“Yes, and she’s going to be so happy to see you both!”
As I stood up and the kids started walking toward the hospital, I greeted Marcos and Lucia. Mark had updated them on the details of Dr. Patel’s diagnosis, and I could see the relief in their eyes, too.
On the way through the lobby, in the gift shop the kids picked up a teddy bear for Mia. The cheerful voices of a nine-year-old and eleven-year-old can certainly brighten an otherwise downcast hospital corridor. I felt like my world, the one that had been shattered the previous day, was piecing itself back together.
It didn’t take long for Jamie to spot Mia. Fearless and determined, she ran straight through the room and right to Mia’s side with her energetic greeting: “Mommy! Mommy!”
Will was more hesitant, slowing down to fully assess the hospital room with all of its technology and sounds. But once he saw Jamie hugging Mia, a huge grin lit up his face, and he ran over to join them.
I watched from across the room and noticed that Mia’s excitement didn’t match the moment. She hugged the kids, and she was talking to them, but she didn’t show much enthusiasm. I chalked up the strange response to all the medication.
Marcos and Lucia greeted Mia in their restrained manner. Marcos asked a few questions about her medication, but Lucia seemed uncomfortable and timid. The kids wound up making plenty of noise for us all; they became fascinated by Mia’s lunch tray, especially the red Jell-O and chocolate pudding.
After a short stay, Marcos and Lucia left to drive the kids back to our house in Sarasota, and then things quieted down again. Trying to lighten the mood, I said, “Well, we’ve been through better, and we’ve been through worse.”
Mia turned to me, her face a grim reflection of its usual cheer. “Pat,” she asked, “when have we ever been through worse?”
I smiled and grabbed her hand. “I guess you’re right. But if we can get through that, we can get through anything.”
She didn’t acknowledge the comment. Instead, she asked, “What did I say last night, in my sleep?”
Something was strange in the way she asked it. “What?” I said, laughing it off. “I can’t remember. You mentioned one of the doctors. You must have been dreaming about your work.” I found her fixation on it odd, but just then Mark stopped in to suggest that Mia try to get some rest, so I let it go.
That afternoon, Mark, Dr. Patel, and I met in Mia’s room for her psychiatric evaluation. Dr. Patel greeted her pleasantly and then started peppering her with questions. They started out routine. How did she feel? How had she slept? But then they turned more sinister. Did she feel paranoid? Did she feel like someone was out to get her? Did she hear any voices in her head? As she had done with Mark earlier, Mia answered as anyone would, without hesitation.
“Okay,” said the physician after his questioning, “if what you are saying is true, Mia, I believe that you suffered from brief reactive psychosis. The stress from the changes at your work interrupted your sleeping patterns. The lack of sleep, combined with the additional pressure in your life, caused a chemical imbalance in your brain. I want you to take it easy for a while. Take at least a week away from work and get plenty of rest.”
Mia was nodding as Dr. Patel spoke, her face unchanging, but a smile creased my lips. Hearing an expert confirm the diagnosis was a tremendous comfort.
“We have been giving you Ativan,” he continued, “which as you know is an antianxiety medication. We also have you on a small dose of Seroquel, which is an antipsychotic drug. I’d like you to continue taking these medications until you have established a relationship with a psychiatrist in Sarasota. I’d also recommend taking Restoril as needed at night. We need to make sure you get plenty of sleep.”
Mia looked from the doctor to Mark and then over to me. I knew she didn’t like being on so much medication, but I also knew that anything was better than suffering through another day like the previous one.
“Okay,” she sighed.
“Good,” said Dr. Patel. “I’ve asked them to keep you here one more night. I want to make sure we have your sleep back on track. If all goes well, you will be released tomorrow morning.”
The nurse came in to take Mia’s blood pressure, and Dr. Patel used it as his opportunity to say goodbye. As the nurse was distracting Mia, Mark grabbed my elbow and led me outside. Dr. Patel had stopped in the hallway, and he turned to face us.
“She seems much better, no disorganized thoughts or paranoia,” said Mark.
“Yes, she does,” agreed Dr. Patel. “Still, I’d like to be sure. Sometimes it can be hard to tell, as we can’t see her thoughts for ourselves. Let’s see how she does tonight. I won’t be here in the morning, but the psychiatrist on duty can give her a final examination before she leaves.”
Dr. Patel then turned to me. “It will be very important for your wife to see a psychiatrist when you get home. Someone needs to be monitoring her regularly and providing instruction on the medication.”
The rest of the night was relaxed and uneventful. Mark went home while I stayed with Mia. Around 8:30 p.m., the nurse brought the little paper cup filled with pills.
“I hate being on all this medication,” Mia said, looking down into the cup. “I don’t feel right. My thinking feels dulled, and I’m so tired.”
“Tired might be okay right now, babe,” I said. “The doctor wanted you to get plenty of sleep.”
“I guess so,” she replied. She grabbed one of the pills. “This is the Seroquel. I never thought I’d be taking something like this.”
I didn’t know what to say. I opted for reassuring. “You heard the doctor; it was a onetime event. Yeah, it was bad, but it’s over now, and our lives can go back to normal.”
Mia looked from me back to the pill. She gulped it down and then grabbed the Restoril and Ativan. Less than an hour later, she was taking deep breaths and twitching. I put my ear to her mouth to hear her breathing, relishing the fact that she had fallen asleep so easily.
I woke early the next morning and drove back to Marcos and Lucia’s house to pack our remaining things. Mia was still asleep when I left. When I returned a couple of hours later, she was up and talking with Mark. Apparently, I had just missed the attending psychiatrist, but Mark assured me that all had gone well and Mia would be released.
“Here,” said Mark, handing me several forms. “These are her scripts. There is a pharmacy downstairs if you want to go fill them now.” He walked me to the door.
“She seems good,” he whispered when we reached the hallway, his face finally relaxing into a bright smile. “I’m pretty happy with the way this turned out.”
“Me too.” I returned his grin. “Thank God you were around for this, Mark. I honestly don’t know what we would have done without you.”
Within the hour, we had three bottles of new prescriptions and the all clear from the hospital. We said goodbye to Mark and started the drive home. Mia’s mood hadn’t changed from the previous night, but no one expected her to recover immediately.
That was a close one, I thought, studying the road ahead. I knew that accidents and tragedies are part of life. People would get sick; loved ones would die. But Mia and I were young, and the thought of losing her was unimaginable. I shuddered thinking about the brain tumor conversation. As hard as the weekend had been, it could have been much worse.
My wonderful wife was healthy again, and everything was going to be alright.
5.
The Nightmare
Van Halen
“Ain’t Talkin’ ’Bout Love”
1:49–2:02
My cousin’s wedding was held in my hometown shortly after Mia moved to Chicago. Dozens of aunts, uncles, and cousins would be attending. We had a big family, rowdy and loud.
Mia had no problem handling the weekend. A year later, when I met the extended Delgado clan in Miami, I would understand why. She had a lifetime of practice naviga
ting hectic family reunions.
Outside of the crowded gatherings, we found time for more intimate conversations with members of my family. We spent one afternoon with my grandmother. Her mind was still sharp, as was her sense of humor, so visits with her were usually uplifting. But she had been widowed for years, and sometimes all she wanted was to reminisce about my grandfather and their many old friends, most of whom had died. I had always tried to change the subject when this happened. I was uncomfortable focusing on death and the passage of time.
Mia, never one to shy away from difficult topics, had a different approach. When the stories began, she leaned forward to listen. She sat close to my grandmother, holding her hand gently with sincere interest, asking questions and nodding patiently during the long answers. I was captivated watching their interaction.
As my focus shifted from Mia to my grandmother, a new understanding dawned. Although the stories made me sad, they meant everything to her. She cherished Mia’s attention, savoring the fact that someone was giving her memories the respect they so properly deserved.
I will never forget the important lesson about compassion Mia taught me that afternoon. I realized that in her, I had found a person for whom kindness was as natural as taking a breath.
As we grew closer, it became clear that she and I both believed spending time with our loved ones was invaluable. And that set up another conversation I will never forget.
It was a Sunday morning sometime during our second winter in Chicago. I had been working long hours without a day off for three weeks. My brother, Brad, and his girlfriend at the time, Jen, shared an apartment with me. Mia had stayed over after meeting us in the city for a late dinner.
“Ugh,” I groaned as the alarm sounded. “I can’t believe that I have to go in to work right now.” I was feeling down, jealous that they would be hanging out together all day. “You know, I would pay five thousand dollars if I could stay home with you three today.”
“Wow, Pat, you need to get your priorities straight,” Mia answered. “Why don’t you calculate what you are actually making per hour. I bet five thousand dollars is over a month’s worth of your time.”
I stopped, having never thought about it that way, but she was right. I was willing to forfeit more than a month’s worth of wages to buy back a single day for myself. I cannot emphasize enough the impact that her comment had on me. It started me down the long but important path of self-discovery. How should I spend my time? What was most important to me?
Finding answers to these questions would take years, but one thing was certain. Whatever I did, and wherever I ended up, I wanted Mia to be with me.
***
When we pulled into the garage at the end of our drive home, I immediately noticed the sign taped to the door. “Welcome Home!” it read, with a cute drawing of a house and the sun shining above it. Will and Jamie had been busy preparing our arrival.
They came running with cheers when we walked in. “You’re home!” they cried, our little dog barking loudly in their wake.
Mia had walked in first, but she didn’t say much. She bent to hug them, muttered a despondent greeting, and wandered off. Instead, they shifted their focus to me. “Yes, we are home!” I whooped, kneeling down to their level and sharing their enthusiasm. Soon, all three of us were chasing the dog excitedly around the house.
After my romp with the kids, I reconnected with Mia. My in-laws were preparing dinner, which gave us time to handle a few important tasks.
In our study, with the door closed, we held a video call with Mia’s cousin Alex, the psychiatrist from Miami. He was Mark’s age, with short-cropped hair and tan skin. He was confident and earnest, his speech accented by the Spanish intonations so prevalent in the English spoken throughout Miami.
Our conversation lasted about thirty minutes. At one point, Alex asked Mia if she could remember anything from Sunday. “I remember some of it,” she said. “What I remember most is that my mind was racing nonstop.”
“Yeah,” said Alex, “that does happen. I’ve heard people refer to it as a ‘tornado of ideas’ swirling inside their head.”
“That’s exactly how it felt, like I had an unstoppable tornado spinning in my brain, and I couldn’t do anything about it.”
It was hard to imagine how scary it must have been for Mia to lose control of her thoughts like that.
Alex also asked about her treatment plan. “Rest and medication,” she moaned. “I don’t like taking the pills. I don’t feel like myself.”
“No one likes it, but you have to keep taking them,” Alex responded. “It’s the most powerful tool that we have.”
“I know it’s important,” she groused.
“What do they have you on?”
“Ativan, Restoril, and Seroquel, but honestly, I’m not sure of the doses.” She looked at me.
I had a small notebook that I was using to track our instructions. I opened it and read off the information that I had scribbled. “Mia is taking two milligrams of Ativan three to four times a day, twenty-five milligrams of Seroquel twice a day, and then fifteen to thirty milligrams of Restoril before bed for sleep.”
“Wow, really?” Alex asked. “Mia, you must weigh about a hundred pounds. I can’t believe you’re not sleeping now. The Seroquel dose seems low, but even so that regimen should keep you pretty tired.”
“Well, that’s what Dr. Patel wanted,” I said, “to keep her tired.”
“That makes sense,” said Alex, “and given that Mia is so thin, the extra pounds shouldn’t be an issue.” I caught this last comment but didn’t think much of it. I had no experience with these kinds of pharmaceuticals, and I wasn’t aware that most of them caused significant weight gain.
He then started commenting on other drugs, many with names I had never heard. I tried to keep track of them all—Abilify, Risperdal, Lexapro—before it became too much. But he wasn’t recommending them; it was more like he was discussing various alternatives with himself. Before hanging up, he agreed to help us find a good psychiatrist in Sarasota.
Next, we had to address Mia’s work situation. The acquisition of her physician group would be consummated in two days, and she had to decide if she would be accepting a position in the new company. Her response was already overdue.
As we discussed it, I could tell that Mia was hesitant. She loved her work, but she was scared. She didn’t want to risk a return to the emergency room. I didn’t want that, either. And I didn’t want her stewing over the decision when she should be resting.
“Look, babe,” I said, “given everything that has happened, what about taking a break for a while?”
Relief eased the tension in her face as she nodded. I helped her draft a reply, one that would leave the door open for future employment but would turn down the immediate opportunity. When I say that I helped, what I mean is that I wrote the email, and she sat beside me, watching.
I carefully crafted an excuse that was neither dishonest nor forthright. It certainly didn’t include any mention of the explicit issue. Regretfully, my reaction was all too common when it came to mental illness: I hid the truth. I was hoping to shield Mia from the accompanying stigma.
Looking back, I should have contacted one of the doctors in her practice and had a heart-to-heart conversation, but in the moment, and without experience, I did what I thought was best for Mia and her career. I had just witnessed Mark, who was also a medical professional, go to incredible lengths to keep her out of a mental health facility.
We were lucky to keep things secret, I told myself. No one but our closest family members can ever know what really happened.
That night I lay patiently beside Mia, willing her to fall asleep. When she finally began twitching, I snuck out of the bedroom. So many people had left voice mails, from all sides of our family, that I felt compelled to provide updates. It was well past midnight when I finally climbed b
ack into bed, thoroughly exhausted.
Wednesday started as a typical day. I spent the morning at the office, catching up on work I had been neglecting. Late in the afternoon, I met Mia at an appointment with an ear specialist for Jamie.
Walking into the waiting room, I found Mia and her mom sitting quietly with Jamie. Lucia was acting as a temporary chauffeur, given that Mia wasn’t supposed to be driving while so heavily medicated. I greeted them and sat down.
After a couple of minutes, the receptionist asked Mia to come up to the desk. Mia gave me a strange glance like, Why does she need to see me? I shrugged and kind of nodded my head like, I don’t know, why don’t you go find out?
She continued to look puzzled as she made her way to the window, and I suddenly felt uneasy. It wasn’t like her. She worked in a doctor’s office; she knew the way things worked.
She returned with a clipboard and several forms. She sat staring at them, a grimace across her face.
“What’s the matter, babe?” I whispered nervously. “You look troubled.”
“This is ridiculous, why does she need this information?” Mia demanded in a low tone.
I glanced at the paperwork, which appeared standard. It requested the typical information, like name, date of birth, and type of insurance. Trying to sound casual, I said, “Looks like the regular stuff. You know, all doctors’ offices ask for this sort of thing.”
“Yes, but why does she need it?” repeated Mia, glaring at the receptionist, who was busy talking on the phone.
“Well, she doesn’t personally,” I said. “She wants us to fill it out for the doctor.”
“No, she said, ‘I need you to fill this out for me.’ That’s what she said.”
“Okay, well, that’s not what she meant. She meant that she needs the information because it’s part of their office protocol.” I kept my voice calm and discreet, hoping that other people weren’t following our conversation.
“Well, I’m not going to do it,” snapped Mia, shoving the forms at me. “Here, you do it.”
Safe, Wanted, and Loved: A Family Memoir of Mental Illness, Heartbreak, and Hope Page 5
