“Oyes, que vas hacer de el colegio comunitario? Hiciste la llamada que te dije que hicieras?” her mother asked. She asked about her college situation and making a call. From my understanding, Maribel had finished her first year, and was now on her second year.
“Sí, llamé la otro semana. Hable con un consejero de la escuela y me dijeron que he faltado casi todo el primer trimestre de otoño del colegio. Por ahorita, mi consejero me puso que temporalmente ando afuera del estudio para el trimestre que se está acabando, pero puedo tomar las mismas clases en la primavera,” Maribel informed her mother. She explained to her that she could continue the same classes for the spring trimester. This provoked me to question whether she would be able to get her associates degree on time.
“¡Pues eso es muy bien! No te van a detener tu graduación verdad? Ahora que es el segundo año, yo no quiero que te obligan a permanecer un tercer año.” Her mother did not want Maribel to stay a third year and asked her if she could still get her degree in two years.
To which Maribel responded, “No, Ma. No te preocupes. Sí. Mi consejero me informo que yo he completado suficiente créditos y que todavía puedo obtener mi grado en los dos trimestres que me quedan.” Maribel addressed her mother’s concerns by affirming that she will still be able to get her degree on time, despite her circumstances.
There was a silence that eminated from their side and I was worried. I feared that I might have grinded the hospital wheels on the cold, glossy floor, or if I had caused some sort of friction with the matress. Thats was when I questioned myself, why was I listening so intently to their conversation? This is intruding? This isn’t right.
There was a sigh that I assumed to be Maribels. “Así que está creciendo el David?” Maribel said something about her younger brother growing up.
“Sí,” signifying yes, her mother pronounced slowly. “Muy rápido,” meaning, very quickly.
In the slow pace that her mother pronounced “Sí,” it seemed like she must have been sighing as well.
The silence continued and the ticking of the clock on the wall made me uneasy. I felt like I was doing something that I wasn’t suppose to do. If I get up, she might think that I was listening, I thought to myself. I kept thinking what was the most inconspicuous thing that I could do? And I realized that I could simply go back to sleep, and that there would be no harm done, or at least, try to go back to sleep.
I drew my body slowly back to the bed and laid down without making a sound and gently pulled the sheets up to me, almost as if I was hiding my face.
“Ma.” Maribel began. “Qué es eso que tienes en tu el antebrazo?”
I heard the sound of a purse being repositioned and the clinging of keys and other objects that she must have carried knocking agaisnt each other.
“No es nada, hija,” her mother said, meaing, it is nothing.
“Ma,” Maribel said, in slow, horsey voice.
“No es nada, Maribel,” it is nothing, Maribel’s mother repeated.
“Ma,” Maribel continued. “¿Por qué tienes marcas moradas en el antebrazo?” Why do you have purple marks on your forearm? Maribel asked.
Her mother didn’t respond.
“¿Te hizo eso Ambrosio? ¿Verdad?” Maribel questioned, almost with sort of agitation. Maribel asked if a man by the name of Ambrosio had caused the discoloration on her mother.
“¡Es un morete, Ma!”
It’s a bruise, mom, Maribel exerted.
“¡Qué quieres que te diga, Maribel!” her mother exerted back, what do you want me to tell you, Maribel, in an aggressive whisper. “Y no grites, vas a despertar todo el hospital,” cautioning Maribel to limit her shouting in fear of waking up others in the hospital. “Ambrosio es mi marido. Qué quieres que le haga? Que me garre a golpes con el para que me venga rompiendo el hocico?” Her mother explained something about not fighting with her husband because she was worried for her own safety, that she was afraid that he might hurt her.
“No, pero no debes dejar que te trate así, Ma. ¿Tu crees que eso esta bien? ¿Qué te esté pegando y dejándote moretes?” Maribel argued, claiming that Ambrosio shouldn’t be treating her mother like that. About how Ambrosio was leaving purple-colored bruises on her skin in consequence of abuse.
“He estado casada con ese hombre por los ultimo quince años. Las cosas no san tan fácil como tu dices, Maribel,” I have been married to that man for the last fifteen years, things aren’t as easy as you say, Maribel, her mother retorted.
“¡Ma, ese hombre te va terminar matando¡” Maribel whispered assertively, pleading her mother that she ran the risk of dying. “¿Casi nunca te veo, y cuando tienes la oportunidad para ver me, te manda así? ¿Cubierta en moretes?” Maribel expressed that her mother rarely had the chance to visit, and when she does, she comes with bruises.
“Maribel,” her mother asserted, pausing to get her attention. “Ya no trabajo. ¿Quien va a cuidar y mantener a David? Si Ambrosio me deja, ya no voy a tener un lugar para vivir ni comida para sostener a David. Vamos estar en la calle si el me deja. Y por esa misma razón, no le puedo llamar a ‘social services’ ni al departamento de policías. Para que me vengan y me quiten mi único hijo? Que lo metan en un ‘foster home’ para que luego lo traten feo?” Maribel’s mother was explaining that she didn’t work anymore and that if Ambrosio left her, she would have nothing. She would have no shelter, no food, and would ultimately be on the streets. And as Maribel urged her to get help, she seemed to almost fear these services that were built to assist her. She feared not only the police department, but ‘social services’ and ‘foster homes’ as she attempted to pronounce them in english under her thick, Spanish accent. “¿Y dime que gano en llamar a la policía, Maribel? No nos van ayudar. Lo que los van hacer es deportar a Ambrosio junto con migo, y así es como David acabará huérfano. ¿Eso es lo que quieres, Maribel?” Maribel’s mother proposed that if the cops were to ever get invovled, that there would be a good chance that Ambrosio and her would be deported. At first, I had toruble understanding why, but then it struck me that neither Ambrosio and Maribel’s Mother were documented. If the police department conducted some sort of background check and discovered that Ambrosio and Maribel’s mother were undocumented, then they ran the risk of being deported.
Maribel remained silent. And after about a while, she said, “Sólo quiero que estés a salvo, Ma. Y que nadie te haga daño.”
The two women lingered in silence. Maribel didn’t persist her pleading and her mother no longer defended as to why she was in a relationship with the man, Ambrosio. Regardless, I was uneasy by the mother’s silence most of all, because she didn’t assure Maribel that she was going to be safe, and I think that’s what made me apprehensive. That she made no promise to Maribel that she would be responsible for her own health and the health of her son—Maribel’s brother.
The curtain blocked my view of the two women, so I couldn’t help but wonder about what had been going on in the silence. Was her mother looking away, did Maribel convey disappointment through a facial expression, did her mother continue cover her bruises with maybe a jacket or purse?
They remained silent and I couldn’t help but wonder what was going on beyond the language. What visual cues they were making? I couldn’t say anything, or come into Maribel’s life and fix her problems, but while I was lying quietly on my thin hospital mattress, I hoped that behind those curtains, Maribel’s mother extended her hand onto Maribel’s hand, or arm, or even shoulder, so as to offer her comfort.
Chapter 40
With a buzz of a cellphone, Maribel’s mother had to go. They each said goodbyes. As soon as I heard her mother’s footsteps, I closed my eyes and covered a good portion of my face as to give the impression that I was still asleep.
I never got a look of Maribel’s mother, simply her voice. As her walking continued, the echo of her footsteps traveled outside into the hospital’s hallway and dissipated into the sounds of nurses, carts, and the beeping of mechanical devices.
And
I couldn’t help but wonder—if Maribel’s mother had been married for fifteen years and Maribel was eighteen—does that mean that she was born out of wedlock, or if Maribel had a different father, or if Maribel’s mother ever had a previous divorce? These were the questions that I had no knowledge of, or questions that Maribel herself might not have had the answers to.
After a few minutes of the mother’s departure, Maribel turned on the T.V. and proceeded to watch Married with Children. Maribel was completely quiet; it felt like she had left the room. I thought about saying something to her, but the moment she turned on the T.V., I had the feeling that she didn’t want to talk about any of what happened, so I refrained myself from mentioning anything.
I took one last look at Married with Children, as it played—the lovable and humorous family that brought a smile to the audience. Then, somewhere in between the quietness of the room and the soft buzzing of the T.V., I drifted away into a state of sleep.
Chapter 41
I remember the day after that incident; I couldn’t help but wonder what would happen to me after Maribel left? I was anxious knowing that she only had about a week here and that I would be left alone again. I didn’t get along with the other patients as much, not like how Maribel and I did.
I felt scared about the whole ordeal—life would go on without me, and that Maribel would leave the Chickadee hospital, and that soon, I would be forgotten. That our chapter together was coming to a close after a month and a half of being each other’s company. That she would return to her community college soon, and that I would have to pass my days here continuously with hardly any connections to the outside world. The social workers stopped coming and I rarely saw Dr. Sanchez either. The only people who I came in contact with were the series of nurses throughout the building and occasionally, Dr. Lucio himself. All of them worked at the Chickadee hospital, so they new very little about any of the developments that were happening with my grandmother or my living conditions. I felt my skin shiver and become tense as I imagined someone accusing her of child abuse or claiming that she was some sort of threat to me. Overall, I had little contact with anyone outside of the Chickadee Hospital.
But the day after Maribel’s confrontation with her mother, while I was worrying that she would leave me within a week, was when things changed.
Dr. Lucio called me into his office where he sat me down. I no longer needed a wheel chair at this point and wore minimal bandages from all the bruises and cuts that I had. The injuries on the side of my head were also almost done healing and I had recently gotten my stitches removed. In addition to this, I no longer had to lunge around a beeping machine or the tubes that were attached to my body.
“How are you, Sam? You look a lot better from when I first met you. Please, have a seat,” he began, with a calm smile as I walked into his office and found my way to a chair located right in front of his desk.
“I’m doing good, Dr. Lucio,” I said to him, returning a soft smile.
He shuffled through some documents and flipped through his clipboard as to double check something. “That’s great to hear, Sam.” He paused for a second, and continued, “Well, I wanted to talk to you about a few things.”
I listened attentively to him.
“Well, it’s been 30 days since the diagnosis, Sam. Under my specialties and the other professionals here at the Chickadee hospital, we came to a conclusion and confirmed your diagnosis. You met the criteria and showed evidence to have paranoid schizophrenia. The temporary prescription we assigned you also supports our diagnosis and you agreed that there were less symptoms when you were taking the medication,” he had stopped shuffling through papers but alternated his sight between his clipboard and me. “Which reminds me, how is the treatment going so far?”
“It’s going very well, the medicine helped subdue the whispers,” I reported to him.
Earlier in my stay here, I had asked him if he could assign me any medications to stop some of the more irritating symptoms, like the whispering voices that came and went every so often, because of the fact that they wouldn’t let me concentrate. That’s when he assigned me a temporary prescription.
“Well, I’m very glad to hear that,” he said with a smile. “So I talked to some of your doctors and physicians. And they reported that the injuries to your cranium do not pose a threat. They said everything checked out okay and that there are no risks of complications.”
“That’s a relief,” I replied.
“Yes, it is,” Dr. Lucio agreed. “So I met with Dr. Sanchez, Sam.”
I hesitated. It’s been too long since I had heard her name. If he met with Dr. Sanchez, there must have been new development concerning my whole situation with my guardianship and where I will be staying. After all, I wasn’t planning to live in a hospital for my entire life.
“Yes, we talked over some things, and she explained your situation a bit more to me. She explained to me that you are a dependent of the state of California now. And I told her that once you complete your 30 days diagnosis, that if everything checked out, we could relocate you to another hospital,”
I staggered on my breath once he said, ‘another hospital.’ I responded cautiously “Dr. Lucio, what do you mean by ‘another hospital?’” As the thought of what he said began to sink, I felt an uneasiness growing inside me. Why another hospital? I thought to myself.
“Well, Sam. Here’s the thing, you are still a minor and the state can’t let you roam around without a guardian. Additionally, you also have a mental disorder, so the state and the hospital, are trying their best to accommodate a solution that best works for you and will guarantee your safety.”
As he said this, I couldn’t help but feel like some sort of burden. I was not only a minor, but I had a mental disorder as well. And now, I figured that the state had to find a place to throw me in.
“Listen, Sam. Here at the Chickadee hospital, we have done everything we can to help you. We help patients with injuries or medical complications, but our facility only goes so far in the area of psychiatry.”
I felt my gaze drop and my eyes settled on the ground. I couldn’t control it. I was seventeen-years-old, and here I am, in some chair falling into some sort of grief like state. I should behave like an adult and cut these child signs of sadness, I told myself, but I couldn’t bring my gaze up to him.
“Listen, Sam. This isn’t a bad thing. Dr. Sanchez and I came up with a solution that can benefit you. There is another hospital that is located another city over from here. The facility is known as the Aster Psychiatric Institute. It’s about an hour away from here, but the facility works very well and helps a variety of patients who suffer from mental disorders.”
I held onto my tongue, refraining to even communicate with him, but then it slipped out for no reason. “O-Okay,” I mumbled. I was trying to hold onto something, anything, that would keep me from being sent there, telling myself that I had so many important tasks to complete, but another part of me let go, and said okay.
I took a moment to reassess my situation. I ran through all the different claims I could make: I have school to come back to, I’m almost eighteen, I want to be emancipated, I can take care of myself, I have classes I should be studying for, I have a college application that I have to comeback to, and then it struck me, a sharp, terror-like pain right through my chest.
I looked up at him with my eyes almost shaking. My mouth went dry, and I asked him, “how long has it been since I was admitted,”
He made a few clicks, on his desktop computer, “You were admitted on November 29th,”
I felt my chest tense up, and my eyes were steadily fixed on him, not daring to look away. As if I looked away, I would lose touch of reality again and time would slip away. “Wh-Whats today’s day?” I asked hesitantly. I felt a fear intrude inside me from my own obliviousness to time.
“It’s the 20th of January,”
It echoed and seeped into my core. 20th of January. The realization finally hit me that I had bee
n in this hospital for nearly two months. I had lost track of time, and dates, and the real world. My UC application concluded on November 30th, and yet, here I was, trying to argue for something that was beyond my reach. I wanted to shout at Dr. Lucio that I have a college application to get back to, but every time I thought about it, this sharp echoing pain ran through me. It felt as if an enormous bell tower was being rung, saying, “It’s over. It’s over. It’s over,” repeatedly, as the vibration ran through the inside of my body, almost crumbling what little was left of me. Of my hollow, defeated, body. ”It’s over.”
He made a few clicks on his computer, closing the windows that he opened up. “Listen, Sam. As a specialist, I was able to administer a 30-day diagnosis, but in the psychiatric profession, it is recommended that you be diagnosed over the course of six months. With this said, the Chickadee Hospital can’t keep you here for six months, because it’s a general hospital and the psychiatry department is very limited. What you will need is a facility with several psychologists and psychiatrists to tend to your mental illness. But here’s the thing; mental hospitals are extremely expensive. Dr. Sanchez and I have been talking about possible solutions, and we ruled out that there is no way that you can be an outpatient because you are a minor with no guardian. From what she had explained to me last time, Dr. Sanchez informed me that your grandmother is no longer your guardian, and since you are still a minor, the state of California claimed you as a dependent. Yes?”
“Yes,” I said feebly.
“She also informed me that your grandmother is currently facing legal complications, so we can’t send you back home.”
As he said this, the sight of my grandmother being escorted out of my hospital room reappeared in my head.
“Additionally,” Dr. Lucio continued, “we took into account that you have no financial assets with you to be able to pay for the extravagant expenses for your hospitalization. Which is why we are trying to find a psychiatric facility that will cost you the minimal amounts possible. This, plus your Medicaid health insurance, should be able to cover the expenses of your medications. Unfortunately, we still couldn’t find a hospital that will take you as an inpatient. Still, Dr. Sanchez made a second attempt to find you a facility that will take you in. She went on to file paperwork to have your admission considered involuntary. Dr. Sanchez did this on the premise that you were a threat to yourself, which is why you have that nice bandage around your head.”
Stand Tall My Sweet Dandelion Girl Page 15