Hope Remains: The Fish Catcher by Sherry Lanning

The Fish Catcher

Sherry Lanning

Arriving at the fish pond, we saw a duck family. “Those are my brother’s kids!” you said assuredly. “Really,” I smirked. “You’re smiling at me mom! I love it when you smile at me!”

My 50-year-old, fish-catching son, off to drown some worms.

We named you Robin, meaning “bright and shining fame.” The perfect name for our 7 ½ lbs of potential. Within the next 12 years, you would be joined by three sisters and three brothers. 

Our family of nine was musical, performing annually at local fairs. Your spontaneous energy enhanced our group.

March 21, 1986

At 13 Robin is filled with life! His heart is as big as the sea. He loves pizza, basketball, and fishing. He sings like an angel.

While competing at your school’s State Convention, you placed first in vocal solo. Your dynamic performance received a standing ovation. Your bright shining moment—until the music stopped!

Once animated, your face turned masklike. Your ebony eyes stared broodingly. You were 15, banging your head against walls.

We took you for assessment, leaving you behind locked doors at a psych unit. It felt like we had left you at the dog pound. Your diagnosis was depression—unfortunately, missing your prodromal phase of schizophrenia.

I was attending nursing school, learning about mental illness while your hard-working dad kept us supported. Your siblings compensated as they could, often over-achieving.

Our previous idealism had been challenged. We couldn’t fit you into our fundamentalist formulas. As your stability floundered, your care was “assumed” by the State. During this time you “went missing.” You were 20, too old for milk carton ads for missing children and before cell phones. The police found you in Myrtle Beach, South Carolina, surviving on the streets.

August 23, 1992

I clung to my simple, solid faith. “Jesus, let me lay my head in your lap, and whisper my deepest fears without someone scolding (fear is a sin!). You say, “Can a mother forget her child?” “Give me courage to remember him. If his loss is eternal, he will have lived briefly in my heart. And Jesus, no matter what, I’ll always lay my head in your lap.”

You met JoAnn, staying together several years in North Carolina, tending horses.

At 30, you were committed to the Oregon State Hospital where One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest was filmed. Visitation was bleak indeed. Human souls shuffled like robots; vacant eyes stared while mouths drooled their morning meds.

I’d exit that institution resolved to “fix something.” I resorted to pulling random weeds sprouting from the sidewalk.

Schizophrenia was diagnosed at last. Clozapine expanded your speech from monosyllables to sentences—tragically, 15 years too late, as psychotic assaults are cumulative, degenerating the brain, resulting in chronic illness.

Later, you were transferred to another facility. Over time you would stay in approximately 20 facilities.

Once your siblings left home, I pursued disaster nursing with medical missions to Haiti, Guatemala, and Uganda. Inspired by the resilience of those afflicted, my capacity to care for you increased.

Returning from Guatemala, I heard you had gone missing again. The police posted your endangered persons report on my birthday. “Voices” had lured you back to Myrtle Beach, promising you a job! Hopes for employment prompted a coast-to-coast bus ride.

Once again, you were found by police, only to be “caught and released” to unsupervised group homes, increasing your delusions, causing you to sleep behind dumpsters.

The ER gave occasional respite. I’d cradle your head as you sprawled on the floor. My tormented child—nicotine and fear infused your sweat, permeating the padded room. Instinctively, I’d rock you like a baby. 

Just in time your father saved us both. He had begun to understand schizophrenia, realizing your brain was disordered. We decided to bring you home. With God’s help, we would manage your care together, one day at a time. As you complied with your meds, our home became your refuge.

Late one night, I heard singing from your room. “Rise Again” by Dallas Holm. “Cause I’ll rise again, ain’t no power on Earth can tie me down. Yes, I’ll rise again, death can’t keep me in the ground!”

After years of silence, your voice had returned with a vengeance.

In the morning, you stuffed your backpack with yesterday’s worms, sodas, and smokes. Your “fish catching” status was proudly announced by three fishing poles while you waited for the bus.

Reporting to the pond, you made your first cast, hoping to catch Michelle—your old girlfriend turned fish. She fussed hard getting caught so you tossed her back until tomorrow when she’d be less fickle.

At night, you shuffled home saying, “Michelle’s sure getting fat!” I said, “Welcome home, son. Your dad’s made soup.” You said, “Right on! That sounds good.”

Having taken your fistfull of meds, you tread to bed. “Are you warm enough son?” I asked. “Yes, Mom,” you said. I said, “We love you Robin. We’re glad you’re home safe.” You said, “Right on!”

Special Olympics renewed your interest in basketball, softball, and bowling. Your natural athleticism remains apparent to all.

Mother’s Day was sweetened by your gift of two cans of Almond Roca! My birthday was remembered with a rosebush, yellow, which you planted.

Your previous Mother’s Day card read, “If you treat your sons like heroes, they’ll become heroes, if only in your own eyes.”

Robin, of bright and shining fame, you are my hero.

Forever Your Mother,

Sherry Lanning, RN/retired

Sherry Lanning is a retired nurse living in Oregon. Along with her husband, David, they care for their son Robin, challenged by schizophrenia.

Hear Sherry read  “The Fish Catcher” on a podcast episode of Revealing Voices: