Obviously, something was wrong. I wondered if it could be the medication—changing her personality as it fought to stabilize the chemical balance in her brain. Or could she be suffering from the early phases of psychosis again, where she couldn’t accurately interpret language? The thought sent a chill through me.
I filled out the forms, turned them in, and a half hour later we were seeing the doctor. Typically, Mia would have asked a number of incisive questions associated with Jamie’s health, all of them grounded in an impressive repository of pediatric knowledge. Instead, she remained silent while I stumbled my way through the meeting.
After returning home, I pulled my mother-in-law aside. “Lucia, have you noticed anything strange about Mia’s behavior today?”
“No, Pat,” she said, her Cuban accent making it sound more like Paht. “Mia has been tired, and maybe a little impatient, but not like what we experienced at Celia’s house.” Her response gave me a little comfort, but not much.
In bed that night, I realized that a pattern was emerging. Mia would fall asleep almost exactly forty-five minutes after taking the Restoril. Once she did, I snuck out of the room again, this time to update Mark.
Through several texts, I informed him of the strange exchange at the doctor’s office. He didn’t like the sound of it but was pleased to hear that she was sleeping.
The next morning at work, I received a text from Mia. She was taking her mom for a tour of our church’s youth program, and she wanted me to join them. It seemed a bit strange at the time but not entirely out of place. Mia had been active in youth education at the church for years. She had recently started teaching in the program for older kids and was excited about her new role.
I phoned Mark on my way to meet them. He wanted to know if I had arranged an appointment with a local psychiatrist.
“Yes, I called yesterday. Alex gave me the name of Dr. Johnny Martinez. We have an appointment with him on Monday.”
“Dude, what? That’s in four days!”
“Yeah, well, that’s the earliest they could get us in. I told them it was important.”
“It’s not important,” he cried, “it’s urgent! Pat, you remember what Dr. Patel said. For all we know, Mia could be acting normal but thinking crazy shit. She needs to be under the care of someone with expert training. Now! She just got out of the emergency room!”
He caught me off guard. Did he think that I wasn’t taking the situation seriously?
“Mark, what do you want me to do, demand that Martinez see us today?”
“Absolutely, a hundred percent that’s what I want! Look, buddy, you’re doing a great job. But I’m not a psychiatrist, and neither are you. We’re guessing. Just get her in to see someone there immediately, okay? Do whatever you have to do.”
“Okay, yeah, of course I will,” I answered as I pulled into the church’s parking lot. Mark was nervous, and it made me apprehensive. I resolved to contact Dr. Martinez’s office as soon as possible.
The youth program was held in a small one-story building across the street from the sanctuary. I walked the halls lined with classrooms and found Mia and her mom in one of the far rooms. The walls were decorated with cartoons and Bible verses, and Mia was pointing to something at the back of the class. I greeted them both and then listened while Mia continued talking about a recent lesson. A few moments later, an older woman appeared at the door.
“Hi there, I just wanted to see who was here in our room,” she said.
“What? No, this is my room,” declared Mia. “I teach in this room.” She said it aggressively, like she was defending her honor. My pulse quickened.
“Oh, I see,” said the woman. “That’s fine. Of course, we use this room for other things, too, you know?”
“Oh really?” snapped Mia. “And who are you?” She glanced over and gave me a disgusted look like, Can you believe the gall of this lady?
“I’m one of the new sisters here,” the woman replied kindly. “I’m not sure we have met.”
“Yes, hi, it’s nice to meet you,” I interjected, striding over quickly with an outstretched hand. “I’m Pat Dylan, and this is my wife, Mia, and my mother-in-law, Lucia. Mia teaches here in the catechism program. She was just showing us around.”
“Ah, and we thank you for that, dear,” said the nun, smiling at Mia while shaking my hand. “I’m Sister Mary. I’m pleased to be part of the parish. I moved here last month.”
The wife I knew would have beaten me to the greeting, probably given the sister a hug, and then chatted with her for a half hour. Instead, Mia stood on the far side of the room, scowling our way.
At this point, my heart was racing. I had to get Mia back to our house as quickly as possible.
“Right, well, please give our regards to Father John, whom we know well,” I said, dropping the name of the senior priest and hoping it would defuse the situation. Thankfully, it worked. The woman made a few more comments and then left.
Mia remained upset, and I asked her to ride home with me. I wanted to keep her close and evaluate how she was thinking.
“Can you believe the nerve of that woman?” she snarled when we were alone in the car.
“Mia, that was just a nun checking to see who was walking around the building on a Thursday morning.” I tried to sound nonchalant. My breathing had become rushed, and I was struggling to slow it down.
“No, she was saying that the room wasn’t mine, Pat.” Mia’s eyes narrowed and her chin jutted forward. “That’s my room. I teach in there. I taught there last week.”
“I know,” I pleaded, “but how would she know that? You just started teaching, and she’s new to the parish.”
Mia didn’t respond. She was staring at me, wondering if I was on her side. I decided to end the discussion, trying hard to ignore the knot building in my stomach.
When we arrived home, Lucia was already in the kitchen. She must have noticed the strange behavior at the church, and she quickly offered to prepare lunch. I hastily led Mia into our room.
I closed the door and inhaled deeply, attempting to calm myself. Sitting her down on the bed, I said, “Babe, I’m worried about you. How are you feeling?”
“What do you mean? I feel fine. I’m just mad at that woman from the church. Who was she, and what was she trying to do?”
“We’ve been over this. She’s a new nun in the parish, that’s all.”
“That’s what she says, but who is she really?” Her eyes narrowed again. “What is God trying to tell us?”
The gates restraining my worst nightmare finally collapsed, despair flooding over me. It shouldn’t be happening—it couldn’t be happening! The delusions were back, even with Mia taking all the medication!
I forgot about everything but the next moment: keep Mia in our room, safe and protected. I could worry about the rest after that.
“Okay, well, maybe it’s best if we try to relax,” I replied, ignoring her question. “How about I change out of these work clothes, and we try to take a nap?”
“If you want to.” Her expression made it clear that she found the request a strange one.
I quickly changed into shorts and a T-shirt. We had a CD player in our room and a pile of discs strewn about. I grabbed a Van Morrison album and put it on. I turned off the lights and lay down with my head on the pillow. Mia followed my lead.
Lying there, I wondered if she could hear my heart pounding. I knew she wasn’t going to fall asleep, but I needed time to think. Mark was no longer around, and a trip to the emergency room was not an option. My pulse thumped against my eardrums as the first song ended.
“Pat, what did I say in my sleep that night in the hospital?” Mia asked suddenly. She was staring, wide eyed, up at the ceiling.
“I can’t remember. Why?”
“I think it might be important,” she said, without looking at me.
&
nbsp; “It wasn’t important. You were talking in your sleep.”
“I think it has to do with the numbers 3, 6, 8, and 9, but I can’t work it out.” She said it matter-of-factly, without any hint of humor.
“Okay, well, try to work that out,” I said softly. “I’ll be back in a second.” I grabbed my phone, hands shaking, and walked into the hall. Closing the door, I shut my eyes and leaned against the wall, slowly exhaling several deep breaths.
Mia needs you, I kept repeating to myself. Keep it together.
“Marcos, Lucia,” I said as I entered the kitchen, “Mia isn’t doing well. We’re going to be in our bedroom for a while. Can you call Mark and tell him that things are worse than I thought? I’ll update him when I can.”
I needed time to contact Dr. Martinez’s office and convince him to see Mia immediately, but I was worried about leaving her alone too long. I decided to give her more Ativan. Maybe that would help her relax, or at least keep her sedated. I didn’t know what else to do.
When I returned to our bedroom, Van Morrison was singing his song “Sweet Thing.” It had always been one of our favorites. Mia was propped up on her pillow, waiting for me.
“When he wrote this song, he was thinking of us,” she said. “I’m sure of it.”
“Mia, we have never met Van Morrison. He couldn’t have been thinking of us.”
“No,” she said in a firm voice, “I am telling you that he was thinking of us.”
“He wrote this song in 1968, babe,” I replied. “Neither one of us was born then.”
I stood watching her from across the room. Mia rose slowly and marched over. She stopped about a foot away, glaring up at me. I had the fleeting feeling that she was going to punch me. “You need to tell me what I said the other night, in my sleep, at the hospital.”
I was not seeing my best friend across from me. I couldn’t recognize her, like she was someone else.
“Why.” It wasn’t a question. I stated it, daring her to respond.
“It was important. I know it,” she said in the same grave tone.
A heartbeat. And then another.
“Mia, do you think that whatever you said that night was a message from God, and that it will solve the meaning of those numbers that you just mentioned?” I couldn’t believe I was actually saying this.
Her stare was boring into me. There was no sign of Mia in those eyes; they were void of intimacy. For a brief second, just a flash, I might have seen a flicker of hesitation, or maybe it was remorse, but then it was gone.
“Yes,” she said. “That’s exactly what I think.”
6.
The Truth
Poi Dog Pondering
“Catacombs”
2:37–3:15
My illness struck when Mia and I first began living in Chicago. I developed a dull pain in my abdomen. It felt as if someone were perpetually twisting a blunt knife into my stomach.
Back then, I believed that physicians had all the answers. If you got sick, you had only to find the right doctor. He or she would give you the appropriate pill or surgery, and you would be fine. But this new disease was different. I saw many doctors, and no one had any answers. Tests came back negative; scans and MRIs turned up nothing.
I was in constant pain. Physically, it was difficult; mentally, it was devastating. When you are trapped in a body that refuses to heal, your mind doesn’t know how to cope. All you want is to be healthy again, but nothing you do brings you any closer to that goal.
A year into my ordeal, a doctor suggested that I try taking a steroid called prednisone. He didn’t know what was ailing me, but the drug was used to treat inflammation across a range of afflictions. He thought it might help. He was reaching, but I was desperate.
After being on prednisone for a week, my condition deteriorated rapidly. Combined with my already weakened immune system, it triggered a bizarre infection of my mouth and throat. I became delirious, with a dangerously high fever. The steroid was exacerbating my illness, but I couldn’t stop taking it. It was so powerful that the dose could only be slowly decreased over time.
Mia came to my rescue. She dropped everything to remain by my side, kneeling by the bed as I suffered in a half-comatose state. I would slide in and out of delirium, waking to find her placing a cool cloth on my forehead or simply holding my hand and watching over me.
At one point, the situation became so unstable that she rushed me to the hospital. I have memories of huddling in the emergency room and hearing her take charge of my care.
“His fever spiked this morning, and he’s thoroughly dehydrated.” She was lecturing one of the medical assistants, responding with authority to his comments. “No, a glass of water won’t help. His throat is so swollen that he can’t swallow. He needs IV fluids, and he needs them stat!”
Once the steroid was tapered down, the infection cleared. The whole ordeal took another week, a week in which Mia did nothing but concentrate on my health.
When it was over, she was adamant. “We aren’t treating symptoms anymore, Pat,” she said. “We need to identify the cause of this.”
“Isn’t that what doctors are for?” I asked.
“Maybe,” she replied, “but it’s your health.” She decided that together we could find a cure for my illness, even if no one else believed it possible.
Mia never once faltered in her belief that we would find a way to treat my condition.
***
My wife was psychotic again, and for a moment I froze, helpless against the mysterious illness.
I needed a plan of attack. First, I had to get Mia to a psychiatrist. What we were doing was definitely not working. Second, I had to keep her as isolated as possible. I didn’t want the kids to see her like this; it would be too disturbing. Plus, given the stigma of mental illness, I wanted to protect her from rumors that might spread if word of her condition leaked out. Finally, in the short term, I had to sedate her so that she didn’t become too aggressive or loud, as had happened in Celia’s garage.
But at the moment, Mia was standing in front of me, a defiant expression on her face.
“Mia, I have told you this already,” I pleaded. “I don’t remember exactly what you said in your sleep that night. It sounded like you were replying to a comment that one of the doctors made. You said something like, ‘I wrote it in the file.’”
That seemed to satisfy her. She walked back over and sat on the bed. She put a finger to her mouth and copped an inquisitive look, like she was trying to solve yet another riddle. “I wrote it in the file . . . in the file . . . single file . . . numbers in single file . . .”
She kept talking, but I wasn’t listening. I was trying to find the Ativan. Dr. Patel had said to give it as needed, and it was definitely needed now.
Somehow, I convinced Mia to take the medication and lie down again. She complied, but she kept going on about the numbers and the message from God. “Pat, I need to know exactly what happened and when. We need to go over everything from the start.”
“Okay, right,” I agreed. “That’s a good idea. Why don’t you get going on that, and I’ll be back in a few minutes? I’m going to call work and let them know I won’t be in this afternoon.”
I returned to the kitchen; Marcos and Lucia were still sitting at the table. “Mia is suffering from psychosis again. It’s the same as it was Sunday.” I said it matter-of-factly, and I think they expected it. Lucia must have told Marcos about the incident at church. “I’m going to keep her in our room as much as possible. Can you handle the kids after school and dinner and all that?”
“Yes, Pat,” replied Marcos. “We will do anything you need us to do.” Mia’s parents looked concerned and scared, but they trusted me.
I walked to the back of the house, where we had a big family room. It was packed with toys, musical instruments, couches, and a television. It was also th
e farthest room from our bedroom, and I didn’t want Mia to overhear my conversation when I called Dr. Martinez’s office.
“My wife has gotten a lot worse since yesterday,” I explained when the receptionist answered. “She’s completely psychotic again.”
“I’m so sorry to hear that, Mr. Dylan,” she responded. “If this is an emergency, you should hang up and dial 911.”
“No, it’s not an emergency like that,” I said, trying to sound like I knew what I was talking about, “but it is urgent. I really need Dr. Martinez to see her as soon as possible. Is there any chance that I can bring her in this afternoon?”
“I’m sorry, sir,” she said, “but Dr. Martinez is not in the office this afternoon.”
I remembered the conversation with Mark and had the brief thought of demanding to see the doctor immediately, but then I quickly dismissed it. My only hope was to appeal to this woman’s sympathy.
“Oh, that’s too bad. How about tomorrow?” I asked. “Can you somehow fit us in tomorrow?” I was being as polite as possible, but desperation filled my voice. “My wife is really struggling. I can’t tell you how much it would mean to me.”
The long silence meant the receptionist was trying to find a solution. “Um, okay, let’s see,” she eventually said. “Why don’t you come in at 1:00 p.m. tomorrow? I’ll talk to Dr. Martinez and see if he can make that work.”
“Oh, thank you. Thank you so much.” I only had to manage Mia through the next twenty-four hours, and that seemed doable. Unfortunately, my confidence lasted until I opened the door to our bedroom. Mia was on the phone and appeared frustrated.
“What do you mean?” she thundered. “Why don’t you just answer my question!”
I couldn’t believe that I had forgotten to take her cell phone. Here I wanted to isolate her, and I left her sitting within easy reach of the entire world.
Mia noticed that I had returned. “I have to go!” she barked, putting down the phone.
“Who was that?” I asked casually.
Safe, Wanted, and Loved: A Family Memoir of Mental Illness, Heartbreak, and Hope Page 6
