In 1995 I moved from living in residential care to living in the home of a woman with multiple sclerosis. Later I stayed with another friend while I looked for a place to live. In early 1997 I went to live in the home of Maryann, an older woman who suffered from heart disease and blindness due to diabetes. She lived alone and wanted a live-in companion. I met her one night and moved in the next day. I wonder what she would have thought if she had known what she was in for by having me come live in her home.

Maryann was a very special woman, who I know was chosen by the Lord to make a pinhole in my steel-walled inner prison, so that the light of the love of Jesus could start to illuminate my darkness. I realize now that the Lord knew a pinhole would be all the light of His love I could tolerate. He also realized it would take someone with real patience, understanding, caring and perseverance to make a hole in that wall.

Maryann had known rejection, abandonment and unacceptability. She had also known love. She later told me that I stood in front of her on our first day together and said, "I won't let you love me, so don't even try." My statement gave her a challenge she couldn't resist.

Not long after I moved in with Maryann I was found for the first time in a state of catatonia. The only psych unit left that would take me was at Good Samaritan Hospital in San Jose. The psychiatrist in charge was not considered one of the more reliable doctors in the psych system, but at this point, what did it matter? I remained in a catatonic state for several days. The staff was very angry with me for this.

Maryann came to visit me and was met by a staff nurse who tried to discourage her from wasting her time on me. She insisted on seeing me. She was able to elicit a response from me through her loving manner. The hospital staff had treated me with anger, impatience and annoyance. They were quite surprised when they saw the tiny response Maryann was able to get from me. After a few days I returned to the real world.

I was diagnosed with chronic severe major depression with little hope of improvement and no hope of recovery. After 25 years I received shock treatments again. I had lost in every way. The battle was over. They could do whatever they wanted to me. I no longer cared.

In the meantime, Maryann was trying to break through with that pinhole of the light of God's love. It was not an easy task. Her friends tried to discourage her from even having me around. Everyone except Maryann and the Lord responded to me as if I were defiled, repulsive, smelly, useless garbage.

However, Maryann had fulfilled her mission. She had been able to make a pinhole in my black, windowless, doorless, steel-walled inner prison. Now a ray of the light of God's love started to make its way inside.

Even though I was in residential care again, and I was continuing to receive those weekly "brain fries," something was starting to happen inside of me. It wasn't a result of the treatments. The doctor was constantly disgusted with me, because I was only getting worse. My veins could no longer be accessed in order to give me the IV, so a mediport was surgically implanted in the right side of my chest. Normally a mediport is only implanted in a patient who is being treated for cancer or some other problem where IV treatments are needed over a period of time.

As the treatments continued, I began to have panic attacks two or three days before I was to go in. My fear was so great that it started to affect me physically. The anesthesiologist would work quite a while to stabilize me before he could put me out. I remember the psychiatrist strapping the electrodes on my head long before I was out. I was terrified that he would start the electricity while I was still awake. I would cry out to Jesus to help me, but it seemed like He didn't even hear.

The last treatment I had was on April 17, 1998. That morning I was so panicked that it took the anesthesiologist more than 45 minutes to get me stabilized enough to put me out. I already had received care for more than an hour in pre-op before they could put me in the treatment room. The whole experience was so horrendous that I remained hysterical for several hours after I woke up. I don't know how close I came to not waking up at all, but I know I was close.

After I returned home that day, I was scared beyond scared. The symptoms kept increasing as the next treatment got closer. I was so extremely terrified that the pain in my chest became unbearable. I was also hysterical. I couldn't forget what had happened the week before. Somehow I knew that the next time I would not survive.
I cried out to Jesus, but the pain and the panic just increased. Finally, I dared to pick up the phone and call the hospital to tell them I would not be returning. Such an action had never entered my mind before. I soon heard from the doctor, who admitted that he knew how scared I was. Then he told me to be there in the morning or he would no longer be my doctor. I grudgingly agreed to go.

After I hung up the phone, the pain and distress increased five-fold. Now I couldn't even breathe. All I could figure out to do in order to relieve the symptoms was to call the hospital again. I dialed the number. When someone answered, I simply said that I would not be returning for any more treatments; I was turning myself over to Jesus as my only hope. I can't say what I was hoping for, but whatever it was, He was it.
I hung up the phone and all the symptoms vanished. Later I realized that Jesus had indeed heard my cries. He just hadn't answered them the way I expected Him to. Instead, He allowed me to be pushed to the brink of death in order to get me to quit letting the doctors, or anyone else, do whatever they wished to me. He allowed me to become so terrified and so overwhelmed with pain that I was able to call the hospital and cancel. Jesus had helped me take the first real step to help myself. He had helped me say, "You are not doing this to me anymore."