'My Husband Was Hospitalized, I Didn't Tell People Why'

When my husband was in the hospital for nine days in 2021, no one offered me a casserole. I was taking care of my 12-year-old and trying to manage my husband's care over the phone, since COVID-19 protocols were still in place and I wasn't allowed to see him. The last thing on my mind was daily food preparation. And yet, every night at 5:30 p.m., my daughter and I still needed to eat.

I'm not overly fond of 1950's-style sympathy meals, but I would have gladly welcomed the gesture of a soggy tuna noodle casserole. I had very little appetite, but the act of receiving the food, of having a friend show up on my doorstep, would have been a comfort.

Dan's hospitalization was sudden and I had no time to prepare for it by pre-making a lasagna or an enormous batch of chicken soup. In the fall of 2021, Dan's depression and anxiety became acute. Years earlier he had been diagnosed with a major depressive disorder, but his symptoms had remained in remission until the pandemic hit.

He stopped sleeping for more than two hours at a stretch. His concentration became frazzled, he suffered panic attacks, and described a sensation which felt like an electric current coursing through his limbs. By the end of November, his situation was deemed "life threatening" and he was placed on an involuntary psychiatric hold. I was in shock, but also relieved that he was finally safe.

My husband and I have lived in the same Californian coastal community for more than two decades, and have a good circle of friends we can rely on. But when Dan went into the hospital, I didn't know how to ask them for help.

I was raised to believe that people should hide their mental health struggles to anyone outside their immediate family. It's well understood by mental health professionals that this type of secrecy leads to shame, a decreased quality of life and increased social distance for family members of those with serious mental health challenges. But, at the time, I was in shock and wanted to safeguard Dan's privacy.

What would his friends or work colleagues think if they knew he was confined to a locked ward for his own safety? Would they ever trust him in the same way again? Therapy and antidepressant use are far less stigmatized than they were in the 20th century. But I believe there's still a thick layer of shame around uncontrolled mental illness.

Results of a recent survey suggest that individuals might experience greater public stigma, self-stigma, and worse attitudes if they were hospitalized due to mental health issues than they would if they sought outpatient services such as therapy.

So I didn't post anything on Facebook about Dan's situation, and I reached out to very few friends. I also naively hoped that Dan would be released well before the three-day hold expired. In California, a 72-hour hold allows hospitals to keep patients in a psychiatric facility if they are deemed a danger to themselves or others. But the decision to conceal his status began a chain of social isolation that made the weeks and months ahead even more challenging.

I'll never forget showing up for my monthly book group, and concealing the fact that Dan was in the hospital. It's hard to imagine myself doing the same thing if Dan had a sudden physical threat like a heart attack or stroke.

Despite improvements in how society views mental health in recent decades, I still do not believe mental illness is treated in the same way as physical illness. While some people suffering from physical illness choose to keep their diagnosis hidden because of personal or cultural preferences, I feel it's much more socially acceptable to be "out" about a serious physical challenge than a mental one. Being open about a diagnosis allows family and community to rally around the sick individual, whether it be contributing to crowdfunding campaigns or signing them up for a meal subscription service.

Take the recent example of my brother-in-law, who suffered an unexpected neck and back injury. When we learned he wouldn't be able to cook the traditional Thanksgiving meal for the family, we cooked it and brought the leftovers to him and Dan's sister. These are the sorts of gestures that seem to keep the societal contract worthwhile—I'll look after you, if you pitch in when it's my turn.

Nearly one in five Americans lives with a mental illness. But, despite a push to destigmatize mental health issues, families that struggle with serious mental health challenges often do so alone. When Dan was released from the hospital, the recovery was emotionally grueling for all of us. The burden of caregiving for someone with a mental illness can cause its own mental health challenges. I felt anxious and alone.

About a week and half after he returned home, I finally posted a photo on social media with a note that he'd been hospitalized, although I didn't say why. I felt like I needed to reach out to my community for support, that they needed to know at least part of what my family had been through. There was an overwhelming number of encouraging comments. Most people probably assumed Dan's crisis was physical and not psychiatric in nature, and I let them believe it. After suffering in so much social isolation, the support felt vital to my family's recovery.

After seeing the post, a friend brought a huge assortment of our favorite cookies from our local bakery and Dan's boss had chocolates delivered. I regretted not reaching out sooner. These gestures brought us joy during a scary and miserable time, and have stuck with me for the year since Dan's release from the hospital.

It took me a few months until I was able to open up and tell more people about the cause of Dan's hospitalization. Even now, It still feels like an act of bravery to say the words, especially after years of being taught that information about certain conditions should remain only within a family. I feel my pulse race and my skin flush when I talk openly about Dan's struggles. But I feel I need to share our story, because my husband's recovery is an inspiration.

Dan is able to do most of what he did before the hospital, but he's much more sensitive to stress. Certain tasks seem more difficult for him to complete than before. Yet, to the rest of the world, even family who don't live with him, he seems 100 percent better. And he's happy to let them believe it.

So many symptoms of mental health issues happen on the inside. Psychological suffering can be masked—until it can't. I try to remember this when I interact with friends and colleagues; we never truly know the burden that another person carries, we can usually only guess at who is suffering from it. Dan's risk of relapse looms large in my mind, even a year into his recovery.

But I remind myself that my beliefs and feelings around mental illness have changed. I feel it's important to be vocal about your struggles—I can't be silent about them, even though I worry about what others might think. My hope is that if things become challenging for my family again, I'll be able to ask for help, and someone in our community will show up at my door with a lasagna.

Amy Ettinger is the author of Sweet Spot: An Ice Cream Binge Across America. She teaches creative writing through Stanford's Continuing Studies program and lives in Northern California with her husband and daughter. You can read more of her work at amyettinger.com and follow her on Twitter @ettinger_amy.

All views expressed in this article are the author's own.

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