October 24, 2011
I called Dr. Wreck’s office first thing Sunday morning and spoke with the doctor on call; I asked that they help my daughter by giving her a bed in their hospital and that the bed could be on any ward, but that she needed the combined help of psychiatry and neurology.
That doctor listened and flat out told me that because she was a Medi-Cal patient it didn’t make financial sense for the hospital to lose a bed to her. Stunned at his openly heartless comment I hung up on him.
Again I called Dr. Southland, despite the fact that we had met with him only once on the previous Thursday. He very clearly told me that I needed to get my daughter into a hospital and from the sounds of it the only place to take her would be the hospital that Gabriela’s neurologist worked from. I explained that that was not going to happen. Apparently unable to comprehend this type of behavior from a fellow neurologist, he wouldn’t move from his position that the best treatment option for Gabriela was her current neurologist because of the complexity of my daughter’s case.
I sat hopelessly in the family room watching the dust float through the streams of sunshine from the window. Sipping at my coffee, I was going over and over in my head what I could be missing, what hadn’t I tried yet? Every idea I had and every phone call I made ended the same way. No help for Gabriela today.
Gabriela was 22 years old, an adult by all standards. I was only her mother, I had no right to speak for her, she had to fit the “criteria”: Harm to self, harm to others, or gravely disabled, otherwise no one was interested in helping her.
Our days were long and relatively calm. Our nights were endless, starting from about 11:00 PM and continuing through till the sun was up.
My roommate was home by early Sunday evening. She had driven straight through from Northern Washington down to Southern California, a twenty-some-hour drive.
Gabriela greeted her as though nothing was going on. Judging from Gabriela’s appearance it was clear to Susan that something wasn’t right. As soon as there was someone else in the house, I watched Gabriela try to turn on “normal.” But Susan was too familiar with her to be fooled, not to mention she was a police officer and had her share of 5150 calls.
Besides a brief attempt to make small talk with Susan, Gabriela stayed in her room. Susan needed to get some rest, so she went to her room and I sat in the living room alone.
The house was quiet, it seemed almost empty.
I felt so much comfort in knowing there was another adult in the house that could and would help me with Gabriela. Susan may never have been a mother, but she knew how to be a friend and just knowing that someone was there with me that evening made me feel ready.
The night started somewhat earlier than usual. Gabriela was hearing voices and responding to them. She wouldn’t tell me who was talking; she would just stop, fix her eyes upward, tilt her head, and listen, then resume after a few moments usually altering her direction or activity.
She would give clues that she was taking directions from someone, saying “I have to get ready,” or turning to a mirror and primping, “Do I look good enough?” Of course I would ask, “Get ready for what?” or “Where you going?” She would waft past me without so much as a glance because she wasn’t even seeing me.
Gabriela dashed between her room and the bathroom, noisily enough to wake Susan, who stood in the doorway of her room observing Gabriela’s back and forth from room to bathroom. I stood on the opposite side of the bathroom door from Susan at the top of the stairs and we watched.
Gabriela stopped, eyes up, head tilted, motionless. She turned quickly towards me, shoving me out of her way. “They’re here!”
“Who are they?” I said, trying to block her bolt down the stairs, “there’s no one here!”