The Haven (chapter 6)

August 12^th – August 20^th  , 2010

Scott’s windows faced the tennis courts. From the moment he got there, he was completely fixated on going outside and playing tennis with his father.

Of course he couldn't go outside because he was not yet cleared for it. The Haven has a system of levels and based on this level patients are accorded certain privileges. For the first few days - I don’t remember exactly how many - Scott is watched 24 hours a day. We can imagine that this corresponds to level 0. Gradually, as they get “promoted” to the next level, they are allowed to do things such as go outside in a group with supervision, and I think by the time they get to level 5, they can go outside with family members and no medical staff required.

His fixations are hard to deal with since they are irrationally important in his mind, and lack of resolution leads to frustration, which quickly escalates to a violent mood. He never struck us, nor anybody else in the hospital, but he would huff and puff,  get in your face and says things like “do you know how much I can hurt you”.  He is big and can be intimidating, even when you know what a gentle warm person he is outside of his manic episodes. 

Thus his fixations became very important to us. We longed for him to get cleared to go outside.

Every day there is tremendous angst, for Chuck, my sisters and for me, around what level Scott would be at and when he might get cleared to the next level. The hardest times are the weekends. On weekends the patients need to just sit tight. We often say that they are just "parked" on weekends. Their regular doctor is not there and no level changes take place.

These two weeks are a real mixed bag and a complete emotional roller-coaster. By now my older sister J. has arrived from California and for a short while Chuck and I benefit from having both my sisters with us to bolster us and help us keep our chins above water.  

Much of the specific details of those days escapes me now.  I believe there are the memories that we can’t delete no matter how hard we try and there are those that the mind mercifully dulls slowly with the passage of time. As I recall it was a beautiful August. The sun was warm and the breeze gentle. In the mornings, we would sit outside on the back patio, under a blue sky, drinking coffee and waiting for it to be time for visiting hours. I couldn’t drink caffeine because of my anxiety, but I guess I drank decaf or had tea. 

It was such a comfort to have my sisters with us. They introduced some structure and normalcy for Chuck and me. And maybe they were a distraction. Perhaps I did not allow myself to fall apart quite so completely as I would have otherwise because they were there. Perhaps Chuck and I did not resort to tearing each other apart in our pain because they were there. Either way, we were a team. All of us together. A small group, where nobody managed to keep it together all the time, but usually at least one person was functional and able to provide support to the others. 

I am not sure what we did during those mornings, but I expect it involved research. On the drugs Scott was being prescribed. On bipolar. We started to learn about the different types of bipolar, and what we might expect for Scott going forward. We were such rookies that it was news to us that there are two types of bipolar: type 1 and type 2. 

We have since learned that type 1 leans towards the manic side, always involves hospitalization, and usually comes with a psychotic break. But at the time, when we were so new to bipolar, we scoured the pamphlets from the hospital and the internet, trying to figure out which type he had, and in the absence of confirmation, which type we wished he had. At times we researched what questions to ask, and at times, I at least, practiced escapism, retreating to my garden to pull weeds, or sweep the front steps. Anything to support the illusion that I had some control over some aspects of my life. But all these activities were just preludes to the main event of the day, which was the drive down to the hospital for the start of visiting hours.

Life on the psychiatric ward has a rhythm. A very slow one. Since the group of ‘clients’ was quite small when Scott first arrived, they became a fairly close knit group – or at least as close as one might expect given that each was dealing with his/her own psychiatric issues, and they were thrown into daily close proximity but knew in their hearts they would never see each other again once they left that floor. It’s probably not dissimilar from the bonds between people in a lifeboat.

Chuck, my sisters and I are there every day from the start of visiting hours until the end. The Haven has generous visiting hours, so we are there something like 5 or 6 hours every day. On weekends it is more like 8 hours. We know all the mental health workers by first name, even though they are on rotating schedules, we know the patients, and we even know the patients’ families. Unlike the other ward we had seen at the same hospital, the patients here have their families visit with great regularity.

The familiarity of the daily pattern is somewhat comforting. It is particularly comforting to the patients, but even to the family members – whose nerves are worn down and who are exhausted from their daily trek to the psychiatric hospital carrying the stress of having a loved one here. 

There are often daily traumas, sometimes with your loved one, sometimes with somebody else on the floor, but each of us knows what it feels like, whether it is our turn to be sitting in the hallway crying or somebody else’s turn. We avert our eyes if we don’t know the family member well enough to offer comfort, but sometimes there is no comfort to give. Only the passage of time can bring slow healing to the pain that happens here. 

Other moments are surprisingly, and very fleetingly, happy. I recall a raucous game of Pictionary in the lounge, with one of the mental health workers leading the game, involving many of the patients and family members. There are also rare peaceful times, watching a movie in the lounge on the big-screen TV after dinner, a sleepy medicated Scott laying on the sofa with his head on my lap. Other patients close to Scott’s age whose family members had already started the long drive home, having pulled up chairs, cracking jokes or putting up a running commentary on the movie. Good days and bad days.

We optimistically hope for a unidirectional recovery. My grounding belief – the one that allows me to get out of bed every day, get dressed, put food in my mouth - is that every day Scott will get just a little bit better. And he does have good days but he also has bad days. On the bad days, he slips back into his manic world and becomes irritable, irrational and obsessive. Unfortunately for my grounding belief and me, his trajectory is not unidirectional. Even though we boost each other in our little support team of my sisters, Chuck and I with the catch phrase “good days and bad days”, the bad days are very difficult, and there are evenings where we walk off the ward, out of the building into the summer night air and feel a crushing weight that stuns us all into a heavy silence. On one such drive home, K. tries to make a joke out of the fact that even the cheer-leading squad has punked out. 

It costs everyone to remain calm and upbeat in the face of Scott’s setbacks into irrational, manic behavior. And he is doggedly persistent about it. He wants to get off the floor. He wants to go outside. He wants to play tennis. He wants to know his discharge date. He wants to make plans to get back to college. And therein lies the rub. 

Every day that he is on the ward brings us closer to August 27^th - the day he is supposed to be traveling back to campus at Middlebury College – and the pressure gets ratcheted up. Everyone but Scott knows that it is not possible for him to go back to school on the 27^th. I am still operating in something of an unrealistic bubble, and part of me wonders if maybe he can go back to college, but just get there two or three weeks after the start date. 

I want very much to not break his dream and somehow make it possible for him to go back to school. We speak with Scott’s doctor and social worker about this, and we explain that we are punting every time the issue comes up. Maybe we should just tell him he is going to be a ‘little late’ returning to school … maybe we should wait until he is discharged to break him the bad news. His medical team gives us the excellent advice to confront the issue while he is still in the hospital. Since he will take it poorly, they have the capacity to deal with the consequences and they can keep him safe. Chuck and I agree to have the sit-down and break Scott the news.

It is probably somewhere around the 20^th of August when we have the meeting. By now my sisters have had to return to their lives and their jobs, so it is just Chuck and I with Scott’s social worker and the wonderful Dr. S. who sit down in the room. Thinking back on it now, I contrast it with the meeting on the men’s ward with Scott’s previous doctor. This room is large and airy, with art on the walls and big windows facing out onto the grounds. There are many seats in the room and we only take up a subset of them. 

But I do not notice any of this at the time. My heart is in my throat and I am sweating. The cost of these emotions is even higher because of the need to appear outwardly calm and upbeat for Scott.  I fear breaking this news to him. I know how painful it will be, and I feel that his losing the semester at Middlebury is the worse possible outcome from his being diagnosed as bipolar. I guess that just goes to show that the mind helps us by compartmentalizing facts. Somehow I thought my greatest burden was the pain he would be caused by the fact he would miss a semester or two and not return in the fall to be with his friends and teammates. Clearly, part of my brain must have missed the part about him having a life-long illness.

I don’t remember how it came out: who said what first, but I guess we all took turns giving him the message. Scott’s agitation immediately skyrocketed and he started what I think of as his ‘huffing-and-puffing behavior’. There was real panic in his voice, and the panic was taking refuge in fury. He also loudly proclaimed that if we did not let him return to school he was going to kill himself. I observed that the more Scott got agitated, the more Dr. S. lowered his voice, lowered his gaze and did everything to not confront or inflame Scott. I followed suit and kept my voice low and calming. We were all hoping we could get through this meeting and get past this issue. 

But the situation deteriorated, and soon Scott was getting visibly distressed and regressing into psychotic behavior. He started talking to himself, mumbling about how the events leading up to his hospitalization could not possibly all have been coincidences … they just couldn’t all be coincidences. By coincidences he meant all the ‘signs’ he had seen that showed he was indeed a CIA agent, people were indeed trying to kill him, he was indeed under constant observation, and all the other events his manic mind lined up into his version of reality. Dr. S. saw this regression and suggested gently that we had discussed this subject enough for today. 

For me, with my optimistic belief that progress would be sustained and unidirectional, this setback for Scott was devastating. He stormed out the room and refused to speak with us any further or even to have us on the floor. I was so emotionally fragile myself, that his proclamation of his intent to kill himself was terrifying. My hands were shaking and a weight on my chest was compressing my heart was making it hard to breathe. I recall that after the meeting had disintegrated, I stepped just inside the dining room where I was alone and leaned my forehead against the wall. I seemed to lack the strength even to hold my head on my shoulders. The social worker found me this way and asked if I was alright. “Am just trying to breathe” I replied. I should have known that of all places, a psych ward is the safest place for a person who wants to end his life. It was at this point that I found out that the windows on the floor don’t open and wont break, although I should have probably already guessed that.

Chuck and I didn’t leave the hospital grounds, even though we had been banished from the floor by Scott. I recall sitting in the car, which we had moved to a parking spot where it faced the exit for his ward. From this position we could see people going in and out of the building, but could not be seen from his room. I guess he was right when he thought there were cars parked outside the building with occupants who were watching him.

We had agreed with his doctor that Scott would stay on the ward today and not be allowed outside for that afternoon’s activities, given his threats to escape and to kill himself. I don’t exactly recall why we were sitting in the car watching the building. Maybe we just couldn’t bring ourselves to leave, or maybe we thought he would change his mind and call to ask us to visit during visiting hours. It was a 90-minute drive round-trip to the house, so presumably it made sense to stay put for a while. 

At some point we called the nurses’ station to inquire how he was doing. I guess we wanted to know if he had resorted to punching the walls again or if they had to give him extreme tranquilizers. I was thrown into a complete state of terror during a moment of confusion when they weren’t quite sure where he was. Finally the answer came back that Scott was not on the ward. This didn’t make sense to me since the doctor had agreed to keep him inside. My voice rising in pitch and panic, I think I snapped at the nurse when seeking clarification. Clearly she didn’t deserve this and probably had no idea where my emotional turmoil was coming from, but it did seem to me that given how much we were paying per day, plus what the insurance was paying, they should have managed to not to temporarily ‘lose’ a patient who was suicidal that morning. Eventually it emerged that Scott had gotten much calmer since the meeting earlier in the day and they had cleared him to go with the other patients for that day’s escorted activity, which was a swim in the pool.

It’s funny (or just plain sad) the things that one resorts to when stress has put you in a state of mind that is not exactly completely stable. Again I am fuzzy on all the details but I do remember lurking around behind a building on the hospital grounds, peeking out from behind the hedges in order to get a glimpse of Scott walking back with the group from the pool. I wanted to see him but felt that he couldn’t see me watching him since he had told us to leave. I also really didn’t want to feed his paranoia by having him see that we were ‘spying’ on him, but I had this desperate need to try to see if he was going to break away from the group, or if I could tell from his body posture whether he was terribly despondent. 

Of course I couldn’t see him well enough to detect his emotional state and he didn’t burst away from the group and make a mad dash for the woods or a road while I watched. I went back to the car where Chuck was waiting, and after a while we called the nurses’ desk again to confirm that he was indeed back on the ward and there were no further plans to leave the building that day. At that point, Chuck and I undertook the long sad drive back to our house. 

(continue reading) 

The Diagnosis (chapter 5)

Wednesday, August 11th  2010

For the first few days we have no diagnosis for Scott. The morning after he was transferred to the Haven he was seen by his medical team. I don’t recall exactly who was on the team, but I know there was at least his doctor, his social worker, a nurse and probably some other mental health workers. 

Perhaps that’s another reason one pays a premium at the Haven – just the concept of having a ‘medical team’ is somewhat reassuring. Contrast this with what happened in the Men's Ward where we had to fight to get just 10 minute's of the doctor's time. Scott’s doctor, whom we will refer to merely as Dr. S., was a lifesaver and real blessing. My husband Chuck and I were still completely overwhelmed and terrified by the situation, but we were moving towards firmer ground and Dr. S. helped to get us there. He spoke with us daily, in a manner that was straightforward and open. He didn’t sugar-coat anything, but his directness, calm demeanor and matter-of-fact presentation helped to make things a little less scary. 

He explained how Scott was still in a paranoid delusional state and still believed that the cars parked outside the hospital were there to watch him. He further explained that in this state, he couldn’t just tell Scott that he was having a psychotic break because it would all just get folded into his paranoid view of the world. Instead he said that he would wait and as the medication started to provide some scaffolding for Scott’s jumbled mental condition, it would eventually crack the door open just enough for Dr. S. to get his foot in.

Far from making a snap decision like the incompetent and unthinking doctor at the ER, the  team at the Haven are monitoring Scott and his reaction to the medications he is being given.

Scott was immediately placed on very high doses of Lithium and Zyprexa. Still he remained very manic and volatile, and so he was also given Thorazine to help calm him at times when the bull started to rage. This usually happened at night, when sleep evaded him and he would get agitated. I recall Dr. S. telling us that if any of us were taking the medication that Scott was on, we would lay down and sleep for a week. But Scott was like a run-away freight train at that point all the lassos that Dr. S. threw up around him were unable to slow him down.

When Scott is manic he gets fixated on sports, usually football. At the Haven, he only wanted to wear athletic clothes with sneakers, and he liked to set the treadmill at an angle of 15 and run on it. In the middle of a conversation or sometimes during a meal, he would drop to the floor and start doing push-ups. This thing with push-ups he had been doing for some time. 

We were so naïve we missed all the warning signs. If we had known anything at all about mania, we would have been tipped off when during a July 4^th weekend party at a friend’s house, he got up at 6 a.m. after only a few hours sleep and decided to jump in the pool and swim laps at great speed. He tried waking all of his friends but they were hung over and told him to go away; saying he must be crazy. He told us all this upon his return from the weekend away, in his ebullient verbose way of that summer, but we merely shrugged and marveled at his high energy.

Yet his high energy eventually degraded to erratic behavior. When the psychosis came, it seemed to us that it came quickly, but in reality he had been able to ‘cover’ it for some time. It was only after he was hospitalized that we started to discover some of the things he had been doing. For example, we discovered in his wastebasket a check for $200 that he had thrown out, but fortunately had not ripped up as he had most of the other things he was getting rid of. We found a hardcover book that he had attempted to burn in the outdoor fire pit (not sure what his thinking process was but the book was the Diary of Anne Frank). He had been practicing self-defense with golf clubs and garden tools, knocking the head off a hoe as he smashed it against a rock. It eventually came out that he thought his father and I were with the CIA and were plotting to have him killed. Therefore he had to cut his ties with his past and be prepared for the attack when it came. My heart hurt to think of him in this dark place. 

And so we waited for a diagnosis. Dr. S. seemed to feel that Scott’s symptoms pointed to a mood disorder, especially once he found out that Chuck’s father suffers from Bipolar Type II, but it seemed that he was still reluctant to rule out schizophrenia. Bipolar has a strong family tie, and if one member of the family has it, it is much more likely that others will too. It is also more common in males.

Dr. S. would eventually settle on a diagnosis of Bipolar Type 1, the more severe of the multiple types. These days they talk about a schizo-affective spectrum and don't rush to label an illness with a tidy label. But the waiting to know what he had and therefore what we could expect as a prognosis was hard, and it was hard to have Scott be so different from his usual self … so ‘crazy’.

Most of us have an inherent fear of madness. This fear stems from our old lizard brains, and is often irrational. We fear snakes and things that move in the dark, or the spider that drops from the ceiling into our hair. We fear people who, in less enlightened times, were labeled ‘lunatics’. We fear the institutions where they were housed. The term ‘lunatic asylum’ conjures up Hollywood-conveyed images of terrifying spaces overflowing with people who have left the boundaries of what we understand to be our fellow humans. We are all tainted by these images. When a person you love abruptly becomes somebody else, somebody unrecognizable, unpredictable and irrational – and you know that the things you say and do are now being interpreted by him through some distorted lens, it is as if the ground beneath your feet has cracked and you have been swallowed into a dark chasm. We lose our foundation and we lose our way. Our minds were gripped by fear,  our thoughts darting about like insects trapped in jar. Chuck and I feared this madness that had claimed our sweet son. We feared it deep down inside our old brains, where a knot of terror sat like a malignant tumor.

Yet we had an unspoken pact to never expose these feelings inside the walls of the hospital. When we pressed that buzzer to request entrance to the Haven, whatever turmoil or anguish we had been engulfed in up to that second, we covered up with a smile and an outwardly calm demeanor. Scott was so volatile, that our primary goal in those long days at the hospital was to keep him calm and to distract him if he looked like he was headed towards an agitated state. Because he had so much energy, it was hard to be indoors with him, but it would be many days before he was cleared to spend an hour or two outside in the courtyard under the supervision of mental health workers. Fortunately they have a ping-pong table at the Haven, and we spent hours and hours playing ping-pong. Both Scott and his father are quite good, and Scott’s greatest glee was to challenge his father to a game in hopes of beating him. Sometimes he would win, but not always.

As the days passed slowly by, Scott started to forge bonds with the other patients. While we had been motivated to move him to the Haven so that he would be with other people his age, it turned out that the patients who had the greatest influence on him were adults. There were two people in particular who played an important role in his path to healing. One was a recovering alcoholic whom I gather had been on a bender and checked himself into the Haven. He was in his mid-forties and I believe he was a successful businessman who may have been involved in commodities. Group sessions took place in the morning before visiting hours, and we came to find that Scott was wholly impressed with what this gentleman had to say, and respected his input. The other patient was a doctor. I do not know why she was in the Haven but she read a lot and was doing research on her condition. When Scott went into crisis in his second week at the Haven, these two would play a pivotal role in helping him at a time when neither his doctor nor his family could reach him.

(continue reading) 

 

A Deep Abyss (chapter 4)

Tuesday, August 10th  2010 - Noon 

My sister K. is with us as we pull into the parking lot of NY Presbyterian. It’s visiting hours. We have had no communication with the hospital since we were there last night to find Scott out cold. Parking proves challenging and because I am anxious to go inside to see Scott, my husband drops me off by the door while he goes with K to find a parking spot. Arriving breathlessly on the ward, I see that Scott’s room is empty. The hall is once again filled with men wandering around and there is a cluster of men in front of the nurse’s window, waiting to check out personal items for use during their free time. I don’t notice any other visitors but I am very focused on finding Scott. I see the nice nurse we spoke with last night. 

Where is Scott, I ask her. She is looking very harried and I am not surprised given the number of patients milling around. She gives me a sad look. He is acting a lot more psychotic today she tells me. My heart feels like it stops momentarily, and I get what will become a familiar sensation over the course of the next few weeks; I feel as if something cold and icy is dumped into my veins. But I remain outwardly calm – or at least I don’t collapse on the floor in fear or start screaming - and ask her what he has been doing. I don’t recall exactly what she said, but I think it had to do with punching walls and shouting threats, probably trying to leave again. He refused to take his medication. He may have been acting out sexually. She tells me he is in the “quiet room”, but I can see him if I want.

What follows next is what I have come to think of as my moment on the edge of the abyss. I feel that I looked down into a deep darkness and saw only pain. I walked the short distance down the hall to a room with a man standing guard by the door. The door is open and there is a blue plastic mat on the floor. The walls are covered with similar material, with padding under the plastic. There is nothing else in the room. Scott sat on the floor, on the mat, his back against the wall with his legs straight out in front of him. He did not hear me walk in. His tongue is swollen and sticking straight out of his mouth. He has a steeliness to him, which I can not tell if it is resolve or anger. He leans over and spit saliva on the floor, still without noticing me. 

I put down my purse and slip out of my black clogs preparing to sit on the floor with him. 

“Hi sweetheart”, I say to him. 

At the sound of my voice, he turns to look up me with a look of complete despair and suddenly collapses into sobbing. The sobs wrack his entire body and he lies down on his side. It is a terrible mixture of the mania, fear at having been left there, relief at seeing me, and medication. I lay down on the floor with him and hold him while he sobs. When his sobbing begins to subside I speak to him softy and gently, as one would speak to a small child. I tell him that he should take his medication so we can get out of this room. Then I say conversationally that I don’t really like this room and we should leave it. He nods his agreement. He doesn’t like this room. He is obviously addled, and is having a hard time speaking because of his tongue sticking out of his mouth, but he repeats after me: take medication, stay out of room. I smile encouragingly at him and stand up, giving him my hand to help him stand.

All this time we have been observed, first by the guard standing at the door, presumably through the camera mounted on the ceiling, and eventually by the nurse who comes over after I have cajoled Scott into agreeing to take his medication. The medication is produced in a small paper cup, along with some water. He mechanically swallows the pills and I say something inane about that not being so hard. 

Inside, my heart is shattering over and over and over again. An abyss has opened up. Peering over the edge into the darkness of the abyss I see a future of rooms with padded walls. I see a future with my beautiful son who is addled and needs to be spoken to like a child – jollied into doing what is required by the institution. 

At some point, my husband and sister have arrived. I am not sure exactly when. It must have been shortly after Scott took his pills and they agreed to let him leave the quiet room. Once he is back in his room, the blackness of the abyss recedes and a burning anger rushes in to take its place. I want to know what they have given him to make his tongue swell like that. I want to know what they did to try to keep him calm when he was upset at finding himself alone and locked on a ward with a bunch of older, clearly troubled men. Most look like they must be here on Medicaid and many look like they may have been discharged from a prison (which we later discovered was true).  I ask to speak with Scott’s doctor. We are told that we will get an appointment to meet with her before the end of the week. What?! 

Now, the squeaky wheel philosophy kicks in big time, and the three of us make a fuss, taking turns who makes it and whom we make it to. I am a little fuzzy on the details but as I recall it was not too long before we got a visibly angry doctor to sit down with us in a small room on the ward that has a door and some chairs. There was a social worker involved too, clearly she must have been assigned to our case, and she must have been the person we were put in touch with when we started asking to see his doctor. When we find out that the ‘audience’ is going to happen and are directed to the room, I ask if we can wait one minute while I run down the hall to get my sister who traveled here to provide help and support. This request is also met with disapproval but I leave anyway. I dash to get her, and find her in Scott’s room. He is sleeping again, laying on the twin bed and he has his head on her lap. She is stroking his hair gently and I see the tears in her eyes. I tell her of the meeting and she slips out from under Scott.

The doctor is female and Asian. My memory of her is that she was in her thirties and she was well put together; slim, well-dressed under her white jacket, polished. She is not pleased that we put our foot down about getting a chance to speak with her. That’s ok, because we are pretty angry too. K is to be the voice of reason during the meeting. She has a yellow pad to take notes, and manages to keep the anger out of her voice, even though I know she is as upset as we are. I ask about the medication and the allergic reaction. The doctor states that it is a drug that is commonly used, with very few side effects. She also says “they are very good at imitating others,” suggesting that he could faking his swollen tongue. Her antipathy for the patients is palpable. I am shocked at her suggestion, as if Scott could really manage to fake a swollen tongue, but everything that has happened since I walked through the door of the ward today has left me feeling like I am Alice tumbling in free fall through the looking glass and down the rabbit hole. Almost reluctantly, the doctor agrees to administer the antidote to combat the allergic reaction to the drug - as if it were not actually necessary. When we push on wanting to understand how things could have deteriorated so badly in such a short amount of time, she pushes back detailing his psychotic behavior. This is cruel, because we are his parents and the information is painful. The way she tells us of these things is to throw it in our faces. 

Scott shows up at the door and peers in through the window portion of the door. He looks anxious that we are having this big pow-wow with the doctor and social worker but have not included him. I get up to let him in, and the doctor is alarmed. She clearly does not feel safe with the patients. She requires a guard to be in the room with us, if Scott is to be there. Of course he needs to be there if he wants to be, we point out. The room is small and is crowded: the three of us, Scott, the doctor, the social worker, and now the guard. The conversation is not going well. We want to get him off that ward and out of that hospital. We want a diagnosis. We want to understand how they could have lost control of the situation so quickly as to need to put him in a quiet room.  Scott is confused and when he starts to mutter and mumble that “it could not have been all due to coincidences”, the doctor gets up and says, “we are done here” as she walks out of the room.

I recall saying to my sister as we were walking down the hallway after the meeting: “let’s get him OUT of HERE”. The anger is a respite, because it feels more comfortable than the terror.  Back in his room again, Scott is lying on his bed and I am rubbing his back to keep him calm. Or maybe it is to keep me calm. The antidote is working and the swelling in his tongue is almost all gone. This allows him normal mouth movements, including speech and swallowing.  He is very sleepy though and has drifted off.

While I sit with Scott, my sister and husband go off to make phone calls and discover our options. Four Winds Hospital might be an option, but they do not have a bed at the moment. They might have one tomorrow, and he would have to be transported by ambulance. They have another ward in NY Presbyterian, called The Haven, and they have a bed. This sounds promising, and K digs deeper to see if this option can happen this evening. 

We learn that The Haven is for men and women of all ages. They currently have a few patients (actually I think they refer to them as “clients”) close to Scott in age. It is not very crowded and they have a terrific ratio of staff to clients. Of course, there is a catch. There is an “amenity fee” of $700 a day, which is not covered by insurance. Thus between our co-payment for the daily fee plus the amenity fee, we would be out of pocket around $1,000 a day. They told us to expect a  minimum hospitalization of at least 2 weeks. We don’t have $14,000 sitting around. I point this out to my husband. He replies softly in a strangled voice that he would sell his arm or his kidney if it would help Scott. I quietly agree. 

At some point, through the magic of K pushing on our social worker and making phone calls, it is officially decided that Scott will be transferred to the Haven. A mental health worker shows up at the door of his room with a wheelchair. I am worried about how this transfer will take place. To say that Scott  has been behaving erratically would be an understatement. What if he gets up and makes a run for it while we walk between the buildings. I express this concern to the attendant, and he replies that “if he has to put his hands on Scott than he has lost the battle”. I try to put this in context of finding Scott in the “quiet room”. I also wonder what this has to do with him jumping up and running away, but it turns out that the walk over to The Haven takes place inside, through a series of connected hallways and elevators. Scott sits quietly in the wheelchair, his head lolling forward onto his chest. 

As they open the door for us to The Haven, a completely different energy greets us. Instead of men milling about in a mildly suppressed chaos with an institutional feel and a taste of despair, we walk onto a floor that is carpeted and quiet. There are sofas in the hallway, and the doors open onto to large rooms that have every appearance of belonging in a nice hotel rather than a psychiatric ward. Fluffy towels are stacked on the desk, waiting for the new occupant. His spacious room has a television, beautiful high ceilings, a private bath, three large curtained windows looking out onto the grounds, and upholstered chairs for visitors. 

Scott had completely collapsed into sobbing in the wheelchair as we waited for the paperwork and the nurse on duty at The Haven. I recall leaning over, wrapping him my arms around him and just holding him, not bothering to say goodbye to the attendant who had wheeled him over from the men’s ward. I am not sure why I was angry with him but maybe I was just angry with everyone associated with the previous ward. 

To our beleaguered psyches, that have withstood punch after punch since we lost track of Scott after he left for West Point on Sunday morning, The Haven feels like Heaven. Because it is late and he has missed dinner, they bring him the ‘special of the day’ on a tray. They apologize that he was not able to select his meal from the menu, but assure us that he will be able to for tomorrow’s meals. A menu? We practically chuckle in glee. The meal includes dessert, a Boston cream pie, and as we all sample it we agree that it is delicious. We have tucked Scott into bed - he is completely wiped out, but it feels safe and good to have him here. I am so relieved to have him out of that other ward and away from that doctor, whom we have taken to referring to as ‘the witch’, I feel almost giddy. 

Scott is dozing and I stay with him while K and my husband C. sit out on the sofas in the hallway, catching the duty nurse up on what has transpired so far. At some point I go over to them to ask about medication and inquire about “quiet” rooms. I tell the nurse with significant urgency that if Scott wont take his medication to just call me. I am practically begging. I think I am actually on my knees while talking to her since she is in a chair and C and K are in the sofa next to her. I assure her he will take them if I am there and I really want to avoid having him confined to the quiet room again. I find out that The Haven does not have a quiet room, that they don’t have to resort to such measures. She seems very competent and gives us a feeling of confidence. She calmly explains to me that she wants Scott to take his medication from whichever nurse is on duty, but she promises she will call me if there is a problem.

The rest of the visiting hours are passed quietly - Scott resting in bed, the three of us sitting in his room, talking softly. The Haven has an open dining area with snacks available at all times as well as drinks in a fridge and I believe we snacked and drank, since I don’t think any of us had actually eaten anything all day. Scott appears to be sleeping, but he comments occasionally on our chatter, and soon is awake enough to be sitting up. When we gather up our things to leave and I kiss his forehead goodnight, he is sitting comfortably in bed watching TV. A mental health worker is seated in a chair outside his room and, as per protocol, Scott will be watched 24 hours a day until they are sure he is safe. But the man seems kind and his presence is reassuring rather than intrusive. We exchange quiet pleasantries with him. As we leave for the night, it feels like Scott is in good hands and a safe place.

(continue reading) 

 

The Men's Ward - New York Presbyterian Psychiatric Hospital (chapter 3)

Monday, August 9th  5:00 pm 

Driving back home from the hospital I can’t speak. I am working so hard to hold on, to keep from completely disintegrating at the thought of having checked our son into that psychiatric ward, that I wonder how I will get through the next hour, and the hour after that, and the one after. I had called my sisters from the ER last night after receiving the first doctor’s pronouncement of schizophrenia, and they had offered immediately to come and help. No, I told them … there’s nothing you could do, I will keep you posted. But today, I realize that I am completely dysfunctional at the moment, and it is not fair to rest everything on my husband’s shoulders. I text an SOS to my sisters. Literally. Very quickly I get a text back telling me help is on the way… details to follow. I put away my phone and focus on breathing. 

_____________________________________________________________________________

 

Later that day we arrive back at the men’s ward with Scott’s belongings. I don’t remember packing them, nor driving back to the hospital. I remember ... collapsing on the couch in our living room, literally prostrate with the pain of what was happening to Scott. I remember, my husband trying to comfort me, telling me that he promised me our son would be ok, and my telling him not to make promises he could not keep. I remember, hearing my husband, who had gone down to the basement to try to keep the sound of his sobs from me. 

Scott is out cold. A tray of food sits on the table in his room. There is some round flat breaded something, which I expect is meat of some type. There are also round carrots, the frozen kind. It crosses my mind that I think they are called “carrot coins”. I can hardly imagine a less appealing looking dinner. A kind nurse is on duty. She smiles at us and we sit together in white plastic chairs in the hallway outside Scott’s room. 

She tells us that he tried to leave after we did and did not react well to finding the doors locked. He punched the walls and became angry. He is not a small guy, and his fury when he is manic can be intimidating. Apparently they gave him some serious tranquilizers since he is now completely comatose. He did not stir when we touched his shoulder or called his name. She reassures us that sleep is the best thing for him now. It is how the brain heals itself she says.  We tell her about our experience at the ER. Amazingly, she scoffs at the ER doc’s diagnosis. I am only a nurse she says, but I can tell you he is not schizophrenic. This is most likely a drug induced psychosis, or mania from bipolar.

Unbelievable! I am so relieved tears fill my eyes. I may have actually taken her hand to thank her for sharing this insight with us. I walk out of the ward to make a phone call since cell phones are not allowed on the floor. I call my younger sister, who lives in Washington DC and is already en-route to New York. “The nurse says she doesn’t think it is schizophrenia,” I say joyfully into the phone. “It’s most likely bipolar”. My sister pauses, not quite sure how to take the information. When did a diagnosis of bipolar become joyful news she must have wondered. We share details on her ETA and that she should just let herself into the house since we will be asleep before her arrival estimate of midnight. That night, we sleep the sleep of the dead. In all honesty, for me it is an Ambien-induced slumber. My goal was to sleep instantly and not have time to think. 

(continue reading) 

 

The Psychiatric Hospital (chapter 2)

Monday, August 9th 2010 - 9:00 am

We have decided to take Scott to New York Presbyterian Hospital. They participate in our insurance plan, are in White Plains which is only a 45-minute drive from our house, and these things seem like important considerations at the time. 

Returning home from the ER the night before around midnight we are dazed and tired, and decide it is best if we set Scott up to sleep on the sofa in our office. In this way, he would have to walk through our bedroom to leave. We want to make sure he does not drive away, and also we could not deal with getting rid of all the knives and sharp tools in the kitchen. 

Lying down to try to sleep, I face what feels like the worst night of my life. In the morning we will be taking our beautiful child - our handsome, smart, loving, funny, varsity-athlete, straight-A student – to the psychiatric ward. He is no longer the Scott we know and love. He is a manic, volatile, unrecognizable person from whom we have been told to protect ourselves and whom cannot be trusted not to hurt himself.  The pain is so acute and so vast that I cannot find the edges to grasp on to. It hurts to breathe and it hurts to be conscious. 

Amazingly, I eventually sleep. I know this because in the morning, Scott is no longer on the sofa in the den. In his mania, he slept almost not at all, and at some point went to his room. Fortunately he did not try to leave. He agrees to go to the hospital with us. With treat him with kid gloves because his reactions and responses are so alien that we are not quite sure whom we are dealing with, or what to expect. Apparently he is still under the impression that he is going to the hospital so that he can hook-up with a nurse. In his imaginary world where we are all actors to bring about what he desires - he feels he is playing a part, where we all pretend that he needs to go to the hospital because he is not well, but in reality, it is part of an elaborate scheme so he can get laid by a nurse.

We have called, and NY Presbyterian is expecting us. We were given instructions on how to find Admitting.  Still, it has not occurred to us to pack any clothes or toiletries for Scott. Like automatons, we get numbly in the car with him. We try to keep our voices calm and neutral. The hospital will be nice. I think they have beautiful grounds. They may even have a swimming pool … 

He does not notice, but we do, that the doors lock once you walk into Admitting. The process is very long and tedious. He is seen by many people, examined, interviewed both with us and without us. A woman has him fill in the paperwork for a voluntary admission.  She instructs him to write on the form: “I need help” and he complies. 

A doctor eventually shows up. We have been there for several hours already. He comes through one of the locked doors wearing a suit and is brusque, seemingly irritated to have to be interviewing Scott. His pager goes off several times during the short time we are in the room with him and each time he consults it. We feel like an afterthought. Our world is crumbling around us, and he can barely take the time to make eye contact with us. I am silently hoping that this man will not be Scott’s doctor once he is admitted. Scott asks if there is a swimming pool. The doctor is dismissive and tells him curtly that he has bigger things to worry about than the pool. He does not look up as he says this, but continues writing something on yet another form. A little empathy, compassion or even patience would have gone a long way that morning. But we are not to find any from the staff here. 

Sometime later a person comes to escort us to the ward. Since Scott is 18, he will be placed on the adult males’ ward. We are buzzed through various doors and eventually enter the ward. Linoleum floors, fluorescent lights, white plastic chairs, and a TV that is on at the end of the hallway greet us. Doors open to small rooms with twin beds. Some rooms have two occupants and I am happy to see that Scott has been assigned a room that is a single. The men seem to be passing the time by hanging out and walking back and forth in the corridor. They are all much older than our son. Most of them seem to have had hard lives and are not in a good place. Some have headphones, others are talking to themselves. Clearly this is a psych ward and the people are not here because they are doing well but still I am taken aback. So many men, some in hospital pajamas, some in sweats, shuffling up and down the hallway. Scott  will be under continuous observation initially, which is standard, since he is still deemed a risk. 

At this point we realize that he has no clothes or any personal items, so we decide to drive back to the house to gather these things. It’s not that we really thought he was not going to be admitted after he was examined at the hospital, it’s just that we were incapable of thinking further than what was necessary to put one foot in front of the other.  Our doctor had gently told us this morning on the phone that we needed to tell the hospital that we were looking for an evaluation and an admission. Yet in our automaton state we were operating mechanically and not really thinking about anything.

(continue reading)