Armstrong - The valedictorian of being dead: the true story of dying ten times to live

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Advance Praise for Heather B. Armstrongs

THE VALEDICTORIAN OF BEING DEAD

Breathtakingly honest, this story is a bridge to empathy and a bright beacon of hope. Im telling everyone to read this book.

Lisa Genova, New York Times bestselling author of Still Alice

A story of courage, hope, love, and science overcoming the despair of depression. It is a must-read for mental health professionals and those touched by depressiontheir own or that of a loved one.

Barbara Arrowsmith-Young, internationally bestselling author of The Woman Who Changed Her Brain

I cried and cried; it was so beautiful and honest and scary and real. This book will be so helpful for a lot of people living with depression, especially parents.

Grace Bonney, New York Times bestselling author of In the Company of Women

Fascinating journey out of the abyss of depression, intricately weaving the threads of family, suffering, and scientific breakthrough. This touching memoir manages to shock, educate, and inspire.

Alex Korb, PhD, author of The Upward Spiral

I was moved by this real, raw, hilarious, and deeply personal story of one womans epic battle with major depression and found myself cheering for Heather and her entire family.

Wendy Suzuki, PhD, author of Healthy Brain, Happy Life

As the lead anesthesiologist on the study, it was emotional for me to hear of Heathers experience. She helped me to gain some understanding about what folks go through when they are sick, what the experience was for her and her loved ones, and what the treatment now means to her.

Scott C. Tadler, MD, University of Utah School of Medicine

In loving memory of Minnie Ann McGuire

MY MOTHER MARRIED SATAN, and when hes here next time youll see exactly why she divorced him.

My words were a bit slurredthey often are when youre coming out of anesthesiaand I looked around the room to find my mothers face so I could nod furiously in her direction. I wanted her to confirm this statement of fact to the three nurses in the room. They needed to know. This was the most important thing we could possibly talk about right then. I was insistent that we discuss this, like Id had a few too many bourbons at a party and was convinced that if I screamed, BUT I AM NOT DRUNK! people would stop dismissing me and say, You know, if youd only screamed that three times, I wouldnt have believed you. It was the fourth time that did it. That fourth time changed my mind.

Instead, she cleared her throat and asked how I was feeling. How the hell did she think I was feeling? Id been almost brain-dead for fifteen minutes. I felt fantastic! When you want to be dead, theres nothing quite like being dead.

And boy, did I do dead well. Dr. Mickey would often tell my mother that of the three patients in this study so far, my brain went down and stayed down better than anyone elses. I didnt hear him tell her thisI was almost dead every time they had this conversationbut my mother would tell me about what would happen while I was gone, about the discussions she had with him concerning the history of depression in our family. When she told me about my dazzling performance, I reminded her that when I want to do something well, I become the valedictorian of doing that thing.

No one does dead better.

That wasnt the craziest thing I would say when coming out of anesthesia. Discussing my mothers doomed marriage to Satan was the topic I brought up after the seventh treatment. A little crazier than that was after the initial treatmentthe first time in my life I had ever been under anesthesia. I angrily and breathlessly yelled, The girls will miss their piano lesson! My vision was blurry, and while trying to blink my way through it I could see the outline of at least five people in the room. They were strangers to me in that intoxicated state, and they were laughing at me.

That was the only time I had a dream while coming back from death, that first time. It was a very short dream, but its significance was not lost on me or my mother. My mother doesnt have much experience with angry drunksshe is an active Mormon who surrounds herself with other active, Diet Cokedrinking Mormonsbut she immediately told the room that what I had uttered was very serious, that they should ease up on the laughter.

Dr. Mickey had told me during my consultation that it might take anywhere from twenty minutes to an hour to come out of the anesthesia, and in my dream it had taken so long that I was late to take my girls to their weekly piano lesson the following night. I was panic-stricken, seized with terror like I had been every afternoon for the previous six months when I would sit down to practice piano with my younger daughter. Marlo was seven at the time and had begun taking lessons in the fall of her second-grade school year. She had shown interest in music throughout her life and would dabble at the keys on our piano because her older sister Leta had been taking lessons for years.

I would never blame my wanting to be dead on my daughters daily piano practice. It was a turning point in this eighteen-month-long bout of depression, but it was one of many. Each of them was in the downward direction. However, Marlos ability to bruise her forehead on the keys of the treble clef took me down a few more notches than anything previous, past a point of no return. To a place in my closet where I would hide from the girls when I called my mother to scream. I tried so hard to conceal my pain from my children, and my closet was the most secluded space in the house. I always hoped that my clothes would muffle the sound. Sometimes I would scream words, and sometimes I would just let the sound of the pain erupt from my throat. (Imagine the noise a pig makes in a barn fire.) Sometimes after she said hello I would utter without any emotion, I dont want to be alive anymore.

I had given my older daughter the gift of music in her life, the ability to read notes and play those notes on a piano. I wanted to give that same gift to Marlo; it only seemed fair. However, I dont play the piano very well, and her father, who is a classically trained pianist, had moved 2,200 miles across the country. The help Id had when Leta learned to play piano was no longer available. Now, Id been a full-time single mother working a full-time job for over three years. It was up to me to get Marlo through her required practice every day. One more knife to juggle, and I was already juggling so many. My mother begged me to let it go, to look at the bigger picture and know that Marlo would lead a fulfilling life without piano.

But that wasnt a fair request. When youre depressed and no longer want to be alive, its kind of impossible to let things go. Her fathers leaving had left a gaping hole in Marlos heart, and I didnt want to let his absence rob her of this as well. I wouldnt allow it. And in pursuit of that principle, I was willing to want to die.