There are other aspects of the story, but I am sharing this story now, with this perspective in time, because the stigma of mental illness is deeply entrenched in our psyche. The fear of losing control over one's life—and over one's relationships with people whom one loves dearly—is a powerful force. My grandmother, who by today's standards would probably have benefited from neuroleptic medication and gone on to live a reasonably good life supported by her family, perhaps with serial hospitalizations, could not receive anything like modern treatment. Furthermore, once my grandmother was moved from the local mental hospital to the distant provincial hospital, my grandfather, who walked ten miles to the local hospital once a month, had to stop visiting. Furthermore, my aunt once told me that Pop had said that grandma did not respond to him when he visited with her, so he must have come to believe that they had no meaningful relationship—or worse, that her silence indicated a judgment. Thus her existence slipped from memory. She was forgotten, repressed. There was no grieving, no discussion, no debriefing, just time moving on. She was for all intents and purposes dead. Attempts to find my long-lost aunt who had been put up for adoption failed to find any trace of her.