Hope and Other Luxuries (29 page)

Imagine going through new routines in a psychiatric hospital like that!

“We'll need to get to work right away on replacing them if they're gone,” I continued. “She has a complicated prescription, so the ordering process will take several days—even the testing process can take more than a day. Could you please check? Maybe we should call the ambulance service. Is there a record of which ambulance service drove her?”

The voice remained precisely as uninterested as before—which is to say, completely uninterested. “Ma'am, I'm sure she has her glasses with her.”

And I found myself thinking wildly:
What a touchingly profound and irrational faith!

“Well—if she doesn't, could you
please
give me a call? It's important because we don't live here, you see. Elena's eye doctor is in Germany. If those glasses are gone, I should make arrangements to get her prescription sent over right away. They aren't open on American time, they open six hours earlier. That means they close six hours earlier”—and I thought of our German optician's office, a little kingdom unto itself—“well, even earlier than that, maybe.” Now I was babbling. “So, if they're there—or if they're not there—
please
just let me know. I can give you my number so you don't have to take the time to look it up . . .”

“Ma'am, we have your number,” the voice on the phone informed me.
Drama queen!
the tone of voice added. “I'm sure your daughter has everything she needs. If we need to get in touch with you, we will. Good night.”

And with that sadly ironic wish, the call ended.

I tried to have a good night. I took a long shower and went to bed. A king-size bed—a veritable helicopter landing pad of a bed after the narrow little pull-out foam chair I had been using!

But the physical comfort didn't help. Between stress dreams and sudden awakenings, the night was like a long bumpy road. Around five in the morning, I gave up on sleep. The optician's office back home in Germany was about to close for its leisurely German lunch. And was this one of the days when it wouldn't reopen in the afternoon? I couldn't remember.

Joe was coming over to visit us in two days. He had volunteered to attend a meeting at a nearby Air Force base so that he could take some vacation days and spend time with us afterward. Maybe the German optician's office could do a rush order, and Joe could bring the new glasses with him. I could call them to see if it was possible. But was this all moot anyway because her glasses had already been found? I didn't want to badger people on the other side of the Atlantic for nothing. So I picked up the phone, and I tried again.

“Hello, this is Mrs. Dunkle—Elena's mother. Is she all right?”

The voice on the phone was different. It was friendlier this time. “Good morning, Mrs. Dunkle. Yes, she's fine. She got back several hours ago.”

“And do you know if they found her glasses?”

“Does she wear glasses? I don't remember if she had them on.”

“Yes, she does, and here's the thing: they were missing yesterday, and I've been trying to find out if they turned up. Is there any way you can check?”

“I'm sorry to hear they were missing,” the friendly voice said, and I was surprised to discover that I was almost in tears over the kind thought. “But your daughter and her roommate are sleeping right now, and she had a short night as it is. I hate to disturb them both by turning on the light to look for them. I think it would be best to wait until she gets up, don't you?”

And when she put it that way, I did, too.

“Why don't you give a call back after breakfast is out of the way?” the friendly voice continued. “I think this is something the day nurses can help you with.”

At nine o'clock, the hotel shuttle drove me back to Drew Center for my meeting with Dr. Moore, Elena's new psychiatrist. After my bad night, I felt achy and sluggish, and my feelings about Elena's stay in this institution were considerably less rosy than they had been the day before.

Finally, some answers!
I thought as I sat in the little waiting room once again. But the mood that went with that thought now was grim.

Elena met me at the door of Dr. Moore's office.

“You've got your glasses!” I blurted out.

“They were on my nightstand last night when I got back,” she said.

Now, why couldn't someone have told me that?

Elena looked awful. Her forehead had a big white knot on it, and a wide purple bruise. “I don't remember it,” she said dully, probing the bruise with her fingers. “The first thing I knew about it is when I woke up in the ER.”

I knew that Elena had fallen, of course. But, no matter how reasonable I tried to be about it, I felt very upset to see her so badly injured.

I left her with them
, I found myself thinking.
I trusted them! Why didn't they keep her safe?
But I knew this wasn't really fair. After all, Valerie had been under
my
care when her hands had erupted in third-degree burns.

Dr. Moore came into the room and shook hands with us. He seemed pleasant enough, although not particularly warm. But that didn't matter. What I needed was intellect and experience, not sympathy.

I held back at first, expecting Dr. Moore to do some explaining or educating, to sketch out what the plan was for Elena. When he didn't do that, but instead asked me what I had wanted to talk about, I started in on my list of questions.

But the answers Dr. Moore gave me were the same nonanswers I had already heard. No, he couldn't really say why Elena might be having blackouts, but he didn't see it as a cause for concern. No, he didn't see how the recent autoimmune attacks on her thyroid could have much to do with her anorexia. And why did he think she had anorexia nervosa at all? Well, because the hospital had sent her here.

“Okay, this keeps happening,” I said. “Her first care team, at the military hospital, didn't agree that she had anorexia nervosa, so they sent her to the children's hospital for further tests. The military doctors told us she needed to get to the experts to be properly diagnosed. Then the children's hospital doctor said he wasn't sure one way or the other, that anorexia isn't his area. He thought that we should get her to you because you would be the experts who could properly diagnose her. Everywhere she goes, she gets treated for anorexia, even though no one's willing to say she actually has it, except for the original psychiatrist, whose opinion I don't trust.”

Dr. Moore steepled his fingers. “And why don't you trust this psychiatrist?”

“Because his rationale wasn't very convincing.” I said. “He seemed to base the entire diagnosis on one weigh-in. And then the other medical issues came along: the thyroiditis, the cardiomyopathy . . .”

“We see cardiomyopathy in anorexia patients,” Dr. Moore pointed out.

“Yes,
but
,” I answered. “The cardiologist who found that condition in Elena was surprised and concerned about it. She told me she didn't expect
to see it in a patient at Elena's weight. In fact, she told me she had tested numerous anorexics, and none of them had a heart like Elena's.”

“It sounds like what you're telling me is that you don't want your daughter treated for anorexia.”

I hung on to my temper.

“I want my daughter treated for whatever is wrong with her,” I said. “I just need to know what that is. And the question is, does she have anorexia nervosa or not?”

“Well, we haven't had much time with her, but I would say that yes, she appears to fit the profile.”

A profile! My heart gave a leap. At last, we were getting to some diagnostic parameters, some evidence that might help clear this question up. What linked my daughter to this dangerous disorder? Was there more than one odd weight on a scale? I needed to know! I needed to hear specifics.

“What profile is that?” I asked eagerly. “What factors into it?”

Dr. Moore shrugged. “Naturally, it's complicated.”

I waited.

But—inexplicably—so did he.

“But there
are
quantifiable factors, aren't there?” I said, almost desperate by this time. “I need to know what they are. I need to know how they apply to her. I need . . .” I struggled for words. “I need to understand! Two months ago, my daughter's weight was normal.”
And our life was normal, too
, I thought. “Her weight had been in the normal range for at least two months straight. Then she had a month with a significant weight drop. One month, one value. Is that what this whole diagnosis rests on?”

“Well, that's the most important factor, of course.”

“But how? How is that factor being applied?
That's
what I need to understand! This whole question of anorexia nervosa is like a fog. I can't find out anything definite about it. The weight—okay, the most important factor. Well, her weight doesn't fall into any of the ranges I can find on the Internet. Your own institution didn't want to take her as a patient. Her weight wasn't low enough, you said.”

“That's true. But she's here now, getting the treatment she needs.” And Dr. Moore favored me with a benign smile.

Mentally, I dug in. Logic and reason. Facts! There
had
to be facts here, even if no one seemed to care about them but me.

“If Elena's weight isn't in the range that defines an anorexic,” I said, “then I don't see how you can safely assume that she's getting the treatment she needs. What are the other factors that support her being here? I
have
to know these things. She's a minor. Her father and I are responsible for getting her the care she needs. We have to be able to make the right decision on her behalf. So, again, I ask, does my daughter have anorexia nervosa or not?”

Dr. Moore smiled and spread his hands in a conciliating gesture.

“Well, we'll have to watch her for a while before we'll know that,” he said. “Your daughter has only just arrived. I haven't had a chance yet to look at her file.”

I stared at him in stunned disbelief.

Days after they knew she was coming. Twenty-four hours after locking her up. One emergency visit and a head bump later. And still, no one knew a thing!

Poof!
went the facts. My expert hadn't bothered to check them. I wouldn't be finding any answers here.

“So . . . ,” I said slowly. “So . . .” And my brain dug back through its list of questions—the ones I'd been asking for weeks now, through three different hospital stays.

But what could I ask, because what could Dr. Moore answer? He hadn't even bothered to look at her chart!

I couldn't just give up like this. I began groping through the fog to a plan B.

“So,” I asked, “what time will you need to get around to diagnosing her? When will your analysis be complete?”

Dr. Moore continued to smile. A consummate professional, he took no notice of my sarcasm. There would be no angry bullying from this psychiatrist.

“I think after a week, we'll know more,” he said. “That will give us time to do our own observation.”

“A
week
?” I said. “A
week
before you even decide whether or not she needs to be here at all? Elena's already been in hospitals for almost three weeks. Her whole summer break is going to hospitals!”

“Of course,” Dr. Moore murmured. “Because your daughter's health is much more important than vacation plans.”
Isn't it?
his eyes challenged.
You bad mother!

And that was the end of our consultation.

After Dr. Moore left the room, Elena burst into tears.

“Please don't make me stay here!” she sobbed. “It's worse than a prison. They yell at you for no reason. They look into the toilets! I can't stay here!”

I took a long, hard look at my normally high-spirited daughter. I had never seen her looking so thin. The last few weeks had left her cheeks hollow and gaunt, and her arms were covered in needle pricks. Her eyes were dull and bloodshot, and her skin was pale, with the exception of the deep lilac bruise.

“I'm sorry, honey,” I said. “I hate it, too. But if you need it, he's right, it's important.”

“I
don't
need it!” she sobbed as a smiling nurse showed up at the door and beckoned. “I'm not like the people here. They scream and throw things. They're crazy! I'm not
crazy
! I want to go
home
!”

And the smiling nurse led her away.

That afternoon, I did a lot of walking. First, I walked to the mall and found Elena a regulation sweater because the young woman yesterday wasn't kidding: it was so cold in that place that even I was chilled to the bone. Then I walked through the pretty neighborhoods to Drew Center to drop the sweater off.

It took a while to get there, but I didn't mind. The walk gave me time to think. And I needed that time. I
had
to think what to do.

I arrived at the cluster of handsome brick buildings housing the psychiatric hospital and made my way by guess and signage to the one that housed Drew Center. Once again, I was struck by how much the place resembled a college campus. Stately trees shaded the sidewalks. Birds and squirrels bounced through the grass. I might be walking to class or to the library.

Since my mother was a professor, I grew up on a campus like this. Academic campuses felt like home. Except that this wasn't an academic campus after all, but a massive multibuilding hospital for the mentally ill. That made its resemblance to home feel distinctly eerie.

I rang the doorbell at Drew Center and got buzzed into the waiting room. No one else was there, so I crossed to the intercom and checked in.

“The reason for your visit?” the voice on the intercom asked.

“I'm bringing a sweater for my daughter.”