The Back Building (22 page)

“No. Multiple personality disorder is quite different from schizophrenia. I can’t say with one hundred percent accuracy that she is schizophrenic. It is possible she has another personality that is trying to come out, or she could have a mood disorder known as bipolar. If she is bipolar she could be displaying a manic episode at the moment, but only time can tell if this is the case.
However, the licking and sniffing and language are not normally indicative of bi-polar disorder.
At home I need you to observe Jenna. If she continues to be irritable and accusatory, and restless, followed by extreme fatigue, withdrawal, and depression, I need to know. If her changes are less subtle, then that provides me vital information as well. Diagnosing children with mental illness is very tricky and takes time.”

“Of course, I will keep an ongoing record.”

“Also, it would be helpful if you can attend support groups in order to learn as much as possible about mood disorders. There you will learn what to look for and how to recognize behaviors that point to acute episodes.” He handed me a pamphlet with information for a local support group for families with members who were mentally ill. The group met weekly in an open forum in a church basement in DeWitt.

“Will she ever be normal again?” I asked biting the inside of my cheek and tasting the tangy blood.

“Jenna is being treated early which is good. I have every reason to believe she will respond to therapy and medication with support. Jenna sees the world differently than you and I. She appears to be having a break with reality, and she may hear or see things that don’t exist. You have heard the odd language she uses, this is classic schizophrenic behavior. Often these patients create their own clipped words that make no sense to anyone else. Because Jenna feels like others are trying to harm her, she is slightly paranoid. Just reassure her that she is okay. Try to bring her back to the present using smells and sounds that are familiar and comforting. Sing a lullaby she was fond of as a child, bake cookies, or do something else that engages her.”

“I can do that.”

“Our approach to her care is gentle and conservative. We will try therapy alone first and see what results we achieve, if we are able to manage her outbursts, delusions, and language we will stay on course and hope for a full recovery. If she continues to develop further symptoms, if another personality evolves, or if she becomes a danger to herself, we will need to start medication. All of our efforts are put in place so that she can be a functioning member of society.”

“I understand.”

“You mentioned a grandmother with mental illness, if you can get her records I would very much like to have a look at them. Sometimes this helps when diagnosing a patient.”

“I will do my best. Willard Hospital closed in 1995 but I will make some calls.”

“Very well then. Thank you for coming in with your daughter and Jenna, I can tell they need you.”

I felt a weight bearing upon my shoulders and stood to leave, inhaling deeply as I left to find my family. I would feel better if we had a concrete diagnosis, but I understood the challenges Dr. Saul faced when observing Jenna.

Chapter Nineteen

Medical Records

Willard Hospital closed in 1995, this much I already knew. I thought a lot about my grandmother, Iona, over the years but until now I didn’t have a concrete reason to go digging around her past. My mother, Suzette, told me Iona spent a short period of time at this hospital when she was a young lady for being delusional and disobedient. I knew all about Hetty, because we had a framed sketch of her hanging above the mantel in our family room growing up and sometimes I saw Grandma talking to her. Given what we knew it made sense to me that Iona was delusional. The rest of my grandmother’s story, however, was a mystery. What happened to my grandmother during her confinement? How was she diagnosed and treated both medically and physically? Insane asylums had horrible reputations for mistreating their patients in the 1900s and I could only imagine what my grandmother was subjected too.

I Googled Willard Hospital and was met with an onslaught of information and photographs. Images of abandoned brick buildings with shattered windows and boarded up houses were scattered across dozens of websites. There were photographs of numerous bath-tubs, stained with rust, positioned side by side and surrounded by the peeling paint from the once sea green walls. Wooden tranquilizing chairs with neck braces were centered in large desolate rooms. The scathing imagery sent shivers up my spine. More photos portrayed empty beds in dark hollow rooms. The photographs evoked images of fear and isolation.

Some websites had pictures that focused on the patients themselves. There were women labeled as ‘patients shown working in sewing rooms’ while other patients were photographed enjoying the outdoors playing shuffleboard. Naked, feeble-minded women who indeed looked insane, could be found next to photos of female patients that were clean, well dressed, and looked normal by any standards. I wondered which of these categories my grandmother would have fit into. Was she disheveled and helpless, or did she care about her appearance and keep herself groomed?

Photos of women’s and men’s shoes, boots, and even wooden prosthetics could be found. Similarly, hairbrushes, curling irons, and other items for grooming were evident. Decks of cards and photo albums were displayed alongside photos of other means of entertainment. Steel film reels and a cinema room with lists of the movies shown on concurrent dates were on several different websites as was the infamous Hadley Hall, the place where patients found amusement in the form of theater and games. Patients partaking in activities such as bowling were then followed up with ghostly images of empty lanes with fallen pins and balls.

Perhaps most troubling was the photograph of an empty morgue with tools strewn about, one tool had a deep curvature at its tip that was reminiscent of an ice cream scoop. I wondered immediately if lobotomies were performed at this institution and suddenly felt sick to my stomach.

Interestingly, images of Willard’s patients’ suitcases were all over the web. Over four hundred such suitcases were discovered deep within the recesses of a building’s attic. It appeared the suitcases were stored in one particular building for decades and forgotten about. A group of researchers took it upon themselves to study and catalog the suitcases, and went so far as to have them documented on film.

The suitcases had the original contents still inside them. One lady’s suitcase had syringes and bottles of medicine including laxatives, while another had toiletries and a sewing kit. Some individuals had novels and family photographs and others had bibles and musical instruments. One woman had fourteen pieces of luggage that included furniture. Dozens of medical bags were found as well, which I thought was peculiar.

I wondered if my grandmother were in any of these images, or if her suitcase was found among the others. It was an interesting angle, and the more research I did, the more I became determined to go to an exhibit and find out.

One of the more informative websites led me to a phone number that I could call for information regarding patients that once resided at Willard. I placed a phone call in order to start the ball rolling and get Iona’s medical records released. Numerous forms needed to be filled out; first and foremost we had to prove we were related to an individual patient at Willard.

Chapter Twenty

Shame

My daughter, Camille, and I quickly learned how shameful it was to have a beloved family member diagnosed with a mental illness. Aunts and uncles, cousins and distant relatives called out of concern, but when we elaborated on Jenna’s condition and possible diagnosis, they became outraged and defiant. My daughter, Helen, was irate that her sister, Camille, would agree to take her daughter, her pride and joy, to therapy. ‘It just wasn’t something we did’, she said.

“If anyone finds out Jenna is in therapy, she’ll never have friends. They’ll think you guys are weird and she’ll become a loner for life,” Helen admonished.

“Helen, with all due respect, that’s not your decision to make.” Camille told her sister.

“I just saw that little pixie six months ago, and she was fine.” Helen retorted.

“Well, things change quickly I guess.” Camille said.

“Did you ever think it could be hormones? I mean all kids get wacky when they go through puberty and I noticed she was developing, if you know what I mean, last time we were there.”

“It’s more than that, Helen. If you’d just listen to me, you might understand.” Camille pleaded with her sister.

“No, nope, I don’t want to hear it. My niece is fine. She is not a schizoid, nor is she mental. The only one I question, is you.”

Helen was clearly not capable of being supportive. She was uninformed and ignorant. She shunned the idea that anyone in her family could suffer from mental illness. She had heard the stories about Iona, but that’s all they were, stories. Luckily the kids went to different schools, because her boys were similar in age to Jenna and Helen didn’t want word to get around. She hated the thought of her boys being any less popular than they already were because of an awful rumor.

“Helen, I have to go.” My daughter hung up the phone, but not before Helen told her to call when Jenna was all better.

“Mom, she doesn’t have the flu, or a broken bone. Helen thinks if she has something wrong, there is an easy fix. Is everyone so ignorant?” Camille asked with tear-filled eyes.

“I sure hope not. I guess it’s just not easy for them to understand or accept. Listen, we do have to talk about school.” I said.

“I know. The principal called again. He suggested that we arrange for a tutor and see how it goes. If Jenna does well, we can finish off the year so she doesn’t fall behind.” Camille explained.

“I can move in here for a while, you know, to help. You have to work and I don’t mind, I really don’t. I can take Jenna to the library to meet her tutor and we can meet you for therapy.” I offered.

“Yes, I suppose we’ll have to work something like that out. She can’t be left alone, that’s for sure.” My daughter agreed.

Before Jenna’s well being took a turn for the worse, we had a firm schedule in place. There was however one afternoon where Jenna was alone for the space of three hours. Somehow during that time she left the house, took a bus to the mall, and wandered around alone. The mall security guard picked her up because she was acting oddly in the food court. She was irrational, and crouching in a corner, screaming that everyone in the mall was out to get her. She scratched the guard when he tried to retrieve her. He was unable to talk her down from her agitated state so he called the police.

When the police arrived Jenna was unable to give them her private information. She couldn’t recite her name or address and became increasingly volatile. She recited gibberish and sequestered herself further into the corner crouching down with her knees to her chest. She pulled a dining chair in front of her to help her stay hidden.

Luckily, a neighbor was out shopping and recognized Jenna. She called Camille and we intervened just in time. If we hadn’t arrived when we did, she would have been taken into custody. I coaxed Jenna out from her position and Camille spoke with the guard. She also talked with our neighbor and thanked her for calling, although she gave no explanation for Jenna’s odd behavior. If the neighbor thought she was on LSD that would be okay. That might be a lesser offense than having a mental illness.

My daughter, Jenna, and I went for therapy as a family and individually in an attempt to understand how to move forward given Jenna’s condition. The doctor diagnosed Jenna with schizophrenia and cautioned us that it could become more acute. After witnessing this incident I became all too aware that Jenna’s safety was at risk.

I had to be with her at all times and moved my things in to my daughter’s small three bedroom house at once. When Helen insisted on coming over for a visit, Jenna didn’t recognize her. She lashed out at her and claimed she was an intruder from above and that she was sent to kill her. Jenna grew violent and punched and kicked Helen in an effort to protect herself. She tried running from the house, but I was able to stop her. I threw myself on top of her and waived Helen to leave.

“See, she’s gone now. She won’t hurt you.”

“Okay.”

“Do you think I would let anyone hurt you? You’re my one and only granddaughter. What do you say we go bake some cookies?”

We went into the kitchen and made a double batch of triple chocolate chip cookies. Jenna measured and stirred the dry ingredients while I prepared the wet ones. We took turns mixing the batter and we scooped spoonfuls of the dough onto cookie sheets. For a fleeting moment everything seemed normal. Jenna wasn’t speaking gibberish, she looked at me when we talked, and she wasn’t behaving paranoid or neurotic. She was at peace in my presence and I felt the need to protect her at all costs. Helen would have to stay clear from our home for a while, no surprise visits from anyone would be allowed.

The day the tutor was scheduled to meet us at the library, Jenna was particularly troubled. She went back and forth between outfits, I didn’t care what she wore, I was merely grateful she showered and used soap. She wanted to please me for some reason and pleaded with me to help her decide on a shirt. When I picked a polka a dot blouse that had once been a favorite, her eyes grew dark and stormy. She rushed from her room and stormed in to the bathroom. She slammed and locked the door and refused to come out. After an hour I canceled the tutorial session and called Dr. Saul.