IN THE MIDDLE OF THE FIRESTORM

This week, as the web came alive with a firestorm of accusations against the banks for causing the current mortgage crises, I had been mentally writing this posting for several days. When the banks began declaring moratoriums on foreclosures, I was no longer satisfied with just commenting on news forums and blogs. I wanted to crucify U.S. banks for the effect they were having on my life and I wanted vindication. Excited and ready to tell my story through this blog, I had been pulling thoughts together all morning. Determined to jump onto my keyboard after picking my son up from his appointment, I was still writing in my head while driving the few miles to his clinic. 

That is until I saw my 24-year-old son standing outside at the Intensive Care Clinic. There he stood, alone outside of an old red brick building, his head down but the look on his face causing the collapse of the soapbox I'd mentally been standing on. As tears began to well in my eyes, I fought against the overwhelming grief that threatened my ability to be his safe haven.  Struggling with unbearable sadness, I looked into the face of my son and gave him a smile -- hoping to erase the look that no parent should ever have to see.  The face of severe mental illness.  

Stopping the car, I rolled down the window and croaked out a hello while screaming inside at the loneliness that darkens his sad blue eyes. Remembering the moment as I type these words, the tears have begun to fall down my cheeks -- again.  My child is broken.  His world is a never-ending nightmare that starts within minutes of opening his eyes every morning. The fear that has taken over his life as the voices took over his inner mind is now showing across his once beautiful face. 

Turning out onto the roadway, gripping the steering wheel until my knuckles turned white, I asked him how the visit went and apologized for being a couple minutes late.  Listening to his one-word answers, I silently prayed to hear something different than the usual drug-induced monotone. I raged inside at a God who could allow this suffering to happen to a future that had once been bright.  Glancing over to see his reaction to the offer of a milkshake, my heart grabbed at the tiny smile that appeared on his face.  Like someone lost in the desert for hours without water, I desperately searched for something else to slake my thirst for my lost little boy. 

My desperation turned into a shake and a hamburger and fries, along with a DVD that we'd seen a hundred times before.  Home and Dane Cook - his two ports in the storm.  Grateful to hear him laughing, I silently wondered what else would ease his mind as my eyes took inventory of a home that becomes a of house of horrors when the voices take over.  Quietly tip-toeing into another room, I reviewed the strategy list and suggestions from his counselors.  Reading through the many pamphlets and handouts, I listened to a growing silence from the living room.  Fighting a surge of anxiety, I stepped into my bedroom to calm a rising panic attack. Several minutes later, attacked abated, I gathered my courage to face whatever was waiting for me. Walking down the hallway, I made a silent promise that together we would face his demons and banish the voices that continued to promise him harm.

There he lay, fast asleep on the couch, the white color had faded from his face.  The medications and exhaustion, from a night of voices commanding him to slit his own throat, allowed him to slip into the only thing that gives him an hour of peace.  Although I worried about a nap interfering with a for-his-own-good schedule that he needs to adhere to, I had neither the heart nor the energy to take that away from him.  I turned to head to my room for some much needed rest when I heard him whisper, "Mom." Turning around, I looked at his sleepy face and for a moment I saw my little boy as I listened to him say, "Thanks for taking some of the alone away today."  Smiling and assuring him that my old bones needed a nap too, I headed back to my room to rest and to wait. The next storm is never far away.

And so my friends, my posting is not the one I was composing in my head for the last few days.  As the firestorm of the mortgage and foreclosure crises continues to grow unabated, leaving so many of us wondering if we'll have our homes in six months, I fight another war that has interrupted the life of my family. Tomorrow is another day to take on the narcissistic greed that has infected our country and continues to wreak havoc as I struggle to save my own home.  Today, for as long as I am able, I fight an unseen enemy for the life of my son.  I will put out the fires of mental illness for as long as I can and bring comfort and peace to a lonely young man...to take some of the alone away.   

We have much to be judged on when he comes, slums and battlefields and insane asylums, but these are the symptoms of our illness and the result of our failures in love.

                                                                                                                                        Madeleine L'Engle

Frightened By Recent Decisions and Circumstances, parts 3 & 4; Update 2012

Part 3 - Life Changes Forever

On October 31, when my son had his first psychotic break, it was the beginning of the end of my son's days of employment.  Ever optimistic and in a state of denial about the severity of his illness, we did not file for disability for him. The doctors had high hopes for a better recovery for quite awhile and I followed along with their predictions and prognosis.  In fact, many schizophrenics are able to manage some sort of employment with the proper medications and support.  This hasn't been the case for my little boy.  My son is still very sick, unable to care for himself, unable to be left alone and arrangements are in the works for a day treatment program due to the severity of his illness.  Everyday my heart just breaks all over again for the child I have lost to mental illness.

In June, his doctors told me that it was time to apply for disability. That process continues and we are months away from approval and financial assistance. In the meantime, he has to have weekly therapy, several medications and recurrent hospitalizations when he becomes a danger to himself.  His credit -- before he ever actually had credit - is destroyed and the bill collectors are baying at the door.

Part 4 - The Last Straw Finale

In February, I got my tax bill and discovered that my condo is now worth less than half of what I owe on it. Uh oh. 

In March, thinking that maybe I should just sell the darn thing, I called my original realtor. Her response to my inquiry was that as much as she wanted to help, she can't sell a condo in my suburb to save her life.  Overbuilt with thousands of condos and townhouses, we have been hit hard by the real estate meltdown. Everyday we see another moving van and a new for sale/foreclosure sign goes up.  \an exodus of people leaving for areas where the rent hasn't skyrocketed and the cost of basic living isn't as high as it is here.  

In April, after reviewing my finances and realizing that I would not be able to afford the current mortgage payments by the end of summer, I started the process for help by applying to the Making Homes Affordable Program.  Without going into details that are a whole other column, let's just say that the process did not work as it should have and the due diligence that should have been in process by the bank (mortgage holder) was not in place. After jumping through one too many hoops, I had to enlist the help of a government sponsored financial counseling corporation to run interference -- more than once. 

In July, the bank finally informed us they had all the documents they needed and I would hear something by August 20.

As I noticed the first signs of Fall last week, that old familiar feeling of panic set in. For two weeks, I had been hounding the bank without response.  Knowing that my bank account was dwindling, I again had the counseling corporation run interference.  Time was up and I needed information. 

Finally,  someone at the bank made a decision.  I was denied the program.  I do not have a high enough income to qualify.   Let me repeat that:  They cannot lower my mortgage payments to something I can afford because I do not make enough money to qualify for the program.  Wait, isn't that what the program is for?

It was worst possible of news. My fear of homelessness is becoming closer to reality. Upon hearing the news, I broke down.  It is now the end of summer and I can no longer afford the full mortgage payment. At the beginning of next month, I will be over $1200.00 behind and the number will grow every month until foreclosure proceedings start. By my figures, the possibility of homelessness by Christmas is very real. The bank said they are looking into other programs. They were vague and secretive in their explanations of these "other programs."  I suspect  they were just trying to get me off the phone.

If I could run away, I would already be packing. If I could live in my car, I would be heading for a warmer climate. My son is in treatment, I am in treatment -- we cannot run away. Tears have become my night time companion.

Remember when I typed earlier that it was my superstition that kept me from saying much about it? It was just a silly little thought I had that if I talked about it, I would jinx the process.  How precious are those childhood tactics that we go back to when faced with a consequence we can't deal with?  Today, I am motionless with shock and paralyzed with indecision.

I can't think anymore about homelessness with my schizophrenic son. For just right now, it is just too much. Tomorrow is another day to burn up the phone lines.




Update 2012
We won our modification.  It took almost 3 years from beginning to end.  Thinking about the process: over 100 hours on the phone, two consumer groups, one state and one county agency, 3 federal agencies, 11 Bank of America customer assistants, about a thousand tears, many tantrums, countless failed promises and bottles of anti-anxiety meds boggles the mind. In December 2012, tentative approval was given and after a few smaller hoops, final modifications were granted.  Hip Hip Hooray.