October 25 to 26, 2011
I waited for nine sharp, wondering if this is how so many people get lost in the system of mental illness, and determined that Gabriela wouldn’t be one of them. I called the hospital and asked if they knew where my daughter had been sent. “Her name is Gabriela Shufani” … I waited.
They told me she had been sent to Henry Mayo Hospital in Santa Clarita. I had never heard of this hospital but I knew that Santa Clarita wasn’t that far away. I was given the phone number, so I called and was assured that, yes, Gabriela had arrived, and was still getting situated … but they would let her know I had called. And they let me know she was doing fine.
I asked and they explained that there were two visiting times each day, one was midday and the other in the evening. I asked if they would let her know I would be there for the first visiting hours the following day.
When I hung up I knew I had to let Gabriela’s father know what had happened and where his daughter was. He and I had been divorced for nearly 14 years. We didn’t have a great relationship and neither did he and Gabriela, but I always felt it was my responsibility to at least keep him informed of any serious health issues.
I knew he would not answer my phone call, so I sent him a text message. It took a while before I got his response. It was something like, “What the hell is going on there?” I explained in another text that I believed it was related to her seizure medications, a side effect. His response was that I needed to stop giving her anti-seizure medications, that those medications were poisoning her and that I have completely fucked her up.
I thanked him for showing interest and sharing his opinion for the first time in 22 years. After a few more text messages we both decided that we had to put aside our differences right now and focus on Gabriela. I promised to keep him informed on how she was doing. I explained that I would be seeing her the following day early in the afternoon, and would call him after that.
I waited until the following morning to call my mother, and let her and my stepfather know what was going on. They had both been in the delivery room when Gabriela was born, and she adores them both.
My mom listened and asked me a few questions. Then, speaking in her most sincere voice, she apologized to me for this happening. I couldn’t help but cry while I was describing what had happened. My mom responded in a stinging sharp voice, “Barbara you’re going to have to pull it together, you can’t be weak.” My God, I thought, my mom has never allowed emotions.… It seemed every conversation I’ve had with her ended in some sort of tension. I really needed some comfort, not much, but surely not a lecture or pointing out that I was inadequate!
Sitting in my car in the parking lot at work having that conversation with my mother, I wanted so badly just to hang up. I didn’t want to think, to consider, or to worry about anything other than my daughter. I wasn’t really listening as she lectured me; I just sat with the phone in my lap, listening to her little voice go on and on and on … then I broke in and told her I had to go, bye, and I hung up.
Before I set out for Henry Mayo, I needed to pick up some things for Gabriela. She needed clean clothes and shoes because she had been taken in with only the clothes she’d been wearing.
Then I decided to take the back way. It went through several small farm towns. I watched the fields of oranges, avocados, and lemons pass by, it was such soothing scenery, a nice background while I drove and went over the past few days in my mind, remembering every detail as though it were happening right then.
When I found the hospital, it was like a college campus with the behavioral health building off in the far corner.
The past evening was the first time I had seen one of these facilities; this one was completely locked up also, I had to be buzzed into the building, then on to a second spot that was behind thick glass. I announced myself and who I was there to see.
They asked me to put everything I had with me in a locker in the waiting area, except the bag of clothing for Gabriela, which they took to go through in the office. They needed to make sure there were no strings, ties, metal … all food had to be manufacturer sealed before they would give it to her.
I signed in and waited until the guard was ready to take me to Gabriela. 15 minutes went by before finally the guard opened the door and motioned me in.
With no conversation he took me down a long corridor. On the left side were several bedrooms, each room simply furnished with just two beds, one sheet, and a light blanket. The bathrooms were on the opposite side of the hall and were shared facilities. The hallway was wide, simple, clean, with high fluorescent lighting, and speckled linoleum floors.
I followed the guard, trying not to make eye contact with any of the patients in the hall; they seemed to be scuffling in slow motion with no destination. We made a sharp left at the end of the hall, past the “group session” door, and into the dining room where Gabriela was seated at one of the long lunch tables.
Gabriela rose as I entered the room, we hugged, and I told her I loved her and missed her. Then I tried to assess how she was. We sat so close to each other our thighs touched. I told her I’d brought clothes and snacks for her and asked how she was doing.
She smiled and leaned close to me. Whispering, she motioned with her eyes toward a poster on the wall. “See that diagram? The one on the wall over there? You need to look at it with me; we need to figure out how to get out of here. Where’s the nearest church? You in?”
I sat calmly and told her I thought it was a pretty well-secured facility and that I didn’t think that it was going to be possible to break out. She looked up at me, eyes bulging, mouth tight, as she hissed under her breath “You gotta help me!”
I told her I could only visit for a few more minutes. She hadn’t showered; she was still clearly suffering from all the issues that got her here. I left her in a hospital gown and standard issue no–skid socks, sitting at the table alone. It broke my heart. Even though it was completely unrealistic, I wanted so badly to walk in and see Gabriela completely cured, that everything that had happened was gone, done, and she was back to the daughter I knew.
On the drive home I texted Cody, Gabriela’s father, to let him know I had seen her. He called and we talked about how she was doing. He sounded confused and concerned.
It had been a year, maybe longer, since Cody and I had spoken. He hadn’t been involved in his daughter’s life for at least ten years. He would occasionally have a breakfast or lunch with her, but it would be months in between those meals, and few if any phone calls filled in the blanks.
When all this started happening with Gabriela, she and her father weren’t even talking. He had called both Gabriela and I nearly a year earlier and explained that he was ending a relationship he had been in with a girlfriend and had decided to come back to California and get his life back together. Just prior to his return, his girlfriend attempted suicide by overdosing on drugs, resulting in a seizure, and was hospitalized. The event was so traumatic to Cody that he’d felt he needed to stay where he was to help this woman get over him.
Gabriela knew that he was probably lying about remaining in Las Vegas; she believed he lived in the same county we did. She had even bought an iPhone, put a tracking app on it and slipped it under the seat in his car one evening when they had a quick dinner. Cody had told Gabriela during that dinner that he needed to leave early because he had to drive back to Vegas for work the following day.
It cost Gabriela almost $300 but she found out that her father lived about eleven miles from her and came to within a few miles of her house almost daily … but didn’t visit her.
I had decided that when the time was right I would tell Gabriela I had spoken with her father but it wasn’t that time yet.
I didn’t want to return to visit Gabriela that evening if the only thing she was going to do was ask me to help her escape.