Tamara Shimmin

There’s a rhythm to life that’s hard to notice in the moment—but crystal clear when you look back through time.

Everyone experiences ups and downs. But the Law of Rhythm takes on a whole new meaning when your spouse lives with bipolar disorder. For my husband, the highs and lows—depression followed by mania—can happen within a single day.

After years of struggling, he underwent electroconvulsive therapy (ECT), hoping it would be the breakthrough we so desperately needed. It was a last-resort treatment. We held onto the hope that this would be the thing to finally “cure” him.

It didn’t.

Instead, it triggered severe anxiety, PTSD, and memory loss.
But there was a hidden blessing: because of what he went through, he was able to retire with full benefits and disability.

We were ready for a fresh start. We gave away most of our possessions and hit the road in an RV, praying that a change of scenery might help shift his mental state.

Six months in—after countless emotional highs and lows—we got a letter from the insurance company.

Because he wasn’t currently taking medication or seeing a doctor, they had decided he was “cured.” They would no longer be paying his disability benefits.

A doctor—who had never once spoken to my husband—had “read his file” and determined that he was no longer disabled.

Didn’t they know there is no cure for bipolar disorder?

Didn’t they know he had tried every medication offered, which is why he resorted to ECT?

Didn’t they know the ECT didn’t help—but left him with PTSD, memory loss, and even more anxiety?

Didn’t they know I lived in constant fear of my husband taking his own life?

Couldn’t they believe me when I said I’d held him as he sobbed, begging me to “go with him”?

We were already living with my parents—our RV fridge had broken. And now we were losing our only income.

Then things got worse.

February brought Canada’s coldest weather in 30 years, and my husband started having PTSD nightmares again. He was terrified to sleep and confessed he just wanted to disappear. I hadn’t realized why he was staying up all night watching movies.

It had reached the point where I knew he needed professional help. My niece had just been admitted to a hospital in Utah, so I called to ask if they’d take him. They only worked with teens—but referred me to a facility in Florida.

That Florida clinic was a miracle. They arranged and paid for his flight from Montana, picked him up, and agreed to accept whatever insurance would cover. The only out-of-pocket cost was $500.

The stay was supposed to be two weeks—but it turned into a month. Every time we spoke, he begged me to come get him. I wasn’t getting the updates I’d expected from the doctors, and I was worried. So I made a decision.

Just me and my dog—driving 3,294 miles to Florida in two and a half days.

Florida in April was beautiful. Since I couldn’t take my dog to the beach, I spent my time photographing iguanas and birds near a lake by my hotel while I waited for news.

We had done this before—four previous hospitalizations, a few med changes, then discharge.
But this time was different. It was taking longer. Why?

Because it was working.

This time, the doctors discovered something the others had missed: my husband’s previous meds were canceling each other out. No wonder nothing had worked.

The therapists didn’t just prescribe—they taught. They gave him the skills to live with his illness and thrive.

The transformation was incredible.

And then came the final blessing:
Because of the hospitalization, the insurance company reversed its decision. They acknowledged that he was still disabled—and resumed his payments. Not only that, they sent backpay for all the missed months.

The Law of Rhythm reminds me that when the roller coaster drops and your stomach sinks, the upturn is coming. Hold on. Keep moving forward in faith.

Trust in Christ.
Watch for the rise.
It’s coming.

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