When Nate’s obsession first started, Pete and I had thought Noah was just an imaginary friend. Grace had had two of them when she was slightly younger than Nate, and always insisted on bringing her two best friends, Chippia and Mippia, along for the ride. But Nate’s fixation on Noah had lasted longer and was far more intense. And by the time the real psychosis kicked in, it was apparent what was actually going on.
With the doctor gone, I crawled into bed with my son and pulled him close. He had stopped crying, and was staring into nothingness. Any remaining sparkle that he’d had in his eyes over the past few months had completely vanished.
Lying there, Nate remained unresponsive. I pulled him tight, hoping for a squeeze, or even a shift in position. But I received nothing in return. Not even a twitch.
Nate’s eyes were open but he lay still, barely breathing. It was as if his spirit had vanished along with Noah.
“Sweetie? Do you want to talk about it?” I whispered in my son’s ear. Pete was sitting in the chair in the corner, quietly waiting. Watching. Wanting to help, but unsure of what to say. Unsure of what to do.
“It’s okay, Bean. You can talk to me. I love you, and I’m here for you,” I whispered. I said a silent prayer, asking for God to return my son to me.
Nate said nothing, but I didn’t get out of the bed. If he wouldn’t talk to me — if he couldn’t talk to me in that moment — well, then, I would wait with him until he could. I was not going to leave my son.
Someone knocked gently on the door. Dinner. Pete quietly ushered them out of the room, signalling that we’d come and get it when we were ready. The attendant quickly left, taking the food tray with him.
The room grew darker. I didn’t know if Nate was awake or asleep, although I sensed his eyes were open. I squeezed him tight to let him know I was there. To let him know that I wouldn’t leave him. I knew what it felt like to be abandoned by a parent, and I would not do that to my son, particularly when he’d just found out the person he was closest to did not really exist. I couldn’t imagine the horror of learning that someone so important to you wasn’t just gone but, worse, had never even existed in the first place.
None of us moved from our positions in the room. Under the covers, I took Nate’s little hand, still soft like a baby’s, and gently squeezed. But I got nothing in return. Just the lifeless, silky hand of my broken-hearted little boy.
Pete eventually left the room, quietly and without saying a word to us. He wanted to get home to Grace.
Somewhere in the middle of the night, a delicate, hushed voice entered the room. “Mommy?” Nate whispered. His breath was hot against my ear.
I hugged him tighter to let him know I was listening.
“How do I know what is real?” He asked the question so quietly I had to lean in to hear him. “How do I really know that you are real?”
Squeezed beside my son in the dark hospital room, my heart broke. A sane adult with a logical approach to life would have difficulty processing such a complicated, life-altering devastation. I couldn’t even imagine what it would be like for the fragile mind of an innocent little boy.
In the darkness, I took Nate’s hand and guided it to my tear-coursed cheek. I kissed his palm. “Sweetie, I am real. And I am here for you. Feel my cheeks. Hear my voice. Take hold of what you are feeling right now … just for a moment, sweetie, and try to feel with your heart. Don’t think with your brain. And you will know, down deep in your soul that I am real. That I have always been here for you. I always will be. Nothing will ever change that, my dear, precious Nate. No matter what.”
I pressed my eyes shut and waited for his response. At first nothing came, and I wondered if I had gotten through to him.
But then, finally, Nate nestled in closer to me. He took my hand. Returned my squeeze.
And there, in that dark moment with just the two of us, Nate came back to me. I was real.
50
Nate
I’m going home today. Dr. Aldridge is sitting in my room, trying to talk to me. But I still don’t want to talk to her.
We are by ourselves. Mom went to get a coffee. Dr. Aldridge came to talk to me about leaving the hospital. She said she thinks it is a good thing that I’m going home. I don’t care where I am. I don’t want to be at the hospital. But I don’t want to be at home. I don’t want to be anywhere.
I want her to leave.
I do not want to talk.
“Nate? I asked if you are looking forward to being at home, with your mom and dad and sister. And all of your things. You even get to sleep in your own bed tonight.”
If I talk, will it make Dr. Aldridge leave sooner? I try to answer her but I can’t seem to speak. I don’t know if it is my brain not working or my mouth. I try to think of the answer for a second and then realize I don’t care. I do not want to speak to her.
“Is there anything about your house that you miss?” Dr. Aldridge asks.
No.
“Are there special breakfasts you like? Ones that you can’t get here?”
No. I want you to go.
“Or maybe it’s a special dinner you could have. I know you like spaghetti and meatballs. Would you like to have that for dinner tonight?”
No. I want you to get the hell out of my room.
“What about family movie night. You’ll be able to start having those again. Are you looking forward to that?”
No. Get the hell out of my room, you dumb doctor.
“Nate, would you like to talk about Noah?”
Yes. Of course I do. You just told me Noah doesn’t exist, and now all you want to talk about are dumb things like movie nights and my favourite dinners.
“Yes.”
“Okay. Let’s do that, then. How do you feel about what we talked about yesterday?” Dr. Aldridge asks me.
I shrug. I don’t know how to tell her.
“It’s okay, Nate. You can tell me.” Dr. Aldridge waits for me to talk. When I don’t, she says, “Why don’t you think of just one word to use to describe how you are feeling about Noah. Can you do that?”
I nod. I know one word.
“That’s great. I’d love to hear it.”
“Sad.”
“I can understand that,” Dr. Aldridge says. “It would be very sad to find out that someone you thought was real does not really exist.”
“I … I want to go back to how it was. When I knew Noah was … was real.” I start crying again. I’m mad that I’m crying. Because I don’t want to. But I cannot help it.
“Nate, realizing that Noah isn’t real is a big step to realizing what is real around you and what is not. It’s a big step towards you being better. And we’ve talked a lot about why it’s important that you get better.”
I nod. I wipe away my tears.
“You have parents who love you very much. And a sister who does too. And they’ll help you continue to get better. Every day it will get a little bit easier.”
“But I don’t like being awake in the days. I feel … kind of funny. Not like I’ve ever felt before.”
“Can you tell me more about it?” Dr. Aldridge asks.
“I feel tired all the time. But I can’t sleep. And my mouth feels like I have wet cotton balls in it. So does my head. And my heart won’t stop beating really, really fast. I don’t like it.”
“Those are all side effects of the medication you are on. And I know they’re very uncomfortable for you, but we’re hoping they will get better soon. And the most important part is that they are making you better.”
“If the medication is making me feel like this, then I don’t want to take it anymore. I want to stop.”
“You can’t stop, Nate. You need to take your medication, just like we talked about. Every day. It is very, very important. It will keep you healthy.”
“I don’t want to.”
&n
bsp; “Look at how much progress we’ve made, Nate. When I first met you, we would not have been able to sit here like this, talking the way we are now. And you were very, very scared at that time. The medication is helping to make you less scared.”
“Will the medication make me forget Noah? I don’t like that. I do not want to forget him.”
“I know you’re sad about Noah. It’s understandable. And it’s okay to think of him still. It’s also important to remember that he’s not real. But if you need anything at all … something that you would have told Noah before or shared with him … then you can tell your mom or your dad. Or me. We are all here to help you.”
I look at Dr. Aldridge and tell her I know.
But really I don’t.
Because I don’t believe her.
All I know is that the medication is awful. It makes me feel sick. It makes me feel like I’m someone else. Not me. And if the stupid meds are making me feel sick, and making me forget Noah, I don’t want to take them.
I just don’t.
So I won’t.
51
Ashley
“Are you comfortable, honey?” I asked Nate. It was his first night home from the hospital, and I was tucking him into bed.
He didn’t answer me.
“I’m sorry you couldn’t eat your spaghetti tonight,” I said, my voice filling the silent room. Pete had made homemade meatballs for Nate’s first family dinner at home, but our son had hardly touched his meal. He claimed he wasn’t hungry, and told us the meds were making him feel so sick that he couldn’t eat. We hadn’t pushed it, and settled instead for his agreement to take his meds, which had been the first exhausting battle when we got home.
The second had been Nate’s silence. He’d been stone quiet since we got home. I had such high hopes for his return home, but his chronic silence was making everyone feel anxious and uncomfortable.
“Well, let me tell you, the sauce your dad made was pretty awesome. And the good news is there was a lot left over, so you can eat it whenever you’re hungry. Maybe you could have some for lunch tomorrow.”
Nate gave me a look that suggested he wouldn’t want it. I decided to drop the subject of eating. “Is there anything you’d like before you go to sleep? Some water maybe? Or I could stay with you. If you want, that is. Or I could sing you songs, or rub your back?”
Nate turned over in his bed, clearly telling me to leave him alone.
Dr. Aldridge had warned us of the highs and lows we’d experience. I knew Nate was far from being better. And for a long while, we’d never know what to expect from him.
“Okay, sweetie. I’ll leave your door open so that I can hear you. Call me if you need anything at all.” I leaned over my son’s back to kiss his cheek. It felt rigid, like he was clenching his teeth.
I left his door ajar and went downstairs. I found Pete waiting.
“Look what I found,” he said. He was holding two of Nate’s pills.
“What? Where?”
“In Nate’s napkin. I was cleaning up after dinner, and decided to do a little checking. Just in case.”
“Oh no. Really?” Our son not taking his meds was a nightmare. And I thought him taking them was the only thing that had gone right since Nate had come home.
“What do we do?” Pete asked. “Should we wake him up and make him take them?”
“I don’t know … maybe?” With the mood our son was in, I had no idea what was best.
Pete started to walk up the stairs but I grabbed his arm. Something in my gut told me to wait until the next morning. “I don’t know. Maybe we shouldn’t. He’s not doing well right now, and maybe the morning will bring a fresh perspective. Dr. Aldridge said it wasn’t a huge deal if he missed one. We can sit him down in the morning and talk to him. After a full night’s sleep.”
“I don’t know if that’s a good idea. I’m scared about him going back to what he was like before.”
“Me too. But I’m also scared to push him too hard. At least right now. He doesn’t seem like he’d be able to take it.”
“Okay … I guess. But we need to talk to him as soon as Grace goes to school in the morning.”
“Agreed.”
“And I think I should sleep down here tonight. You know, just in case he gets up or something. He can’t get outside because of the alarm, but I don’t really want him walking around the house either. I’m sure he could do a lot of damage.”
“Yeah, I was thinking the same thing. I’ll sleep with the door open so I can hear him, too. I doubt I’ll sleep a wink tonight, to be honest.”
Pete drew me in for a hug and kissed my hair, filling me with comfort. Given the battle we were up against with our son, it was good that we had each other.
52
The next morning, after Grace had left for school, we sat Nate down on the couch so we could talk to him about what we’d found. He seemed uncomfortable, visibly twitching, and his face was ashen.
I sat a tall glass of chocolate milk down in front of our son, knowing it was his favourite. He hadn’t eaten breakfast with our family, and I was desperate for him to take in something.
“Nate, your mother and I want to talk to you about something we found,” Pete began. He placed Nate’s pills on the table in front of him. “Do you understand why it’s important for you to take your meds?”
Nate immediately turned around in his seat so that he was facing the back of the couch. As he buried his face in the fabric, I could see that his hands were twitching and it looked like he was in spasms. It was one of the common side effects Dr. Aldridge had warned us about.
I clenched my fists and drew them to my mouth, biting my knuckles. We were doing this to him. We were making him take his meds. We were causing him to twitch. And feel nauseated. And not eat.
Pete drove the conversation forward.
“Bud, what happened to you when you first went into the hospital was the scariest moment of our lives. And this medication, even if it’s making you feel sick … well, it’s keeping you safe. It’s making you better. You need it to be healthy.”
Nate whipped around, his eyes flashing with anger. “You don’t get it, do you? You don’t understand. It’s making me feel like shit. It’s making me feel like someone totally different. I don’t even want to be healthy if it’s going to make me feel like this. Because I’m not healthy. I’m sick. All of the time. I can’t sleep. And I have this rash that’s so itchy I scratch all night. And last night I puked three times, but there was nothing to throw up. Because I can’t eat anything. I hate this. And I hate you for making me take it. And I won’t. I won’t take that stupid fucking medicine.”
I sucked in air, horrified to hear my little boy talking this way. I’d heard him swear on occasion, but never like that. And never to us.
“I’m so sorry to hear that,” Pete continued. “But none of us have a choice with this. You will be gone without it. You need it.”
Nate crossed his arms, and Pete stared back.
Before I could interject, Pete stood up and crossed the room. He grabbed hold of both of Nate’s shoulders and lay him onto the couch, straddling our son’s torso and arms, pinning him down so that he couldn’t move. Nate struggled with as much force as he could exude, but Pete’s strength and weight far surpassed our son’s. Nate’s head thrashed from side to side, in protest of what Pete was doing to him. He tried with all of his might to force Pete off him, but our son didn’t have a chance.
“Pete!” I cried. I didn’t even know I was going to speak. I pleaded with him to stop, but couldn’t seem to find it in me to get out of my seat. I was frozen, watching the horror unfold in front of me.
Pete ignored my pleas and held Nate’s head still, his firm lock stopping our son’s head from thrashing about. He grabbed the medication and chocolate milk from the table, and pinched Nate’s nose closed with one
hand, forcing his mouth to open, then popping the pills into his mouth.
“Pete, no! Please. Stop!” I cried, finally finding movement in my legs. I leapt out of my seat and grabbed at my husband’s arms, using all of my strength to try to get him to stop.
Pete didn’t shrug me off like I knew he could have, but managed to find the strength to keep going, even with me on his back. He poured the chocolate milk into Nate’s mouth, spilling it all over Nate and the couch, and forcing our son to swallow the pills and milk to avoid choking. When Pete was convinced the pills were down his throat, he got off our son, who was coughing and sputtering through his fear.
Kicking Pete off the couch, Nate curled into the fetal position on top of the milk-soaked cushions, and wailed through tears I’d never seen before. I shot Pete a look that I hoped expressed the true revulsion I felt towards him; I couldn’t believe he would do something like that to our son when he knew how important it was for Nate to trust us.
Pete stood and left the room, running up the stairs and mirroring the sobs that were coming from both Nate and me. I’d been married to Pete for thirteen years, and I’d never seen him cry until that moment. Not even when Nate was missing or in the hospital.
I placed my hand on my son’s back, gently, to let him know I was there and wouldn’t hurt him. He responded, turning into me and showing the intensity of his fear by how tightly he hugged me. How powerfully he grabbed at my back. How tensely he gripped my clothes. How strongly he clenched his teeth. And, worst of all, how he couldn’t stop his frail body from shaking in my arms.
53
“We need to change Nate’s medication,” Dr. Aldridge said matter-of-factly, after hearing about the severity of Nate’s side effects and his refusal to take his meds. Pete and I were sitting with Dr. Aldridge in her office at the hospital later that afternoon, while Nate was downstairs working on that day’s art therapy with Payton. “Remember when we talked about this being a big game of trial and error? If Nate isn’t responding well to the Risperidone, we’ll try something new.”
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