it! "But what will we do, Momma?" she kept asking me. She again began talking of death. What would I do if she died? I told her that her death would tear me apart. I could not imagine living without her. I also told her I would have no choice but to go on living, for my son, but that I never intended to find out.

"You're not dying, Stephanie."

Steph just looked at me and said, "You're strong, Momma. You'll be okay." How was I to know she was going to leave me? I should have known she was saying good-bye.

The results of the biopsy were to be ready in one week, so I told her we would wait for the results, taking one day at a time. There was nothing else we could do. Once we knew the diagnosis, we would find a treatment, no matter how many doctors it took. That satisfied her for a time, but fear was there in both of us. Stephanie spent the evening talking to Chris. I spent the evening praying. I later learned that she did not have cancer; however, Stephanie would have needed treatment, and the possibility of her ever conceiving another child was slim. She was saved from ever knowing the results of her test.

I awoke the next morning as I have ever since; my eyes open and I whisper her name. It was to be my last day with my daughter. I didn't know it then, I only knew that I was afraid, afraid of what the doctor would tell me. Depression surrounded me as I went to work. I wanted to scream, "Why my daughter!" I remember feeling so angry at a world that refused to leave my child in peace. How much more could my little girl take? Why did life seem so determined to break her spirit? I remember telling my husband, my own determination faltering, that things would never get any better. "We won't ever win, Frank, no matter how hard we try." I had no way of knowing the heartache yet to come.

Stephanie, as was her habit, was waiting for me to come home from work that day. Usually this was a happy time for us. Stephanie was filled with questions about my day. She loved to hear about my students, knowing each of them by name. Today, however, she was afraid. Her day had been spent much the same as mine, only where I had my work to help me through, Stephanie had been at home with time on her hands and fear in her heart. We spent the next hour talking. At times she was angry, asking the same question I had spent the day asking myself. She was depressed, afraid of what the future held for her, seeking reassurance. Promising her, as I had always done, that we would find the answer. This boosted her spirits. We began to talk of the past and all that had gone on before, all the things we had survived, and that this was just one more bump in the road, one more hurdle to jump, but jump we would and in the end, we would win.

Catalogue Information