River of Time

by Naomi Judd

  One young woman talked endlessly to anyone who would listen about how her parents were going to show up at any minute to kill her. She was frantic. The other patient, who was still pacing and brushing against the window of my room, started knocking on the glass to get my attention. I could hear a TV blaring from nearby. I could see two catatonic-looking patients mindlessly rocking back and forth in chairs by the nurses’ station. Some man howled like a wolf at random times. I couldn’t see where he was and it was nerve-racking.

  The most disconcerting aspect was being under intense observation around the clock. If I was left alone, it was only for fifteen minutes at a time, before another medical technician would appear with a clipboard and silently watch me for twenty or thirty seconds and then make notes as if I were a science experiment. There was no privacy for the first seventy-two hours, even in the bathroom.

  I was informed by one of the staff members that my days would be completely structured from sunup until bedtime. He encouraged me to participate in group therapy sessions that would be happening that afternoon, but I was terrified to leave the protection of my room.

  When I asked if I could call my husband, they told me that Larry would only be able to visit me briefly every afternoon and not without supervision. When he was finally able to see me, hours later, it was obvious he was also terrified. He had never seen me in such a vulnerable state before and I could tell that he was trying to be careful about what he said to the nurses or staff. He didn’t want to make things worse.

  He worried about the state of mind of the other patients who were locked in this hospital wing with me and was afraid for my physical safety. We were both certain that I would be released as soon as a psychiatrist met with me the following morning and realized I would not be any harm to others or myself. That’s not what happened.

  All of my previous medications had been halted and I was put on Seroquel. I tried to gently protest, saying that it made me feel like I couldn’t think or move. I explained that it had taken me weeks to get over the effects of the Seroquel I had been given at Vanderbilt. The nurse wrote something down in my chart without responding. It was then that I realized that they could interpret anything I said or did in any way they wanted and it would become a permanent statement in my chart. The slightest protest might be seen as pathology, instead of a question about how I was being medicated. I decided to keep my mouth shut. When they gave me my pill, I only swallowed half of it, hiding the other half in the runner of the dresser drawer. I knew I couldn’t afford to be incoherent if I hoped to be discharged. I had to be able to speak whole sentences.

  The next morning and every single morning following, I had to meet with a psychiatrist for evaluation. Much of that time was spent with me repeating and repeating my story of the treatments prior to being placed at UCLA. I was asked the same set of questions almost every morning, usually including whether I was having suicidal thoughts.

  I was very careful at all times about how I responded to both the nurses and the psychiatrist. I became highly paranoid and started planning out everything I would say. I said only what I thought they wanted to hear. I was petrified that with any wrong word they would write a permanent notation on my chart to the effect that I was certifiably insane and a danger to society and myself. I imagined being locked away forever.

  Joining other patients for afternoon group therapy sessions was even more of a problem for me. Many of the others seemed to be there because of a psychotic break. They were tiptoeing around the edges of reality with a delusional or distorted view. I had such a fear of having my own psychotic break that to observe these other patients created unbridled anxiety in me. It was tough to listen to some of them ramble on pointlessly.

  Occasionally, there would be an outbreak of heightened emotions and escalated physicality. I steered clear as much as I could. I wanted to shout, “Get me away from these crazies,” but I feared that my own emotions would be judged as hostile and aggressive and cause for more medication or even restraints. I kept my mouth firmly closed.

  When I wasn’t in group therapy, I would spend the rest of my time in bed. I didn’t sit in the dayroom or watch TV. I didn’t want to be involved with the other patients. If one of the patients tried to get into my personal space, I got silently defensive. I wasn’t about to call attention to myself in a negative way, but I also wasn’t going to suffer any fool who decided to mess with me.

  When the frantic woman who talked endlessly about how her parents were ruining her life followed me into my room, I didn’t call for help. I spun on my heels and drew back my fist, aiming for her face. I so wanted to break her jaw. She saw that I wasn’t going to mess around and hightailed it down the hall. When you live in a glass room, you can’t throw stones, but I sure as hell would throw a punch without regret.

  Other patients on my floor seemed to be recovering from addiction issues, like me. I could intuitively tell which patients had been in a “revolving door” relationship with this psychiatric unit by their comfort in an attitude of defeat. I would have done anything to stay away after this experience, but two things became crystal clear to me in my observations of the other patients: Addiction is a powerful force and some people can only find “control” by giving up their free will to something or someone else’s control. Either drugs dictated their every move or the staff in a locked psych unit did. I don’t think there’s an ounce of that trait in me, which is why I desperately wanted out.

  When Larry would come to visit me for the brief time allowed, he would bring in food from a restaurant, so I wouldn’t have to eat hospital food. I whispered to him each day when he had to leave, “Please find a way to get me discharged.”

  I had used the word brokenhearted many times in my life, but I never felt the physicality of a broken heart until I was in this psychiatric unit, with no visitors besides Larry. I didn’t want my daughters to know where I was and Larry had agreed not to tell them, but I missed them both horribly. My heart hurt knowing that Wynonna and I had miles of misunderstanding now between us, which remained unresolved. Mother had asked no questions as to where I was.

  When I lived in Los Angeles, Nancy, my neighbor and friend who would babysit my girls, and I had built a fun-loving “fractured family” life that worked well. She had her one little girl, Gabrielle, who was Ashley’s age. We took our kids to the beach, the parks, and for walks through Beverly Hills to window-shop, anything that was free. We cooked together and would save our money for a field trip with our girls. Life was tough, but we were scrappy and undefeatable. As I remembered those hungry years, I knew I was currently starved for a feeling of connection. I had kept in touch, especially with Gabrielle, over the years, sending her gifts for her special occasions as she grew up. On a prior phone call, Gabrielle had let me know that her mom was battling cancer. I wanted to talk to Nancy, once more, about our memories and get her perspective on our lives in Los Angeles. I wrote a long letter, explaining the downward spiral of my last two years. As the days passed, it became obvious that Nancy was not well, and then Larry had heard from Gabrielle that her mother had died while I was in the psych ward. My heart ached with sadness. Nancy was one of the strongest women I knew, but her insidious disease took her life. Would my brain disease eventually take mine?

  One afternoon, I decided not to attend group therapy. It was always voluntary, but the therapists and staff strongly “urged” participation. I was afraid that my not going would seem noncompliant, but I was feeling so low I couldn’t face the group. For about five minutes, I stood in the hallway contemplating pushing open the door to the ward and running, even though the alarm system would sound. I wanted nothing more than to be free.

  I lay on my bed and thought about my life before depression and anxiety took me prisoner. I remembered how I handled the patients who were under my care during my years working as a nurse. I was the nurse who was known for being able to calm any patient who was frightened, couldn’t sleep, or might be traumatized by what might lay ahead for t
hem. I had a good reputation for caring for their emotional needs. You know how they say someone needs “a good talking to.” I’ve always believed the opposite: They need a good listening to.

  One of my patients was a woman who had been prepped to have a pretty radical and urgent heart surgery. As the nurses came to wheel her down to surgery, the woman started yelling, “No, no, no!” Her family stood by her bedside, helpless to know what to do. The woman had changed her mind and wasn’t going to go through with the operation. Her charge nurse came and found me, saying, “She needs this surgery and has to go down now!”

  I went into her room and asked her family to please leave the two of us alone for a while. I drew the curtain around her bed for privacy. I asked her if she wanted to pray together and for the first time that day she said, “Yes.” I quoted her a Bible verse, Isaiah 26:3: “Thou wilt keep him in perfect peace, whose mind is stayed on thee: because he trusted in thee.” After a short prayer for peace of mind, she asked me if I thought she should have the surgery. I told her, “Honey, I would not be here if I wasn’t one hundred percent sure you will be okay.”

  Her family was both astonished and relieved that in such a short time their loved one allowed herself to be wheeled away for the necessary surgery. I wished there were a nurse who could calm my heart in the same manner now and tell me that she was 100 percent sure I would be well again.

  Almost as if a prayer had been said on my behalf, a nurse, assigned to work with me, appeared. She knew who I was and confessed that she was a longtime fan and knew the words to all of the Judds’ songs. She talked to me person to person, as though we were at a meet-and-greet after a concert. She didn’t make notes on her clipboard or ask me the same string of questions the other staff members did every morning and evening.

  This nurse acknowledged that I was going through a bad time in life, but said it would pass and I would be myself again one day soon. She had read my chart and knew my medical history. She remarked that it was no wonder I was going through this, in light of the amount of my past trauma, which was finally catching up with me. She reminded me of all the people I had helped over the years and said that now was the time for me to pay attention to myself. On one of my worst days of doubting my sanity, she rescued me. I told her that I doubted my sanity more and more as each day passed.

  The next morning she went to extraordinary lengths to help me change my perspective. I didn’t know what she was up to, but I went along with her when she showed up in my room with a shopping bag stuffed with a costume for me wear.

  She unfolded an extra lab coat and helped me put it on. She had brought a newsboy cap to put on my head and oversize sunglasses. From the bottom of the bag she pulled out an extra pair of tennis shoes that she kept in her locker. I had not had shoes on my feet for so long that they felt to me like I was floating on a cloud. Then she walked me out, through the two sets of locked doors that separated me from the real world.

  We strolled the campus from end to end on the green grass. I inhaled the fresh air deeply and turned my face into the warm sunshine and sobbed. I was out free, in the natural world!

  We chatted about everything except my being hospitalized. I even laughed once or twice. No one walking by gave me even a second look. No one was judging me. I was just another person, crossing a bustling campus on a busy day. As we circled back around to the psychiatric ward I started to cry. It wasn’t out of fear of returning. I was just so thankful for this nurse’s kindness and for treating me like a normal woman, if only for an hour. She gave me that gift. I believe there are angels among us, and she is one.

  Behind the scenes, Larry was in daily contact with Dr. Mona Lisa, by phone, updating her on my situation. Without my knowing it, she contacted Dr. Jerrold Rosenbaum, the head of the Department of Psychiatry at Massachusetts General Hospital in Boston, the number one department in the United States for eighteen of the last twenty-one years.

  She called Dr. Rosenbaum and asked him, without identifying who I was, “Can you take a look at my girlfriend’s chart? She’s in the UCLA psych unit and I don’t think it’s good for her. She’s getting more despondent every day.”

  She asked him for a favor saying that confidentiality would be of great importance as I was a public person. He agreed to review my history and then advise her on how to get me the help I needed. Feeling hopeful and trusting of Dr. Rosenbaum’s expertise, Dr. Mona Lisa reached out to Larry to have him send my chart directly to Dr. Rosenbaum. After reading my records Dr. Rosenbaum called Dr. Mona Lisa and arranged an appointment to see me in Boston as soon as I could possibly get on a plane and be there.

  Everything changed overnight. Larry showed up at the door to my room the next morning bringing me clothing and shoes, makeup, a hat, and a coat. My discharge paperwork was brought to my room while I got dressed. My personal belongings were returned, papers were signed, and I walked out the door holding Larry’s hand past inmates catcalling to me. I didn’t look back.

  Once we were in the car, Larry explained to me that we would be driving straight to the airport and taking a flight to Boston as Dr. Mona Lisa had set up an appointment at Massachusetts General Hospital for me. I called Dr. Mona Lisa and made her promise that I would not be admitted to another psychiatric ward. She reassured me by saying that Larry and I would be staying in a hotel across the street from Dr. Rosenbaum’s office and she was catching a flight from Maine to meet up with us in Boston for the first appointment.

  I felt weak, but I couldn’t tell if it was from exhaustion or relief. The psychiatrist at UCLA had provided me with a medication to keep my anxiety in check as I made the flight from one coast to the other.

  I opened the bag, feeling that I should take something before getting into the crowds at the airport. It was my ol’ pal Klonopin, prescribed by the same psychiatrist who was supposedly completely familiar with my chart. How could I trust anyone with my care anymore? I kept the Klonopin out of Larry’s sight and took one. I wasn’t sure what would be my fate in the hands of yet another psychiatrist in Boston and I wanted the security of something that made me feel peaceful and calm. Forty minutes later, when the pilot came over the speakers to tell all the passengers to “sit back and relax and enjoy your six-hour-and-twenty-three-minute flight into Boston,” I thought it was the best therapeutic advice I had been given in a month.

  Chapter 16

  Somewhere, Upon Some Bright New Dawn…

  On the flight into Boston I paged through a newsmagazine featuring the overdose death of mega-talented actor Philip Seymour Hoffman. He reportedly had had a drug addiction problem in his early twenties and in an earlier interview was quoted as saying that he would take “anything I could get my hands on. I liked it all.” He and his longtime girlfriend and mother to his three children separated at the end of 2013 and she had custody of the kids. Earlier in the year he had relapsed after decades of sobriety and admitted himself for rehab. He was there for ten days. I was curious to know if he had been given a benzodiazepine when he was discharged. Hoffman died of a heroin overdose. Some people made judgmental comments about his death: “How could he? He was so talented and successful?”

  Six years earlier I might have been one of the people who asked those questions. Not anymore. I understood the destructive power that depression and anxiety can have and how dependence on a drug can set you free of your own thoughts, at least for a little while. There’s the hook. The “little while” turns into a month, then a year, then one more year. You can no longer imagine feeling fine on a daily basis, or even remember what your life used to be. Once you can no longer hold the hope of feeling like things will get better, there is no motivation to stay away from drugs like Klonopin, even though it’s supposed to be prescribed as a very short-term medication.

  I peered out of the window as the plane banked over Boston Harbor. The water was choppy and dark gray, roughly slapping the edges of the concrete piers. Winter cold had stripped the trees bare and long late afternoon shadows from the buildings m
ade the city below seem as tired and dispirited as I felt.

  I held Larry’s hand as the plane bounced down on the runway and the force of the brakes seemed to push me forward to yet another new course of treatment, another psychiatric opinion, another therapy method, another desperate grasp at finding a solution to my state of mental distress. I didn’t really want to be there. It had been an emotional respite to be “nowhere,” just thirty-five thousand feet in the sky, moving at five hundred miles per hour, as if I didn’t belong on the earth.

  Larry and I checked into the hotel and soon after Dr. Mona Lisa arrived in time to go with us to meet with Dr. Jerrold Rosenbaum. It had already been a long day and I was feeling anxious about having to talk to a new psychiatrist. I didn’t want to appear too crazy and had a tremendous fear that he would recommend I be hospitalized again.

  Dr. Mona Lisa knew how incredibly busy Dr. Rosenbaum is, but after he looked at my thick chart, his curiosity was piqued and he wanted to take me on as a patient.

  Dr. Rosenbaum oversees a department of over seven hundred faculty members, including psychologists, psychiatrists, neuroscientists and well over a hundred trainees. He has written or edited twenty books and many scholarly articles with a special interest in people who suffer from previously treatment-resistant psychiatric problems. After Dr. Mona Lisa explained all of that to me, I felt very honored that he would consider seeing me as his patient. Because of his leadership role and caseload, Dr. Rosenbaum is unable to accept new patients.

  I felt both comfortable and in very good hands as soon as I met this attractive man with a gentle, sincere voice and manner. I could see as he sat across from me that he wasn’t going to treat me like a powerless child, but would expect me to participate in my own care. I felt something I hadn’t known in a long time—hope. My shoulders relaxed as I sank back into my chair.