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It didn't take more than 24 hours for the situation to become a crisis again. Rebecca was back in the throws of agitation and irrational talking. I thought we had gotten beyond this but obviously I was wrong. One minute she was hallucinating thinking someone was standing behind her and a few minutes later she was screaming at me, her eyes having changed color from hazel to intense blue green like a cat's eye marble. She wanted to know why God was doing this to her. I listened to her plead with me to let her die young, that there should be euthanasia for mental illness. Even though I had my doubts, I assured her she was going to get better. What else could I say? The only thing I knew for sure was her mood was cycling uncontrollably and she was in desperate need of help!
Scared by what I was seeing, I contacted both psychiatrists who together reevaluated here medications and formulated a new plan of action. The mood stabilizer Depakote was restarted because Dr. Opler felt it would give her more relief than the Parnate could. Over the next few weeks, while it was being increased to a therapeutic level, she was being weaned off Parnate. Rebecca's mood swings became less severe and the mania less intense. I was feeling somewhat relieved and experiencing a glimmer of hope again.
Suddenly, out of no where the bottom dropped out from under Rebecca. She was crashing to new lows, the depression making me fear for her life. Again, the Depakote was increased, subsiding the debilitating lows, only to be followed by unrelenting mania. What was even more confusing to me were distinct periods of time during the day, some lasting for as long as a few hours, when I saw some improvement in Rebecca's state of mind. At those times, I thought we were on our way to stabilizing her and getting the medication issue finally resolved. And then again, lulled into a false sense of security, the symptoms would return more vicious than ever. I had unconsciously managed to block out Dr. Opler's mention of hospitalizing Rebecca if necessary to make the transition from one medication to another.
May was coming to a close and every day got harder. The nights were the worst. They were grueling and endless and I would get up the following morning completely exhausted both physically and mentally. Each night Rebecca would take her bedtime medications and hope they would be effective so that she could fall asleep on her own. Most nights, after waiting a good amount of time, I would have to get into the bed with her and hold her body close to mine. I was trying to contain the restlessness that kept her body in motion and also attempting to give her some reassurance that I was at her side both physically and emotionally to protect her. Because Rebecca's mind raced endlessly with out of control thoughts as she tossed in bed, she wasn't able to close her eyes so she could fall asleep even though she could barely stay awake from exhaustion. Finally, the bedtime medications would take hold and her eyelids would become heavy and difficult to keep opened. Once her breathing became even and unlabored, I'd assume she was sleeping. As silently as possible, I would crawl out of the bed and head for the door hoping to not wake her up. Sometimes it worked and other times even the slightest movement on my part would immediately startle her and cause her to call out for me. I'd reassure Rebecca I was right there as I slipped back onto the bed. A while later, I'd attempt it again. Eventually, I managed to slip out without her knowing it.
At the end of the night, having taken care of everything I needed to do before going to bed, I went back to her room to go to sleep myself. Completely drained, I would lie down on the floor right next to her bed and wrap myself up in a blanket. In a matter of minutes I was out, too exhausted to feel uncomfortable.
Inevitably, I'd be jolted awake by the loud, piercing sound of her frightened voice calling out for me. The intensity of the mania was so powerful it penetrated her sleep, preventing her body from getting the rest it needed so badly. Not only would her mind be racing uncontrollably, she was additionally burdened by her ravenous craving for food, especially sweets. And because her abstinence was critical to her on the food plan she was adhering to since returning from Glen Cove, sweets were not an option. Surviving the inner anguish and turmoil brought on by the bipolar symptoms as well as the gnawing hunger for foods she was restricted from eating, took an inordinate amount of willpower. Yet somehow, she managed to overcome the unrelentless torture, eventually falling back to sleep again for a few hours until the next surge of mania swept over her.
I soon came to the realization I couldn't manage the situation alone anymore. We were in a constant crisis and I couldn't contain Rebecca in the house. It was then that the decision was made. Rebecca was too sick not to be hospitalized. Leaving her doctor and having her treated by staff physicians at a large New York teaching hospital, Columbia Presbyterian, was my biggest fear. How could someone who didn't know the case, let alone the complexity of her being held against her will for six and a half years, possibly be able to treat her? Who were these doctors who would be responsible for her medication? Dr. Opler had said he would not be the physician in charge of her case. I couldn't understand why this wasn't possible? Wanting to be sure this hospitalization was going to be the last one, I was worried about all the unknowns. Moreover, I had promised Rebecca I wouldn't send her away again. Knowing it wasn't possible any longer, I was still experiencing some guilt, none the less.
Desperate for help, feeling scared for Rebecca and myself, I called Dr. Opler who advised me of the procedure the hospital used to admit a patient. I was nervous to do it, but, I made the necessary phone call to the psychiatric admissions doctor and initiated the process that would lead to her acceptance as a patient. I was surprised to learn she wouldn't be admitted until her coverage was confirmed and the insurance company approved her admission. Only making the situation worse, she would have to wait until a bed became available. I had never expected to encounter these obstacles. I took it for granted she would enter the hospital whenever she wanted to. Instead, it was discouraging to learn there were other patients on a list also needing to be admitted.
Here it was Memorial Day weekend and I was preparing for a psychiatric admission while the rest of the world was going to a bar-b-que. Wanting time to pass quickly, we decided to go to the yearly, town parade mainly as a distraction. Once there, we found a good spot to sit down at on the curb so we could watch the parade as it passed by. The excitement of the morning was contagious and somehow we managed to have a good time waving to people in the parade we knew, listening to school bands play and viewing the antique cars decorated in red, white and blue as they drove by. After the parade was over, everyone began dispersing and heading home. We followed their lead by picking ourselves up off the curb and heading for our car. Taking Rebecca's hand in mine, we started to cross the street. For just that moment, I felt I could protect her. It was as though I was holding the hand of my little girl from so many years ago. If only I could now, as I had done when she was very young and innocent; unaware of the desperation she would have to endure just to get through the day.
When we got back home, I anxiously checked the answering machine, hoping to hear from the hospital, but there was no message. It was hard enough making the decision to hospitalize Rebecca, but once made, I wanted it to happen immediately. I was told that if I had to take her to the hospital before a bed was available, there was always the option of going through the emergency room. In my gut, not knowing anything about a New York hospital psychiatric emergency room, I just knew I didn't want to do it unless I was desperate. I'd take my chances and hope that a room would become available at any moment. Now I was beginning to doubt just how much longer I could manage maintaining Rebecca at home in the condition she was in with her moods changing from hour to hour. The vicious attacks scrambled her mind and left her totally debilitated. It was hard for me to watch her suffer through this horrible pain but I didn't have a choice. The day wore on endlessly and the phone call never came.
By the next morning, I was no longer second-guessing our decision to hospitalize Rebecca. I called psychiatric admissions to see if a bed had become available overnight and was told I would get a phone call back in a little while with the answer. By now I was frantically pacing the room, waiting anxiously for the phone to ring. After an hour passed and I still hadn't gotten a phone call, I was beside myself. Not able to stand the tension anymore, I decided to call back. Thank God, I was told to bring Rebecca in as soon as possible.
During the preadmission process which took place over the phone, I had been asked more than once if Rebecca would voluntarily enter the hospital. I assured the admissions doctor that it wouldn't be a problem because Rebecca was in such pain she was just about begging for help.
I took a deep breath and felt my insides shaking a little. I was terrified of all the unknowns of the hospital but I also knew there was no other choice. I went into Rebecca's bedroom and told her that the hospital finally had a bed available and it was time to go. I was caught completely off guard when she told me that maybe it was a mistake, she didn't need to be hospitalized after all. Feeling trapped, I called my husband at work, gave him the latest update and asked him to come home so together we could somehow change her mind. Since it was almost 11:00 a.m. already, and I had been instructed to arrive at the hospital before 2:00 p.m., I rushed around the house trying to get things together and in order while periodically coaxing Rebecca out of her room. I was getting nowhere. When Stuart showed up, we had to use our powers of persuasion for close to an hour before she finally, reluctantly agreed to go.
Once we got into the car and drove off, I felt a little bit of relief. As we drove down Route 80, I was looking at my watch, wondering if we were going to find the hospital without too much trouble. Suddenly, I felt and heard a definite change in the way the car was driving. There was no way this could be happening to us now. I couldn't believe it was a blow out! Why did everything have to be so difficult? Was this a test? We drove the limping car over to the side of the road and came to a sickening stop. I got out and walked along the side of the car. I took a look, groaned, swore and got back in to let Stuart know exactly how bad it was. It was gray and muggy out and the cars on the road were whisking past us oblivious to our crisis. I looked ahead at the roadway to get a sense of where we were. O.K., at least now I had my bearings. I recognized the exit not too far ahead and quickly decided that the only way we could get to the hospital on time was for me to walk to the exit and look for help. I told Stuart my plan and headed off determined to get us out of this mess.
The exit looked closer than it really was. The faster I tried to walk, the more my legs and thighs would tighten up, making it increasingly difficult to move quickly. My heart was pounding, I was short of breath and beginning to panic. As I took each long stride, my shoulder bag swung annoyingly against my side, hindering me from moving as quickly as I wanted to. After what seemed like an endless amount of time, I finally made it to the exit, crossed the overpass and started to walk down a familiar commercial street parallel to the highway. If only I could find someone with a tow truck, I'd be able to convince them to help me. With this in mind, I frantically rushed past each business, peering into the storefronts, garages and surrounding property. I thought I was in luck when I spotted some sort of garage across the street. I ran over to it and approached a man I saw working inside. No help. They didn't have a truck available to help me. I scanned the street again and saw a bar and grill from which I thought I could make a phone call. I ran across the heavily traveled street, weaving in and out of the moving cars and made it to the door. Once inside, I grabbed my wallet, pulled out my AAA card and immediately called road service. Yes, they would be at the disabled car within the hour. Just great, I couldn't possibly wait that long, but I nevertheless gave the location of my car and begged them to please rush because I had to get my daughter to a hospital by 2:00 p.m. I then searched my bag for the hospital's admitting department phone number. I thought it best to let them know the problem we were having and that we would be there as soon as possible. I got the psychiatric admitting doctor on the phone without any trouble and informed him of the delay. He proceeded to tell me that admission onto the psychiatric unit was limited until 2:00 p.m. after which time we would have to go by way of the psychiatric emergency room. I was sickened by the thought. I tried to convince him to make an exception due to the unusual circumstances, but was told that hospital policy didn't allow for it.
I left the bar frantic and started to walk back in the direction of the highway feeling hopeless. There was nothing else I could think of to do. Every minute that was passing meant it would be more impossible to get to the hospital on time. As I approached the highway exit, my eyes focused on the sidewalk, I looked up and saw the gas station I had passed a few minutes earlier. To my amazement, a tow truck was filling up with gas! I immediately decided that this was my last chance and that I'd have to walk up to the stranger sitting in the truck and ask for help. As I got closer to the truck, I could see the man sitting in the cab. He looked pretty presentable to me so I thought the situation was a relatively safe one. With no time to spare, I rattled off my problem and asked if he could help me. He agreed, told me to hop into the truck and as soon as the gas tank was full we'd be on our way. With that, I tossed caution to the wind, opened the passenger door and pulled myself up. As I began to slide across the seat, I was stunned to find another guy sitting in the cab. For a fleeting moment, I thought I was going to be in deep trouble riding off with these two questionable men who appeared to be in their twenties. Almost immediately, I pushed that idea out of my head and remembered the reason for my risky behavior.
A few minutes later we were headed onto the highway with precious, little time to spare. I was hoping we could get the tire changed on our stranded car in time to meet our deadline. As we passed the car from the opposite side of the road, I pointed over to where it was pulled over. I was told not to worry, that everything was going to be all right. Just leave it to them. They were going to make a U turn and be there in a minute; and they were. We pulled up behind my car, got out of the cab and walked over to where Stuart was standing. I quickly introduced them and explained the delay we could expect from AAA. Next, they looked over the low spare leaning against the car and decided to use a portable can of spray to inflate it. It didn't work. Now what were we going to do? The driver, seemingly unconcerned, offered to put all of us in his truck, drive us over the George Washington Bridge and take us to the front door of the hospital. We all stood there, looking at each other as the cars whizzed by. Since it was 1:40 p.m. already, I questioned the unlikely possibility of crossing over the bridge, let alone making it to the hospital on time. He assured us it could be done because Columbia Presbyterian Hospital was located directly over the bridge.
With that, we took them up on their offer. What did we have to lose? But how were we all going to fit into the cab? Again I was told not to worry: we'd just squeeze in. And that's exactly how we did it. Rebecca was lying in our car oblivious to most of what was happening. We helped her out, walked her over to the truck and loaded up. We were crunched together, all five of us, but we were in; that's what mattered. As we pulled into the flow of the traffic, conversation continued. The driver saw how sad Rebecca looked and tried his best to get her to laugh by engaging her with some jokes. Because she was completely unresponsive, I though I should to tell him that she was very sick and once she got help in the hospital she'd be different. Even in this bizarre situation, I felt it necessary to explain my daughter's behavior. Having left our car along the shoulder of Route 80, we discussed the problem of getting back to it later with a replacement tire. It was decided that I would go to admitting with Rebecca and Stuart would drive back over the bridge with the men after finding a tire for the car. Fortunately, they knew a place close by that sold reconditioned tires. These guys were unbelievable. Yet as I watched the minutes tick by on my watch, I became more worried that we wouldn't be able to pull this off. Within a few minutes, we were paying the toll and heading across the Hudson River. The driver pointed into the distance and showed us where the hospital was situated, directly across the river. I couldn't believe how close it really was.
I looked down at my watch one last time and gathered my thoughts and belongings together. Within minutes, he stopped the truck in front of a large, old building. We'd made it: nothing less than a miracle as far as I was concerned. Everyone to the right of me slid across the seat and stepped out. Before I followed them, I turned to the driver, offered my sincere thanks and awkwardly kissed him on the cheek. He had been our lifesaver and I was truly grateful for having met him. I then slid myself along the length of the seat and stepped down onto the curb. I shot a fast glance up towards the sky and took notice of all the towering buildings that appeared to be part of the medical center. A skywalk joining two buildings on opposite sides of the street transported staff from one location to the other. I was instantly taken by the magnitude of the facility, the large number of employees crossing the streets going from one location to another within the complex and the energy that was evident all around us. So this was what a big, New York City hospital looked like. It had a vastness and importance about it that reassured me we were where we needed to be. With Rebecca on my side, her hand in mine, we kissed Stuart goodbye and quickly reviewed the plan to meet up with each other on the psychiatric floor when he came back from retrieving the car. With not a minute to spare, we were headed off in different directions. I glanced back and watched the truck as it moved into the flow of the traffic.
I looked up at the old, stately doors of the entrance, then down at my watch and told Rebecca we'd have to hurry into the building since it was a minute after 2:00 p.m. She just stood in place, apparently frozen with fear of the unknown. Determined to make it to admissions on time, still holding hands, I yanked her stiff body towards the steps of the building and irritatingly told her I was losing my patience. The strain of the whole episode had gotten to me. As soon as we entered the building, I asked the first person I spotted for directions to admissions. We managed to find the admissions desk immediately and walked up to it as the large hand of the clock hanging on the wall above the desk registered 2:03 p.m. I sighed audibly, swallowed hard and stood there waiting for the woman, whose back was facing me, to turn around and notice us. She did so almost immediately and I proceeded to tell her who we were and why we were there.
Making note of the time, she explained to us we wouldn't be allowed admittance to the floor. I informed her that it was 2:03 p.m. when we arrived at her desk and because of those three minutes we would have to go to the psychiatric emergency room. Would she please be understanding, make an exception and let us go up. And besides, we would have been there on time if our tire hadn't had a blow out. Could she please take these circumstances into consideration? With that, she picked up the phone and called upstairs. From what I could tell, listening to one side of the conversation, we were being given the O.K. to proceed to the unit. She hung up, pointed to the elevator behind us and told us we could go up to the sixth floor. Grabbing Rebecca's hand, I started to race towards the elevator, turning my head back in the direction of the desk. I waved to her and called out my thanks for all the help she had given us.
As we stood in the elevator, waiting for it to stop at the sixth floor, I tried to compose myself with my heart still pounding in my chest. As I took a deep breath, the elevator came to a stop and the doors separated. Again I took Rebecca's hand in mine and stepped out. We were faced with a stark, heavy, gray, metal door which immediately refocused me on the reality of Rebecca's situation rather than the anxiety of trying to get to the hospital in time. I pulled at the door handle, couldn't budge it and realized it was locked. Only then, seeing the buzzer to the left of the imposing door, I rang it, pressed my face against the door's small glass window and peered in. I managed to see people walking past the door oblivious to the fact we were trying to get in. Just then, a woman dressed in street clothes, headed in our direction, looked through the window and using the intercom asked us to identify ourselves. Having done so, the door was opened with a key that was hanging around the woman's neck. We entered.
I quickly tried to get a sense of the kind of place I was bringing Rebecca to. Everything seemed to appear in a stagnant state of blandness. The 60's olive green, vinyl furniture blended in with the dreary walls. On a table, the worn books and magazines were piled up into stacks and leaning against a wall. Outdated, framed pictures looked as though they had been hanging for years. Some patients, wearing slippers, were shuffling along in the halls while others sat in the community room watching T.V. Other patients in the room had apparently dosed off in their seats either too tired or depressed to stay awake. The most hopeful sight was a young man playing the piano. The surroundings left me concerned and uncomfortable.
The woman staff member directed us passed the kitchen area and asked us to wait outside an office that adjoined the kitchen. Through its oversized window which looked out over the kitchen area, the nurses were afforded an excellent view of the patients who were congregated around a very large table capable of seating at least fifteen people. Because we were asked to stay there, it gave me an opportunity to look around the kitchen and see what Rebecca would have to deal with so she could stay abstinent on her food plan. Quickly scanning the room, I noticed individual packets of crackers strewn across the table and wicker baskets sitting on a shelf filled with more crackers and condiments. A plate of winter fruit, apples, over ripe bananas and oranges which looked as if they had been sitting around too long, sat uninvitingly on the table. As all kinds of thoughts ran through my mind about the appropriateness of this setting for a patient with an eating disorder, I was sure Rebecca was dealing with her own thoughts about it too. Fearful of the temptations she would constantly be exposed to, I was seriously concerned with the decision I had made to place her in treatment here.
A while later, another woman, also dressed in street clothes, who I assumed was a nurse, walked out from the office and came over to greet us. She introduced herself, told us she had been expecting us and led us down a dreary, cement block hallway to a door that she unlocked. We found ourselves in a small cubicle seated on more of the same older, vinyl furniture. In this private area, she began to conduct the intake interview, asking the all too familiar questions we had answered each time we went through this process. I explained to the nurse that Rebecca had an eating disorder, binge bulimia, and it was critical to her recovery that she be in a safe place in terms of her food issues. Once the questions seemed to be winding down, I asked if I could address an issue Rebecca and I were disturbed by. Fortunately, she was willing to listen. I told her I was specifically concerned about food left out after meals were served. In addition, her doctor who was associated with the hospital, had assured us this unit would be able to support her in this critical area. Rebecca then surprised me by speaking up for herself, reiterating what I had said in even stronger terms. After listening to us, she asked a few more questions related to the forms she was filling out and then excused herself from the room telling us she'd be back shortly.
Alone in the room, Rebecca continued to anxiously voice her fears to me about being in a place like this. In no uncertain terms, I told her how I, too, was worried and completely understood how she felt. Cautiously continuing our conversation, I explained to Rebecca the number one issue that needed to be addressed was stabilizing her on the medications she was taking. Without successfully accomplishing this, she wouldn't have a life whether she was abstinent or not. As I tried to convince Rebecca of this, I wondered to myself if another facility that I wasn't aware of could address both issues at the same time. Time being of the essence, I had to make a decision about admitting her in the next few minutes. As I looked down at my watch, remembering the plans we had made earlier, I was hoping Stuart would be walking in at any moment. I needed him.
The door opened and in walked a pregnant woman who introduced herself as Dr. Sherman. After a minute or so of general questions, we again brought up the issue of Rebecca's eating disorder. Was it possible for the staff to keep the food locked up when it wasn't mealtime? No, that couldn't be done. Was there another floor of the hospital that could treat Rebecca such as an eating disorder unit? No, that wasn't possible either. Was there another hospital that we could transfer her to where her needs could be met? As far as she knew, there wasn't a psychiatric facility that addressed those concerns. At the same time I was asking the doctor these desperately important questions, Rebecca was getting agitated and frustrated. Now she was saying that she wasn't going to stay if her food issues were not addressed. Her mounting anger and unrelenting determination to leave if she couldn't be accommodated in this critical area caused me to question her ability to stay in control physically. However, knowing her reactions as well as I did, I immediately rethought my concerns about the doctor's welfare and determined she wasn't likely to physically harm her. The doctor, very pregnant, I'm sure was worried about her unborn child being vulnerable to a physical attack by an out of control patient. I would have been worried too. Seeing Rebecca's emotions escalating, Dr. Sherman attempted to calm her down but was getting nowhere. Now I was beginning to panic that Rebecca, in this agitated state, would refuse to sign herself in for treatment. How ironic, I thought, having been asked this very question by the psychiatric admissions doctor when the preliminary paper work was reviewed over the phone. I had confidently told him that Rebecca was desperate for help and anxious to be admitted. Now I was in the eye of the latest crisis, beside myself, wondering what else could possibly go wrong. Hadn't we gone through enough just getting her to the hospital?
Having lost track of time, I assumed it must be at least an hour since we arrived on the sixth floor, sadly enough, only to have reached an impasse. Dr. Sherman couldn't convince Rebecca to sign in and Rebecca kept arguing that she needed to talk to her O.A. sponsor for advice. The doctor wouldn't agree to let her make a phone call. Stuck in their opinions, Dr. Sherman informed us she needed to leave the room for a minute. As she walked out, closing the door behind her, I told Rebecca to walk over to the phone booth I had noticed before we entered this room, which was located next to where we were and give her sponsor a call. We walked out of the office, saw the phone and I quickly grabbed the receiver and dialed her sponsor's number. As soon as she picked up the phone, I blurted out the facts and told her the crisis we were in. She agreed with me that Rebecca's medication needed to take precedence for now. With that, I quickly handed the phone over to Rebecca so her sponsor could tell her first hand that it was all right to stay at the hospital. The secretive way we were making the decision had me feeling like a sneak, but I had no choice. Without her sponsor giving her "permission" to stay, it never would have worked. Rebecca and I slipped back into the room and closed the door. Now in agreement, having consulted with her sponsor, we discussed her decision to stay at Columbia Presbyterian. Both of us somewhat relieved, waited for the doctor to return.
The door opened, we turned in its direction, expecting the doctor to walk in. Instead we saw Stuart, who told us a nurse had directed him to us. Thank God. It was a relief knowing I wasn't going to have to go through this alone anymore. I did my best to catch him up on the latest crisis while waiting for the doctor to return. A few minutes later, Dr. Sherman walked in. I introduced her to Stuart and was about to tell her Rebecca's decision. Before the words came out of my mouth, she informed us Rebecca would have to be admitted through the psychiatric emergency room. I told her it wasn't necessary because Rebecca had agreed to sign in. She wasn't interested. I tried to explain the reason Rebecca had been so adamant about receiving treatment in a facility that supported her O.A. commitment and now that she had spoken to her sponsor, the issue was resolved. Again, the doctor wasn't interested in what I had to say. She stood up, opened the door and told us we would be escorted down to the emergency room. Not knowing what to expect in a big New York hospital emergency room, my gut told me I wouldn't want to be there to find out.
With that, we all walked out of the room, into the hall, and were faced with two uniformed guards walking toward us. I was stunned to see them on the unit. I felt angry, scared and most of all, terribly betrayed. Knowing how I felt, God knows what Rebecca was thinking at this point and I had no intention of asking. The doctor told them that we were the family that needed to be taken to the emergency room. With that, the guards approached Rebecca on both sides, slipped an arm through each of hers and proceeded to walk us off the floor. Stuart asked them to allow Rebecca to walk on her own because she was cooperative and not a threat in any way. They agreed, released her and we continued on. As we walked, Stuart and I each took one of her hands in a silent, supportive gesture.
The trip down to the emergency room was filled with anxiety and fear of the unknown. This was exactly what we had so desperately tried to avoid and nonetheless, here we were. It seemed like an endless journey getting through the tunnel system that lead us to our destination but, finally, we were there. Again a heavy metal door separated us from the unknown. The guard told us that only one parent would be allowed to escort Rebecca in. Without any discussion, the two of us knew it was going to be me because I had all the vital information. The bell was rung and we waited for the door to be opened. Eventually, we were greeted by another guard who asked us to come in and leave all our personal belongings inside the first entrance. Not feeling comfortable with the request, I ignored my own concerns and decided to be as cooperative as I possibly could. The second guard explained that only one of us would be allowed to stay with Rebecca in the emergency room. I handed Stuart my bag, Stuart gave Rebecca a hug and kiss and we headed off without him.
Walking through the small, dark hallway was anything but reassuring. As we followed the guard, I glanced to my left and saw a cluster of rooms, more like cubicles, joined together with glass walls. I could see the patients in their metal beds and was barely able to look at the sight of it. Totally foreign to me, I didn't want to acknowledge its existence, let alone accept the reality that now Rebecca was going to be part of this deep, dark, inner sanctum. Looking to the right, through a door with a glass window, I saw another area of rooms. It revealed a nurse's station that separated the staff from a tiny waiting area. I could see the examining rooms off of this area because the doors we open, exposing the patients for anyone to see. Although it was less alarming to look at than the horrible glass cubicles, it was depressing as well.
It was here that we entered once the door was unlocked. Announced to the staff behind the nurse's station, we were asked a few questions and told to sit down. It was far from a friendly welcome. Waiting for someone behind the station to direct us to an examining room, I was feeling very uncomfortable surrounded by patients in a variety of conditions, all obviously, seriously mentally ill and in need of a lot of help. One man who was walking aimlessly around the cramped space talking to himself or anyone who would listen scared me. Not wanting him to approach us, I looked the other way to avoid eye contact. Sitting there Rebecca's hand in mine, I made small talk with her, pretending to be oblivious to our surroundings in an effort to make her feel safe. The staff while animated, sociable and communicative with each other, in contrast, was distant and cold towards us. It was as if we didn't exist: just two more bodies trapped in this unspeakable place. Feeling self conscious, isolated and wary, I wondered how this could possibly be happening to us. When Rebecca was taken into an examining room by a nurse, I sighed with relief. It hadn't taken too long, considering and now we could proceed with the admission. A very young doctor walked in, introduced himself to us and began to ask the same questions we had just gone over on the psychiatric unit. Once he recorded the history and medications, I asked if I could leave the examining area and go into the hall to let my husband know what was happening. I then tried to reassure Rebecca I would be right back. I was glad the doctor escorted me out of the emergency room so that I could speak to him privately. Because Stuart was standing right outside the door in the common hall, we found ourselves all together in one place; a perfect opportunity for us to talk openly with the doctor about our concerns and fears. Cramped together in the narrow hallway, I felt I needed to let him know that the major issue we were concerned with at the moment was Rebecca's eating disorder. I explained how she had struggled with the decision to admit herself and because of it had landed up in the emergency room.
The doctor explained that bipolar disorder is often accompanied by appetite disturbances ranging from having no desire to eat at all, to the other extreme, never being satiated. He thought Rebecca's food issues could very well be symptoms of bipolar disorder rather than of a separate eating disorder. It was the first time I allowed myself to consider the possibility her symptoms were not binge bulimia. Now I was even more confused. Overwhelmed with the latest information, I found myself completely drained and willing to let the professionals take charge. I had nothing left to give. Stuart was equally exhausted and not capable of offering any new insights. With this in mind, we asked if it was the appropriate time to leave, now that Rebecca was in the process of being evaluated and admitted. The doctor felt it would be best if we went home at this point. As much as I wanted to be at her side, I needed to get out. It had been a grueling, endless day and I could not take it anymore.
I was permitted by the guard to reenter the emergency room. I walked back into the examining room and told Rebecca I was going to leave but that I would be back. Scared to be left alone again, she reluctantly agreed to let me go as long as I promised to come back. Kissing her goodbye, I reassured her I'd return. In my heart, I knew she meant coming back to the emergency room but I pretended to interpret it as meaning the psychiatric unit on the sixth floor. I wasn't exactly lying, I convinced myself, but rather accepting the guilt and doing what I needed to for myself.
My last words to Rebecca were meant to give her emotional strength and bolster her confidence that she had made the right decision. I wanted her to know I was convinced this prestigious medical center was the best place to have her medications readjusted and that it needed to be the primary focus of her treatment for now. Telling her everything was going to work out, I wished I could believe it myself. Leaving the locked unit for the last time, hoping to never again experience the harsh reality of its morbid surroundings, the heavy, metal door was again opened for me.
Stuart was standing there waiting for my return. He took my hand in his and together we walked away, both filled with unspeakable thoughts and visual images I hoped none of us would ever see again. We passed by many of the same areas we had seen while being escorted by the security guards to the emergency room. Eventually, we found our way out of the cavernous halls of the hospital.
Out on the street, we returned to daylight; the contrast striking between the old, dreary, depressing hospital from whose dark recesses we had managed to emerge and the vitality of the living we were now rejoining. It jolted me. Walking towards our car, I began to sense a feeling of relief, my burden lifted a little, knowing I was no longer solely responsible for my daughter's care. I had exhausted all my resources and knew it was time to let someone else take charge because it was way beyond me. The ride back home was quiet, both of us exhausted and emotionally depleted. All I wanted was to get into my house and collapse.
By the time we got back home, it was somewhere around 8:00 p.m. We had barely walked through the door when we heard the phone ring. I picked up the receiver, said hello, and was stunned to hear Rebecca's voice at the other end. How could she possibly be calling us already and from where? She sounded agitated and despondent as she told us she had made a mistake by signing herself into this hospital. In the time it took us to get home, she had left the emergency room and had been brought back up to the sixth floor psychiatric unit.
I then had to listen to her accuse me of lying because I hadn't told her I was going home. I knew that was coming. Feeling guilty, I told her she had misunderstood what I had meant. Again, I tried to convince her she had done the best thing possible for herself by signing into this prestigious medical center. It was here she would become well again and then be able to move on with her life. I told Rebecca that I needed to get off the phone because I was beyond exhausted. By this point, I was beside my myself; I, too, was questioning my decision. I felt trapped because I didn't know of anywhere else to take her for help. With that, I shut down, totally spent.
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