The author as a young girl with her Grandma Bevy, whom she describes as "the most fashionable nonagenarian in town." Photo Courtesy Of Jennifer Greenberg When I visited my family in Montreal after spending two weeks in a psych ward abroad, I quickly understood one thing: I would be living out of my carry-on while my family figured out what to do with me. The first weeks were excruciating.
My mom dragged me on morning walks around the hilly neighborhood, my father was oddly quiet, and mentioning my institutionalization was not permitted in the household. Despite the utter exhaustion, there was one outing I adored: visiting my Grandma Bevy. On the cusp of 95, the most fashionable nonagenarian in town saw past my failures and toward my future accomplishments, despite my itchy feelings of hopelessness.
Advertisement Whenever I was hospitalized due to a bipolar episode, Grandma Bevy would call me on the spotty landline in the white-on-white-on-frightful hallway. I’d will myself out of bed in my oversized scrubs and bring a “psych ward safe” flexible pen to document her wisdom. My parents never understood my motives for admitting myself inpatient: most often, a calculated plan involving stockpiled prescriptions.
However, from hundreds of miles away, Grandma Bevy repeated over the phone, “I’m proud of you.” Advertisement When I overdosed on pills in 2019 and received my diagnosis, she announced, “It will be OK, sweetheart. It isn’t right now, but you’ll get through.
