This new blog tells a compelling story about one Minnesota family’s journey with schizophrenia. It’s a must read.

Where's My F-ing Casserole?

I suppose it is not a good sign when the doctor, as she is delivering our son’s diagnosis, begins to cry. We are sitting in the psychiatrist’s office, three days post Christmas. Our sixteen year old son, it has been determined after much testing and analysis, is schizophrenic. The psychiatrist gives my husband and me a deep, meaningful look and offers us her apologies. For what, I am not sure. Her lack of composure? The severity of the diagnosis? I think to hand her a tissue and ask her if she needs a minute. But wait, shouldn’t she be comforting me, not the other way round?

“Do you understand what I have just said?”, she asks us, obviously concerned by our lack of response. We look at each other, and her, and shrug. What do I know of schizophrenia? I think of Sybil. I remember it was scary, it…

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