January First: A Child's Descent Into Madness and Her Father's Struggle to Save Her (13 page)

“I feel like I’m losing my daughter,” Susan cries to her mother. “And there’s nothing I can do.”

This is exactly how I feel, powerless. I thought I could fix Janni, but whatever is going on inside her mind is stronger than me.

I want to take Susan in my arms, but not because I want to comfort her. There is no comforting. This is hell. I want to grab on to Susan to stop myself from slipping under. My heart is ripping apart. We’re losing our daughter.

I need to cry, too, more than I’ve ever needed to cry in my life. I can feel the tears forming, burning the edges of my eyes, blurring my vision. I open my mouth to let the sob out, but all that comes out is something that sounds like I am choking.

It won’t come.

I’ve never been afraid to show emotion. But for some reason it won’t come. My vision starts to clear. The tears are disappearing. The rock in my chest begins to fade.

I am changing. I regrip the steering wheel, refocused on my driving. The pain is gone, replaced by nothing but the determination to keep this family going, no matter what it takes. Maybe because Susan is a sobbing wreck in the backseat and Janni still needs someone to fight for her and figure out what is going on. Or maybe it’s because I still have to go to work tomorrow, stand in front of a classroom, and teach like none of this is happening.

CHAPTER SIXTEEN
March 24, 2008

W
ingfield was on vacation when Janni was released from Alhambra. When he returns and finds her back, he calls me.

“Frankly,” he tells me over the phone (we’ve still never met face-to-face), “I was surprised to see her back. She was doing so well.”

I don’t bother pointing out that there was no way he could know that since he was on vacation a full week before Janni was released, so I simply tell him what happened.

After listening, he says, “I’d like to try Ritalin again.”

It takes a few seconds to comprehend this. My dad has always told me that the definition of insanity is doing the same thing over and over again but expecting different results.

“We told you what happened when she was on Ritalin,” I answer, trying to keep my voice even. “It wound her up just like the Lexapro and she got even more violent.” I can’t for the life of me understand why he wants to try it again. I know from talking to Dr. Howe that
she hasn’t been able to share Janni’s medical history because he won’t return her calls.

“I know that’s what you said,” he replies, “but you also said you only gave her two doses before you stopped it. I would like to try it again and go a little longer this time, give it more of a chance.”

I have been progressively losing faith in doctors, though I’ve still never outright said no to any of them. But I don’t trust Wingfield.

“No. We’ve already tried Ritalin and it didn’t work. It sped up her heart rate and made her bounce off the walls. I’m not giving authorization for Ritalin. What about other drugs, other antipsychotics?”

“I’m not sure she needs another antipsychotic. What I’m seeing are not symptoms of psychosis.”

“Look, I won’t sign authorization for Ritalin,” I tell him. I don’t see what he can do. He can’t use the threat that Blue Cross will deny authorization for further inpatient stays, because I’ve already gotten a letter from them saying that. We’re now paying for Alhambra out of pocket. The only reason she’s still at Alhambra is for me to buy enough time until I can get her into UCLA, which is where we want her. Alhambra clearly doesn’t have a clue. UCLA is a teaching hospital, but it’s not “in-network” for Susan’s Blue Cross plan.

When I first became a lecturer at CSUN, I was offered health insurance but turned it down because we had Susan’s, but when I explained the situation to my benefits coordinator at work, I discovered that if we terminated Susan’s insurance, leaving us with no insurance at all, I could enroll in one of the plans offered by CSUN immediately without having to wait for open enrollment. I took the booklet containing health plans and called each of them, searching for one that had UCLA in-network. A Blue Shield HMO did. Susan sent off the letter to Blue Cross, terminating our coverage on March 31. The next day, April 1, my insurance will kick in and we can get Janni into UCLA. April 1 is only eight days away. I hate that I have to leave Janni
in this hellhole for another eight days, but I don’t see any other way. I can’t bring her home when she is still a risk to Bodhi.

“That’s true,” Wingfield says, “I do need your approval, but if you won’t allow me to treat Janni, then I can’t justify keeping her. I would have no choice but to release her.”

“But she’s not better,” I protest. “If you release her, what are we supposed to do? She is still a major threat to the safety of her little brother!”

“It wouldn’t be my choice,” he replies coldly. “There are a lot of kids waiting for beds, and if you’re not going to allow me to treat her as I see fit, then I would have no choice but to discharge her immediately.”

“When?”

“Today.”

There have been plenty of doctors in my life that I didn’t like. But what I feel for Wingfield is more than simple dislike. He has become the enemy. I have two choices: either let him give Janni a drug I know will make her worse, or let her come home and possibly hurt or kill Bodhi.

I look over at Bodhi, sleeping peacefully.

“I give my permission,” I finally say, my voice quiet.

“Great,” he says. “I’ll go ahead and give the order to start today. When you come in for visiting hours tonight, there will be an authorization sheet waiting for you.”

BEFORE WE ARE let onto the girls’ unit, we are told to check in at the nurses’ station. The head nurse, a woman whose unpleasant personality reminds me of Nurse Ratched from
One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest
, comes over with a piece of paper.

“The doctor left this for you to sign,” she says. “It is an authorization for Ritalin …”

“I know what it is,” I reply bluntly and quickly sign it.

The nurse nods to the technician, who lets us in. “Janni’s asleep,” the technician tells us. “In there.” She points to the quiet room.

Janni is lying down on the bare mattress. But is she asleep or knocked out? I go into the room. “Janni? Daddy’s here.”

Janni doesn’t move. I kneel down by her. Her hair is mangled and plastered over her face. I brush it back and see a familiar stream of drool. I lean in very close to feel her breathe, to know she is still alive.

I get up and charge out to the nurses’ station. I don’t panic anymore. I just want to know what the hell happened, because they never call us. Out of the corner of my eye, I see Susan slipping off toward Janni’s roommate to ask her. Thankfully, Nurse Ratched takes so long to come over that she doesn’t see Susan do this.

“Yes?” she asks, annoyed, as if I am pointlessly interrupting her.

“Janni’s knocked out again,” I say, making little effort to hide my hostility.

To my surprise, Nurse Ratched doesn’t claim she has to check the logbook.

“She refused to go to group therapy and started hitting the staff,” the nurse says.

I sigh, my fists clenched. “Of course she did. It’s because of the Ritalin. I told Wingfield it would make her worse, but he wouldn’t listen.”

The nurse is completely unsympathetic.

“Well, that is something you will have to take up with the doctor. We had to give her two PRNs of Thorazine.”

Thorazine
. My blood turns cold. I’ve read about Thorazine. It is an old antipsychotic, no longer used very much. In the old days it was used to sedate violent patients.

“Why not Benadryl?” I demand.

“Benadryl is used when a patient is noncooperative. When they are violent and pose a risk to staff and other patients, we use Thorazine.”

This can’t be reality. This can’t be really happening.

I turn away. I have to. If I don’t, I will do something bad.

I go into the room. Susan is back, lying next to Janni.

“It’s the Ritalin,” she says. “They gave her the Ritalin and she went nuts again.”

“I know,” I reply and sit down next to Janni. I smell urine. I move her top leg over and see a stain on her pants between her legs. She peed herself and they left her in it. She is also wearing the same clothes she was wearing yesterday.

“Janni?” I call. She stirs, her arm flopping over. I say her name several more times, telling her I am here, before she sits up. She looks around the room, her eyes vacant and seemingly unable to focus.

“Janni?”

She turns to me, her eyes droopy. Her hair is wild and frizzy. She flops down again.

I lift her back up. “Janni, why are you wearing the same clothes from yesterday?”

She looks down at herself. “I didn’t have any clean clothes,” she answers, like she doesn’t really care.

“Janni, are you taking baths here?” Susan asks.

“No,” she answers, trying to go back to sleep, but I hold her up. “They don’t have baths here, only showers.”

“So are you taking a shower?” Susan asks.

“Sometimes,” Janni answers, groggily.

Susan brushes Janni’s hair with her hand. “Is somebody helping you wash your hair?”

“No,” Janni slurs.

“Why not?” Susan asks.

“Nobody will come in with me. They say I have to do it by myself.”

“So your hair hasn’t been washed?”

Janni shakes her head.

“She needs a shower,” Susan says to me. “I’ll go to her room and get her clean clothes, shampoo, and a brush.”

“We’re not supposed to go in their rooms,” I remind her.

“I don’t care,” Susan answers firmly. “They’re not taking care of her, so screw it.”

I can’t argue with that.

“I don’t want a shower,” Janni says, weakly.

Normally, I would let it go. Janni has never been that concerned over her hygiene, but I want her to care. I know she’s only five, but not caring about hygiene is the first step on the road to becoming one of the adults I see here every day, wearing pajamas in the middle of the day.

“Janni, you need a shower. We’ll make it quick. Come on.” I stand up.

“I can’t walk,” Janni whines.

“Then I’ll carry you. But you are getting a shower and clean clothes.”

There is a bathroom right here in the quiet room. I pull the handle, but it is locked.

I leave Janni on the bed and go up to the tattooed tech. “I need to give Janni a shower.”

“Showers are in the morning,” she tells me.

“She peed herself. I need to give her a shower and a change of clothes.”

The technician turns to see Susan coming out of Janni’s room with shampoo, a brush, and a change of clothes.

“You can’t be back there,” the tech calls.

“You’re not taking care of her,” Susan replies, “so we have to.”

The tech looks from Susan to me. I sense her realization that we’re not backing down.

“Okay.” She sighs. “There’s a shower in the bathroom of the quiet room. I can unlock it for you.”

Susan musters some politeness. “Thank you.”

“You know we’re not supposed to do this,” the tech tells us as she unlocks the doors.

“I’m going to need towels, too,” I tell her. I couldn’t care less whether this tech gets into trouble. I will not leave my daughter like this.

“Okay.” She heads away to get them.

“Janni,” Susan asks, “do you want Mommy or Daddy to give you a shower?”

“Daddy,” Janni answers.

The tech comes back with the towels. “Thanks,” I say.

“Come on, Janni.” I usher Janni into the bathroom.

As I start to close the door behind me, the tech calls, “Wait. You’re going in there with her?” I look back at her and she looks alarmed.

“She won’t bathe herself. I have to do it for her or it won’t get done,” I say, closing the door.

I turn on the shower and hold my hand under the water until I feel the temperature is right. “Okay, Janni, get undressed.”

“I can’t,” she whines.

“Fine.” I get down on my knees. “Put your hand on my shoulder,” I tell her. I am afraid if she doesn’t hold on to me she’ll fall over lifting her leg to get her pants off.

I get her clothes off and she climbs under the water. I wash her hair. It is incredibly matted, and I take a brush to work through the thick globs of hair.

“Ow!” She pulls her head away. She hates getting her hair brushed.

“Janni, I have to get the tangles.”

“But it hurts!”

I am about to argue with her. Then I think, forget it. She has been through enough today. I rub some soap into the washcloth and go over her body. She just stands there.

“Turn around so the soap gets washed off,” I tell her. I have to tell her to do everything. Susan and I take turns taking care of Janni’s hygiene at home, but this feels different. We are in a psychiatric hospital. I feel a sudden sense of fear, wondering if I will be doing this when Janni is an adult.

I turn off the shower and dry her down. I help her into her underwear and nightgown.

I open the door to the bathroom. Janni walks out and I come out behind her, happy to get back out into the cool air.

“What do you want to do now, Janni?” I ask. “Do you want to eat?”

“I want to go back to bed.”

“I’ll take her back to her room and tuck her in bed. I’ve got Hero,” Susan says.

“Okay.” I give Janni a kiss. “Love you, sweetie.”

She doesn’t respond.

I watch them go and wheel Bodhi’s stroller into the hallway to wait for Susan.

Nurse Ratched is waiting for me, glaring. “I was told you insisted on giving Janni a shower, even after my staff told you no,” she says, staring right at me, her voice cold.

At first, I think that must be what the tech said to save her sorry job.

“She was lying in her own urine,” I reply. “Would you leave your child like that until morning?”

Nurse Ratched doesn’t blink. “My staff member told me that she told you that was not allowed, but you ignored her, demanding to give Janni a shower.”

I am about to say,
Well, how do you think we got the towels if your
staff member
was so against us giving Janni a shower?
but the tone of her voice finally sinks into my brain. Something is wrong, I know, but I’m too tired and angry to figure it out.