He made three unsuccessful suicide attempts in three months, then got back on his medications and improved immediately, and with the naivete of a loving parent, I thought we were home free. Miraculously, he survived, and assured me he wouldn’t do it again, but did so ten days later, and was saved again. Much to my chagrin (and terror), he spiraled down immediately once off them, and within five weeks he made his first suicide attempt, and very nearly succeeded. And at eighteen, still on the appropriate drugs, he felt so normal that he insisted he wanted to stop taking them. He had two very good years of productive, normal life once he was medicated. I’ve written a whole book about Nick, his illness and his life, his victories and defeats, and our great love for him, so I won’t go into detail here. And the belief now is that if you diagnose and medicate bipolar children, they have a much better chance of having a normal life later on.

That was unthinkable when Nick was that age. Today, they give lithium to children suspected of being bipolar at four or five. To be diagnosed at that age was almost unheard of then. For the first time in years he was able to lead what appeared to be a totally normal life because of the drugs, and his diagnosis was established: He was bipolar. And for a brief time, lithium was a miraculous wonder drug for him. And it was considered exceptional and almost revolutionary when I found a very respected expert on manic depression at UCLA, who gave Nick lithium at sixteen. The medication most commonly used for bipolar disease was lithium. When Nick was a very young child, which is not so very long ago, the tradition adhered to by most psychiatrists was that manic depression (or bipolar disease as it is more frequently called now), could not be diagnosed until a patient was in his early twenties, and was staunchly never medicated before that age. I knew my son was sick, but no professional would agree. I have a great fondness now for doctors who respect the bond that mothers have with their children and acknowledge that we know them best of all. When he was five, I sought advice from doctors and psychiatrists who brushed off my concerns, and assured me he was “fine.” And when he was seven, I alternated between panic and despair, convinced that he was sick, begging for help for him, while every doctor I consulted reassured me and insisted there was nothing wrong. At four, I was convinced that he was manic. At eighteen months, I found him “different,” and precocious long before that (he walked at eight months and spoke in full sentences in two languages when he was a year old).

My son Nick showed signs of suffering from bipolar disease from his earliest childhood. The homeless outreach team that changed my life, and that of many others, began at a very dark time for me.

A Gift of Hope by Danielle Steel