If our story of schizophrenia hitting a family were made into a movie, here is where it might end: on the hopeful note of some dreams having come true, after challenges and crises too numerous to count. My adult son, Ben, is stable, taking his medication, able to participate in family functions, and actually working part-time as - of all things - a server in a restaurant where customers come in and ask to be seated in his section.

Last Tuesday I called Tom, my husband of nearly 24 years and our family’s stay-at-home parent, and asked him to pick me up some bandages for a blister on my heel at the pharmacy. He groaned at me. “Sure,” was his reply in a half whine, half frustrated tone. “I haven’t been to the pharmacy in what, 12 hours. They’re probably wondering what’s happened to me.” Tom continued his rant, telling me he feels like Norm from Cheers when he walks into the building, and he swears the pharmacist knows our phone number by heart.  I thought he was exaggerating until Friday when Tom asked me to stop and pick up a new medication for Tim on my way home from work.  When I got to the pharmacy counter and asked for a prescription for Tim Hickey, the pharmacist said, “Where’s Tom?” It took me a few seconds to pick my jaw up off the counter and politely answer that he was at home and no ill had befallen him.