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

by Michael Schofield

  “Janni, you need to sit in the back,” I say. “It’s the law.”

  “No,” Janni answers.

  “Janni, get in the backseat,” I repeat, trying to sound commanding but hearing the fear in my voice.

  “I don’t want to,” Janni answers.

  “Let it go,” Susan tells me.

  “No,” I reply, trying to sound stronger than I feel. “She needs to do what we say.”

  “It’s fine,” Susan answers, already in the backseat. “I’m tired. I want to go home.”

  I look at Susan, wanting her to back me up, but also understanding. I don’t really care if Janni wants to sit in the front. Like Susan, all I really want is peace. I just want us to go home.

  As I load Bodhi’s car seat into the car, a distinct odor reaches me. I’m going to have to change Bodhi. He cries in the car anyway, but a dirty diaper will only make it worse. When Janni was an infant, she never seemed to care.

  I take Bodhi out of his car seat and gently lay him down in the grass in front of the car to change him.

  “I want to go,” Janni calls from inside the car.

  “Janni, can you bring me the wipes?”

  “I’m hungry!” she yells.

  “Janni, I have to change him. I never left you in a poopie. I always changed you right away.” I want her to understand that everything I do for Bodhi I also did for her.

  Janni reluctantly gets out of the car and brings me the wipes. She remains standing by me as I change Bodhi. I feel a rush of hope. This is what I want, her beside me.

  “I’ll go throw it away,” Susan calls, getting out of the car.

  “No, I will.” I hand her the freshly diapered Bodhi and stand up. There is a dumpster in the far corner of the parking lot.

  I start walking and light a cigarette. I have to be calm for the drive home. It’s going to be a long one.

  I come back to the car and climb in the driver’s side.

  Bodhi begins to cry.

  Instantly, every nerve in my body goes on full alert. I watch Janni. For a second she doesn’t react. Then she puts her hands over her ears and screams, “Bodhi! Stop crying!”

  “Janni!” I call, warning her, my voice threatening. “You want to go to Pizza Kitchen, right?”

  “He won’t stop crying!”

  “Janni, we’re not going anywhere until I know you’re going to be okay with Bodhi.”

  “Make him stop crying!” she says to Susan, almost begging, as if she really believes Susan can stop it.

  “If you want him to stop crying, why don’t you play with him?” I say. “Entertain him.”

  She grabs a bottle of water next to her.

  I put my hand over the bottle of water. “Janni, if you throw that at him, we are not going to Pizza Kitchen!” I say, staring at her, hoping she’ll accept my threat and back down.

  She lets go of the water bottle. I relax. “Good girl,” I say, turning back to the steering column and putting on my seat belt.

  Out of the corner of my eye, I see Janni take off her shoe. I grab for it, but the seat belt won’t let me reach. Janni turns around in her seat, gets up on her knees, and throws the shoe back. Susan knocks it away.

  I release my seat belt and grab Janni’s other shoe. Janni starts looking around for something to throw.

  “Janni, sit down!” I command. The fear is gone, replaced by adrenaline. I am back in battle.

  Janni ignores me and reaches for her CD cases to throw. I take them from her. As I do, she hits me and screams again.

  “She wasn’t ready to be released,” Susan cries from the back.

  “I know that!” I snap. “What do you expect me to do about it?”

  “She needs to go back!”

  “No! We are not going back! She is part of this family and she has to learn to follow our rules!” I reach past Janni and open her door. “Get out,” I order.

  Janni looks at me, that same evil grin on her face. “No.”

  “Get out!” I say again. “When you calm down, you can get back in this car.”

  She doesn’t move. Instead, she’s staring at me, grinning, daring me to pull her out.

  So I do. I get out and go around and pull her out onto the pavement, where she sits down like a sullen child.

  I go to the back of the car and get Hero Bear out of her suitcase. “Here, hold Hero.” I hold her bear out to her. “When Bodhi cries, just squeeze Hero Bear.” I realize I’m ping-ponging back and forth between treating her like the child she is and treating her like the angry teenager she might actually be. I don’t know who she is.

  Janni takes Hero from me. But instead of hugging him to her, she starts yanking at his head.

  “Janni, what are you doing?”

  “Trying to pull his head off.”

  “Don’t do that!”

  I take Hero from her. She grabs him back and pitches him into the parking lot.

  “Janni, why did you do that?”

  “I don’t want him anymore. He’s a bad bear.”

  “She’s not ready to go,” Susan says again.

  Suddenly, Janni reaches in through the still-open front passenger door and starts throwing anything she can get her hands on into the parking lot. The contents of the front of the car are piling up on the asphalt behind me.

  Bodhi is still crying. Janni moves to the rear passenger door, Bodhi’s door, and starts to open it. Inside, I see Susan immediately put herself over Bodhi. I grab Janni and pull her back, away from the car.

  “She needs to go back!” Susan screams at me. “How long are you going to wait? Until she kills him? Do you think those idiots back in there,” she points to Alhambra, “will care if she kills Bodhi? They’ll just say ‘Oh, well.’ ”

  I know. I should have brought both cars, I think angrily to myself, but I decided on one car, to have us ride as a family, to prove to myself that we could function normally. But Janni has been out for thirty minutes and we can’t even make it out of the parking lot. This is not going to work.

  “Come on, Janni,” I say, defeated. “Let’s go.”

  Janni immediately stops trying to hit Susan and Bodhi and looks up at me. “Where are we going?”

  “Back inside.”

  Janni doesn’t protest. I pick Hero up off the pavement and hand him to her. This time she hugs him to her. I get her suitcase out of the back of the car.

  Susan follows, Bodhi in her arms, as we retrace the steps we walked forty minutes ago. It is a walk of shame.

  I pick up the phone outside the gate.

  “Nursing,” comes the answer on the other end.

  “It’s Michael Schofield. We’re still here. We never made it out of the parking lot. Janni has been hitting and screaming the whole time.”

  “So what do you want us to do?” the woman replies, sounding confused, like this has never happened before.

  “We’re bringing her back.”

  “But she’s already been discharged!”

  “I realize that, but nothing has changed. She is still violent.”

  “Just a minute.”

  I wait. The discharge nurse who walked us out comes on the line. “What’s going on?”

  “Nothing’s changed, that’s what’s going on. She’s still as violent as ever.”

  “I told you it would take time for her to get readjusted.”

  “We can’t even get home,” I reply.

  The nurse sighs. “We’ll be right out.”

  We wait. Janni is calm now. The nurse comes out with one of the technicians.

  “What’s going on, Janni?”

  Janni suddenly kicks at Susan, while trying to reach up and hit Bodhi. Susan lifts him clear.

  “Whoa, Janni!” the tech says, moving forward to take her by the shoulders. “You can’t do that.”

  “I am going to get scissors and cut off my feet!” Janni announces.

  All of us fall silent, stunned.

  “Why do you want to do that?” the nurse asks.

 
; “Because then I can’t kick Mommy and Bodhi.” She is breathing heavily from the exertion of fighting to get free from the tech, her eyes still fixed on Susan and Bodhi.

  Everything goes dead inside me … all the anger and frustration. I feel nothing. Behind me, I can hear Susan break into a sob.

  “Okay, Janni,” the nurse says. “Come with me.” She holds out her hand.

  Janni abruptly stops fighting against the technician and calmly takes the nurse’s hand with Hero in her other as they turn toward the adolescent unit, looking like a child happily going off with her mother.

  Except that her mother is sobbing behind me.

  “Janni,” I call, still not sure if I’m doing the right thing.

  She twists back, still walking away. “It’s okay, Mommy and Daddy. Just bring me my food and visit me at visiting hours.”

  WE DRIVE HOME in the darkness, the seat beside me empty. Susan is in the back with Bodhi, who has thankfully fallen asleep as we ride in silence. I can hear her sobbing softly. I know I need to comfort her, but I don’t know what to say. There is no comfort.

  Finally, Susan calls her mother.

  “She said she wanted to cut her feet off,” Susan cries into the phone. “She wanted to go back. She knew she wasn’t ready to come home, so she told them what she knew would get her back in.” Susan chokes on a sob. “She’s happy there.”

  I drive, listening to the only side of the conversation I can hear.

  “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

  Wingfield 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 d
on’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?”