Let's hope. For Julie's sake.

I blame me. And everyone close to Julie. Her friends and associates. Even her de facto husband, Rick. For not forcing Julie into treatment. Long, long ago. For depression. And alcoholism. Wasn't until Rick came home from a business trip. That he discovered Julie. In a pool of blood. After she had fallen. In the bathroom. And gashed the back of her head. Wasn't a pretty sight. We all should have seen this coming. Fortunately, this latest calamity may turn out to be a blessing. Because it finally brought Julie into an emergency room. For treatment. She's been in the hospital for nine days, and counting. And she may be in a rehab center for months. For much-needed and long overdue medical treatment and psychotherapy. Julie came within a whisker of dying. After having lost lots of blood.  I'll spare you many of the gruesome details. Other than Julie was on the decline for a long time. Mentally and emotionally and physically exhausted. From caring for her dementia-riddled parents. In her own home. For over six years. Her mother died two years ago. Her 86-year-old father is living in a 5-bed residential nursing care home. Doing reasonably well. In some ways, better than Julie.  How's that for a twist of irony? Anyway, I had long advocated. Right here.  Forcing Julie into treatment. But I felt helpless. Powerless. Because of a health care system often rigged against the severely mentally ill. They are allowed to remain untreated. Even homeless. The likes of Julie are allowed to look like undernourished inmates from concentration camps. Before they get help. Often too late. Let's hope that's not the case with Julie. --Jim Broede