“Uh, yeah, I guess so,” I mumbled, leaning over to hug her.
By the time I reached the door, she was already engrossed in her book again. I walked out, adding another priority to my list: Jamie definitely needed to see a professional, too.
11.
The Stranger
Bill Withers
“Ain’t No Sunshine”
1:14–1:35
Mia and I got engaged two years after graduation. I planned an elaborate setup for asking her, and Mia acted surprised, but that was only to humor me. By then, she knew the question was coming.
For Mia and her parents, it was important that we marry in the Catholic Church. To do so, we had to attend something called “Pre-Cana Weekend.” Essentially, it consisted of a two-day conversation about our relationship. During the day, we either sat around listening to couples talk about the challenges of marriage, or we were split into groups and asked to examine various topics.
The lectures could be long and disheartening. One couple spent an hour telling us how difficult marriage could be: “You have to be willing to wake up every morning and see the same person lying next to you,” the husband remarked. “You have to be ready to live with that.”
“Yes,” the wife added, “and sometimes you’ll start to question your decision.”
I knew that getting married meant seeing the same person next to me every day. That was the whole point. I couldn’t think of anything better, and I didn’t expect that to ever change. Still, they kept droning on and on: “You might find that you want a change, but in the Catholic Church, marriage is a sacrament. It can’t be changed.”
I looked around the room like, Don’t these people already know this? Did all of these other couples decide to get married without knowing what they were signing up for?
Apparently, the answer to that question was yes, which became clear in the group exercises when they asked us about specific issues. For example, the leader would say something like, “I’d like everyone to take out a piece of paper. Now, without sharing it, please write down if you want to have children, and, if the answer is yes, write down how many you’d like to have.”
After recording our responses, we would exchange papers with our partners and compare. For Mia and me, this was all review; we had discussed every topic before. However, some of the participants discovered that they had opposite answers. For one couple next to us, the question about kids probably broke up their engagement. Mia and I were dumbstruck. How could they have agreed to marriage without knowing the answers to these essential questions?
Pre-Cana might have been necessary for some people, but it wasn’t for us. We both believed that trust and honesty were vital to any relationship. We both wanted children, somewhere between two and three if we could. And yes, even though I was Protestant, we both agreed that raising our kids Catholic was important.
Other topics were discussed, one applicable to this story. We were asked what we would do if our spouse became sick, if they got cancer, if they became paralyzed. For Mia and me, this was easy: you stick by your spouse. That’s what best friends do. That’s what people who love each other do.
They didn’t ask us, at Pre-Cana, what we would do if our spouse became mentally ill and their personality and character completely changed. Nor had Mia and I ever discussed it.
I would have to figure that answer out on my own.
***
After she was released from the crisis center, Mia was distant and ill-tempered. She always seemed on the brink of exploding, and it kept the rest of us on edge.
I could sense that the kids were having a hard time understanding their mom’s dark personality. A few days after her return, I broached the subject. They were both doing homework at the kitchen table while I prepared dinner. Mia, who was spending most of her time in the bedroom, wasn’t around.
“You’ve probably noticed that Mom hasn’t been acting like herself even though she’s out of the hospital,” I said, watching for their reaction.
Jamie didn’t look up; she probably didn’t feel like talking about space robots again. Will’s eyes didn’t leave his notebook, either, but he responded quietly, “She’s never happy anymore. She’s always angry.”
“I know, it’s because of her medication. The doctors have given her medicine to help her brain heal. And it’s working, but unfortunately, it makes her really grumpy.”
Our kids were good students, but they had never been so absorbed in their studies.
“But it’s only for a while. The medicine will help her get better, and then she’ll be back to her usual self. I promise.” Even as I said it, I knew that my empty assurances were losing credibility. The kids didn’t respond, and my talk didn’t help them reconcile what was happening. Will continued to struggle in school, and Jamie remained an enigma.
Luke was great. He understood the effects that the drugs were having and wasn’t bothered by Mia’s behavior. I didn’t get the sense that they were spending quality time together. It was more like he was a prison guard, making sure that she didn’t leave the house.
As for my relationship with Mia, it couldn’t have been much worse. Although she had withdrawn from everyone, she was most resentful toward me. She wouldn’t forgive me for sending her to the crisis center. She asserted that the GTC had been a traumatizing experience. I didn’t doubt that it was upsetting, but some of what she said was hard to believe.
For example, Mia claimed that she had been raped. Clearly, this was a serious charge, and I didn’t take it lightly. But every square inch of that place was monitored by cameras. Surely, a rape couldn’t have gone unnoticed, especially with all of the nurses and guards standing by to de-escalate a situation. Plus, I had trust in Dr. Martinez and the other GTC workers with whom I had interacted. It was the word of a respected institution and trusted caregivers against a highly medicated, mentally ill patient.
Still, Mia demanded that representatives from the treatment center answer for their supposed crimes. She issued a complaint, and a meeting was promptly arranged. I wanted to support my wife, but her assertion seemed almost impossible.
I didn’t have much time to dwell on it, however; the next two weeks were filled with appointments. We had a follow-up meeting scheduled with Dr. Martinez, and we also had other checkups that Mia had planned months in advance.
The meeting with Dr. Martinez was short, given that we had seen him so recently. He reiterated his belief that Mia’s illness was somehow related to bipolar disorder and instructed her to continue the high dosage of Seroquel for the foreseeable future. He was trying to speak with her directly, but she kept ignoring him.
“There’s no way I am seeing that guy again,” she declared once we were back in the car. “I don’t trust him.”
Even though Dr. Martinez had warned me about the possibility, it was hard to believe. “I like him,” I said. “He’s smart and understanding, and he’s been so supportive.”
Mia didn’t respond, so I added, “He has really been there for us.”
“Been there for us, Pat!” she spat. “Us? He might have been there for you, but he has not been there for me! He kept me locked up in that place. No, Pat, that’s it. Find someone else.”
I resigned myself to identifying a new psychiatrist. My strategy was to filter online reviews based on ratings and availability. After several hours of research and phone calls, I presented three names to Mia. She randomly selected Dr. Eduardo Rojas and told me to schedule a meeting with him.
The next day, I drove her to an appointment with her gynecologist. Mia wasn’t psychotic anymore. When people interacted with her, the things she said made sense. She remained paranoid, but it wasn’t obvious. She saved her exaggerated suspicions for me, not sharing them with others.
Although I had never met Dr. Leonetti, Mia had been seeing her for years. When we were called from the waiting room, a nurse took
Mia’s weight and blood pressure. “So, Mia,” she asked, sitting at a computer, “are you taking any new medications?”
Mia scowled at me, making it clear that I should answer, so I rattled off the various drugs and dosages. After flashing a startled expression, the nurse started typing furiously. She then escorted us to an examining room and asked us to wait.
Dr. Leonetti came in about twenty minutes later with an air of concern. She was accompanied by the same nurse.
“Tell me, Mia,” the doctor began, “how have you been doing?”
“Not so well,” admitted Mia. “I’ve had a lot of anxiety lately and am on medication for it.”
“Right.” Dr. Leonetti looked over at her computer screen. “Everything okay now?”
“I feel better now, yes. Thank you.”
“That’s good,” the doctor said, still studying her monitor. “Is this your husband?”
“Yes, it is,” replied Mia. I stood to introduce myself.
The doctor then began her gynecological review. She asked several basic questions, typing in the responses. “Alright,” she said, glancing through her notes, “looks like we are due for a mammogram after the general exam. Do you have any other concerns I should know about?”
“Yes. I’d like a full test for sexually transmitted diseases, including HIV.”
This last comment caught my attention.
“Okay, we can do that,” replied Dr. Leonetti. It appeared that she didn’t find this request out of the ordinary, but I sure did. It added weight to Mia’s claim that she had been raped. Why else would she want to run all of those tests? The doctor must have been wondering the same thing.
“Tell me, Mia, do you have reason to believe that you might have contracted an STD?” she asked.
Mia was looking at Dr. Leonetti. Then, deliberately, she turned my way, narrowing her eyes in an accusatory fashion. “I have my reasons,” she said menacingly, glaring at me, before swiveling her head back toward the doctor.
“I see,” said Dr. Leonetti with an uncomfortable pause. “Okay, we’ll plan to run a complete battery of STD tests for you.”
I could only imagine what the doctor and nurse were thinking. I didn’t know if Mia truly had a concern or if she only wanted to embarrass me. I sank lower into my chair for the remainder of the appointment.
Mia never apologized for insinuating that I was cheating on her; in fact, she never mentioned it again. We weren’t talking much. She remained standoffish and irritable, and spent most of her time alone. It was futile trying to engage her in conversation; every exchange ended in disagreement, or she would stop talking abruptly, completely ignoring everything that was said. I learned to avoid her, and the kids did, too. She was living in our house, but she was a stranger.
As upsetting as the experience with Dr. Leonetti had been, the next morning brought with it something even worse. I received another call from the school. I had become used to them now; Will’s counselor and I were becoming friends.
“Hello, Mrs. Perry,” I began.
“This is not Mrs. Perry,” said a stern voice. “My name is Margaret Kruger. I run the counseling staff here at Pine Crest.”
“Oh, I’m sorry. How are you, Ms. Kruger?”
“Not good. It has come to my attention that your son, William, has been coming to our offices on a regular basis.”
“Oh, yes. As Mrs. Perry knows, our family is going through a difficult period, and he’s having a hard time.”
“Mr. Dylan, a hard time is an understatement. It appears to me that your child cannot function properly.”
“Wait a second,” I said, offended, “he’s doing his best. The situation at home is very difficult. His mother has been sick for several weeks now.” Once again, I was avoiding the truth, concerned that the stigma surrounding mental illness would invite more scrutiny.
“Sir, in cases like these we call DCF, the Department of Children and Families,” she snapped. I didn’t know much about the organization, but I did know that she had just threatened to get the government involved. “When we hear that a child is scared of his home, unable to deal with his parents, then we have to take action.”
“My son is not scared of his home. Unable to deal with his parents? Are you kidding me? When he comes to your office, it’s because he wants to call me for support.”
“Sir, your son is missing class on a regular basis. He is clearly crying for help.”
“Yes—he’s crying to me for help! How would DCF help? Would they take him away from me? That would be the worst thing in the world they could do!” I was becoming scared and angry.
“We’ll let DCF make that decision.”
“No, we won’t. You are not going to call the government!”
“Mr. Dylan, you need to listen to me—”
“No, you need to listen to me, Ms. Kruger!” I caught myself and took a deep breath. Fighting this woman was not a winning strategy. I started again more calmly.
“Ms. Kruger, with all due respect to you and the responsibilities of your job, we have a loving home. My son is a good kid, and he’s always been a great student. We are dealing with a major health crisis, and he is scared. But I have worked with Mrs. Perry to find a counselor to help him with his anxiety.”
I paused; she seemed to be listening, so I continued. “On Monday, he’s seeing Matthew Brown, someone that Mrs. Perry recommended. Please give him some time with my son. If, after a couple of weeks, things don’t improve, then you can call DCF.”
Silence. I could tell that she was considering it.
“Ms. Kruger, please. My wife’s sickness has been difficult for everyone. But my kids and I, we need to stay together. It’s crucial that we stay together.” I was almost breaking into sobs.
“Okay, Mr. Dylan,” she replied, a gentler tone to her voice. “I’ll speak with Mrs. Perry. We’ll give it another week, but we need to see improvement, okay?”
“Yes, thank you,” I gushed. “Thank you for your understanding.”
As we moved into the weekend, I realized that Saturday and Sunday had lost their magic. Our house was no longer a place to relax. Mia was always upset, and the kids and I remained tense. Mia left dinners early, which at least gave the kids a chance to play their favorite game with their uncle. One of those nights, Will asked, “Uncle Luke, what’s the most dangerous job you’ve ever had?”
“I know that one!” I chimed in. “You’ve seen that picture where Uncle Luke is luring the crocodile out of the water?”
“Ah, yeah!” crowed Luke. “I almost forgot about that one.” He looked wistful, like he was back standing by that muddy lagoon. Then his expression changed abruptly. “But nah, Patricio, that’s not it.”
He had our attention; what could be worse than dancing up close with gigantic, man-eating crocodiles?
“Mira,” he began, “there was this one time I was in Costa Rica. Pretty country, Costa Rica. They got all kinds of terrain, yeah? They got these beaches on the coasts and these huge rain forests in the middle.
“So, I know this dude, and he knows I can dive, sí?” he continued. “And he knows this other guy and . . . pa pa pa, pe pe pe . . . I wind up on this crew. Actually, I was leading the crew. And there was this forest within the rain forest, you know? Mira, these trees were called cocobolo, and they were old and fully mature.” Luke made a motion with his hand, like he was pointing out something tall.
“And cocobolo, it’s like rosewood, yeah? And I tell you, that shit’s hella expensive,” he said. Again, I flashed him the no swearing look. He nodded apologetically.
“So, they hired us to harvest these trees, this forest of cocobolo trees. The only thing is, in that particular area, the forest had been flooded. All the trees were underwater!”
The kids were wearing the same puzzled expression that I was. “Luke, how do you harvest trees that are underwater?”
I asked.
“Ahh, that’s what made it so dangerous, Patricio!” he cried, pointing at me. “They gave us these chain saws, see? But they were underwater chain saws. The water was already cloudy, but when you took those chain saws and started cutting into the trees—yo, you couldn’t see a damn thing!”
I had never heard of underwater chain saws, but Luke wasn’t the type to make up stories; he didn’t need to.
“And I had these guys on my crew. I was the jefe, but these guys were out of control, man. Loco. You never knew where they were. I’d be down there in my dive suit all day—hours, bro—just sawing these trees, without being able to see shit, and knowing these guys were all around me, cutting away. And when you finally cut through a tree, it would float to the surface. You had to watch it because if that tree knocked out your regulator and you got spun around, you wouldn’t know which way was up.” He paused, shuddering. “That was some scary shit.”
I threw him another accusatory look, but he wasn’t paying attention. He was back under the water with his team of wild lumberjacks.
“Yo, it paid well, though,” he smirked, his eyes refocusing on us. “It paid really well.”
And that was the way we spent our weekend. Luke, the kids, and I enjoyed our time together, and Mia maintained her distance.
On Monday, I picked up Will from school and took him to his first appointment with Matthew Brown. It was immediately apparent that Matthew specialized in working with kids. He quickly introduced us to his sidekick, a lovable golden retriever named Tanner. Matthew’s office was inviting, with Florida State paraphernalia everywhere. Will was a college-football fan, and the two immediately bonded over talk of upcoming games.
After the session, they both thought that establishing a regular schedule of appointments would be helpful, and I jumped at their suggestion. The drive home didn’t reveal much, however. Will was reluctant to disclose what they had discussed and stared pensively out the window at the palm trees passing by. But the next morning, Matthew called as I was driving into work.
Safe, Wanted, and Loved: A Family Memoir of Mental Illness, Heartbreak, and Hope Page 14
