My parents were fairly good parents. Maybe they were great parents because instead of having a son who at age 20 should be independent and starting a wonderful life, instead becomes schizophrenic and needs much, much help for years and years. And they dealt with it admirably. My dad was from a little inconspicuous town in central California and my mom grew up well-to-do and grew up in nice areas like Palm Springs and nice parts of Las Angeles. They knew nothing about schizophrenia until the disease was thrust on me out of nowhere which meant it was thrust on them.
They stepped up perfectly and dealt with it. They made the calls to get me help like finding hospitals for me to live in and group homes and they visited me and took me out all over the place like restaurants, plays, bookstores, parties, etc. They included me in so much stuff. When I was locked up for 8 months in my early twenties they visited me every day. They brought me snacks and cross word puzzle books. They did all the work to get me on SSDI and SSI. They supported me unwaveringly all my life with schizophrenia. Unfortunately they both passed away, my dad died 10 years ago and my mom died just about three years ago.
Well, I owed them my life. And I am eternally grateful for what they did for me.