But then I missed a turn. My system was flooded with adrenaline, perspiration dripping down my forehead. It was hard to keep focus. “The treatment center was that way!” exclaimed Mia, looking behind us. “Where are you taking us now? Where are we going?” She sounded less triumphant and more scared.
Poor Celia—she had no idea what was going on. I was completely silent, still not daring to acknowledge the truth. Mia sounded like a detective trying to reason through a case when none of the clues were making sense. She kept muttering things like, “Are we going to the high school? Why would he be taking us to the high school?”
Finally, I recovered the correct route, and Mia quickly zeroed in on the right answer again. “We are going to the treatment center!” Soon we were pulling into the main driveway.
The Gulfshore Treatment Center occupied a small site on the outskirts of Sarasota. The campus comprised several single-story stucco buildings, all painted a drab yellow color. They didn’t have many windows, and I imagined that the interiors were dark and private. Overgrown oak trees hid most of the area’s perimeter, and palm trees filled the open spaces between buildings.
Signs for the crisis center led us to the back of the campus. As we drove around the buildings, I saw Dr. Martinez and another woman waiting. I swung the car into the drop-off area, and Celia opened the back door. She and Mia were whisked quickly inside.
“Welcome to my other office,” Dr. Martinez said. “I was hoping not to see you here.”
“Yeah, me too. What happens next?”
“That’s it, Pat, at least for now. We take it from here.”
“But I’d like to see Mia. I want to make sure she’s okay.”
“She’ll be okay,” he promised. “I’m the head psychiatrist here at the center. She’ll be under my care and that of the other doctors here.”
“Okay,” I said, “but I’d still like to see her. I want to make sure she knows that I’m here for her.”
“Of course,” he replied with a slight grimace. “But right now, aren’t you here because she didn’t want to see you?”
“Yes.” It was a simple answer to a complicated question.
“Pat, there’s something you should know, if you don’t already,” he said. “Mia is coming here of her own volition, but I am going to keep her until I feel she is ready to leave. It might be a few days; it might be a week. We’ll see how she does. I have that authority.”
“I know. It’s called the Baker Act.”
“Correct,” he confirmed, “but the other thing you should know is that you can only see Mia if and when she wants to see you. You can only talk to her if she wants to talk to you.”
“What?” I was surprised. “No, I don’t like that. It’s important for me to be with her. She needs to know I’m here.” I was having second thoughts. Although I liked Dr. Martinez, I hadn’t even seen what the facility looked like.
“I understand. Come with me. Maybe we can catch her while they’re in admitting.” We stepped inside the entrance and into a small lobby. It was barren and bleak. There was a receptionist window straight ahead, a few chairs against the walls, and a single door off to the right.
Dr. Martinez approached the door and glanced at the receptionist, his fingers around the handle. A buzzer sounded, and he pulled it open. Walking through, I saw that we had entered a short hallway with a few doors on either side. I couldn’t see the end of the corridor; it turned after about a dozen feet. Dr. Martinez gestured to the first door on the left.
“She’ll be in there,” he said. “I’ll wait here.”
Entering a small office, I saw Mia and Celia sitting at a desk, across from the woman who had been at the entrance. She was young, probably in her late twenties. Mia was taking off her rings and giving them to Celia.
“I don’t want him in here!” Mia said, eyeing me angrily. “He needs to leave!” She was addressing the young woman, who had looked up from some papers on the desk. The woman gave me a compassionate smile. Celia appeared completely helpless.
“GET OUT OF HERE, PAT!!” screamed Mia, glaring at me.
Startled, I took a step backward. “I’ll wait outside,” I mumbled. “Mia, I’ll be right here if you need me.” That last bit made no sense, given the circumstances.
Dr. Martinez remained standing in the hallway. He gave me a sympathetic pat on the shoulder and ushered me back into the lobby.
“Visiting hours are six to eight in the evening, noon to two during the day,” he said. “When you come, you’ll check in at the window. But remember, Pat, you can only go back if Mia approves your visit.”
“Right,” I responded, but my mind was reliving the moment when Mia had screamed at me.
“Also,” Dr. Martinez added, “the center doesn’t allow children under thirteen to visit. It’s too hard on them. I hope you understand.”
I nodded despondently. He excused himself, informing me that he had to check on Mia’s status.
It took a few minutes to start processing thoughts again. Pulling out my phone, I sent a group text. I wanted at least Mark, Brad, my mom, and Mia’s parents to know what had happened:
Mia thought the devil was in me today
She tried to run away
Her doctor strongly advised me to bring her to the mental health facility
That’s where she is now
At least she is safe
Immediately, two texts came in reply:
Mark: You did what you had to do, it was the right thing
Brad: I’m so sorry, let us know what we can do
I didn’t want to respond. All I wanted was Mia back, the person I had fallen in love with. But the illness had taken her hostage, and now I had no legal right to even see her.
The ride home was eerily quiet, like being in the eye of a hurricane. The calm stillness was such a contrast to the frantic mood of everything prior.
“I can’t believe that just happened,” I admitted finally, sighing in defeat.
“Neither can I,” groaned Celia. She turned to me. “Pat, you had to do it. You didn’t have a choice.”
“Guess so,” I said half-heartedly, still not convinced it was the right decision. “Thanks for being there with me, Celia. I know it wasn’t easy.”
“I don’t know how you did it as long as you did,” she replied. “I only spent one night with her, and that was horrible.”
I couldn’t talk; opening my mouth would only result in tears. Celia was looking at me, but she must have seen my eyes watering. She faced forward again, and we passed the rest of the trip in silence.
Marcos and Lucia had returned while we were out. They both gave me long embraces. “Oh, Pat,” whispered Lucia, her voice soft in my ear, “this is the best thing for Mia.”
I nodded. It felt like I was swimming through a hazy dream, trying to keep my head above water. Marcos said nothing while he hugged me, but I could feel the teardrops on his cheeks. I struggled, fighting hard to keep my own emotions in check.
But at that moment our front door opened, and I saw my mom and stepdad coming into the house. We have always shared a close relationship, my mom and I. When I was growing up, she was the kind of parent who constantly gave her kids the benefit of the doubt. She trusted and supported us, and she was always a great comfort to me in times of need. Seeing her that day, I was instantly ten years old again.
My mom didn’t hesitate. She walked directly over without saying a word and wrapped her arms around me. And then I lost it. Ten days of worries, fears, false hopes, and failures came pouring out. I was suddenly crying and shaking, sucking in great gulps of air.
“There was nothing I could do,” I sobbed. “All I wanted was to help her get better.”
“I know, I know,” my mom whispered in my ear.
“I thought that if I could stay with her, if I could just be patient, that my love woul
d make the sickness go away.”
“I know, I know.”
“But nothing I did mattered. It just kept getting worse.”
“Patrick, honey, you did everything you could,” my mom reassured me. She kept repeating it, as if doing so would rid me of all doubt. “You did everything you could.”
But had I done everything I could? I didn’t know. I had never dealt with mental illness before. It was difficult to predict and disconcerting; at times, it was downright scary. Plus, the tools at my disposal were inaccurate at best. We were feeding Mia all kinds of medications without much knowledge of exactly how they worked.
My mom and I stood in that embrace for a long time, much longer than a normal hug. As the emotion drained from my fatigued body, I began to compose myself. By the time Marcos and Lucia left our house, my tears had dried. I was fully collected when Celia drove away, making me promise that I would keep her updated.
Will and Jamie were excited to see their grandparents when they came home from school. I gave them time together before sitting the kids down for an update. I collected myself and tried to look confident. Again, the right words were hard to find.
“Okay, you know how Mom has been sick?” They both nodded, becoming suddenly very serious. “Well, like we talked about before, sometimes when people get sick, we might think that they’re better, but they can still have some of the sickness left inside.”
Two concerned stares. Worried eyes.
“And sometimes, if there is a lot of sickness left inside, they can have to go back to the hospital. We call it a relapse. And what it means is that they just need more time with the doctors. But that’s all they need, more time. And then they’re going to get better.”
Silence.
“Mom had to go back to the hospital today. Not the same hospital, not the one where Uncle Mark works. But a different hospital, one here in Sarasota. It’s where people go if they have a sickness in their brain, and the doctors there have special training to help them.
“Now, I’m sure you are worried. So I’m going to let you ask me any questions that you have. I promise to answer them truthfully.” I figured this was the best approach. I didn’t want to start guessing how much detail to provide.
I sat on the floor, watching them. Jamie was perched on her bed, gazing down; Will was on the carpet a few feet away. They were both inspecting me, trying to read my body language.
Several seconds ticked by. Jamie was the first to speak. “Is Mommy going to die?”
“Oh no, Mommy’s not going to die,” I said, standing and scooping her into a hug. “Mommy is just sick, that’s all, but I promise you that she’s going to get better.”
Jamie put her head against my shoulder. “Okay, Daddy, I believe you,” she said, relaxing into my arms. Will remained on the floor, watching me.
“Will, how about you?” I asked. “What questions do you have?”
He sat very still, first looking at me and then down at his hands. After a pause, he said, without glancing up, “I want to see where she is.”
“You want to see where she is?” I repeated, making sure I had it right. “You mean you want to see the building that she’s in?”
“Yes, I want to see where she is.” He didn’t raise his head; he was studying his fingers.
“Okay, yes, we can do that. Unfortunately, we can’t go inside and see her. It’s not like a normal hospital; they have lots of restrictions about getting in. But yeah, we can jump in the car right now, and I can show you the building.”
Jamie stayed with my parents while Will and I drove in silence to the treatment center. Once we had parked, I pointed to the crisis center. “She’s just inside that door and down a hallway. Doctors and specialists are making sure she’s okay.”
Will studied the building. He looked like someone taking a memory test, where you are shown a picture briefly and then asked to describe it in detail.
After a couple of quiet minutes, he turned away. “Okay, we can go,” he said softly.
He didn’t say anything else during the ride home, and neither did I.
9.
The Crisis Center
Modest Mouse
“Ocean Breathes Salty”
0:40–0:58
Mia and I never fought. In fact, we didn’t have even a minor quarrel until a couple of years into our relationship. It was over the holidays. I was staying with my parents at a hotel in Miami, but they checked out a day before I was set to leave. Mia was furious that her parents hadn’t invited me to spend the extra night with them.
The Delgados were staying at Mia’s grandma’s house. Her grandma lived next door to Mia’s aunt, who lived in a kind of double house with Mia’s uncle’s sister. Another aunt and uncle lived in close proximity. Privacy was limited; Cuban relatives were everywhere.
“It’s fine, babe,” I said, dropping my bags onto the floor of a cheap motel room. “Your parents don’t really know me yet, and the house over there is packed with people.”
“Well, you could sleep on the couch then.”
“C’mon, I’m sure your dad doesn’t want us sleeping under the same roof.”
“Why are you taking his side of this?” she snapped uncharacteristically.
“I’m not taking his side,” I said, and then corrected myself. “Well, I guess I am taking his side. But it’s fine.” I moved to give her a hug.
“It’s not fine.” She hugged me back, but then quickly broke it off and grabbed my luggage. “It’s not fine, and it’s not going to happen.”
I rolled my eyes. “Mia, don’t.” I tugged the bags out of her hands. “Look, I don’t want to push it with your folks. We can survive one more night apart.”
“I know, but making you sleep here seems so wrong,” she grumbled. “Ugh, my parents! I don’t understand them sometimes. I really don’t!”
“Well, you’re not going to change them tonight.”
She gave a frustrated sigh and rushed out the door. It wasn’t our usual goodbye, but I didn’t think much of it.
Twenty minutes later, the phone in my room started ringing. When I picked up, Mia was on the line. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have left you like I did.”
“Oh no, babe, it’s okay,” I said. “You seemed a little upset, but I didn’t take offense.”
“No, I got short with you, and I shouldn’t have. It’s just my parents. They can really get to me.”
She didn’t have much need to apologize. As far as I could tell, her parents were about the only people for whom Mia had no patience. For everyone else, she had endless amounts of sympathy.
The thought of Mia yelling and threatening someone was beyond consideration. It would never happen.
***
Shortly after driving Will home, I returned to the treatment center for visiting hours. The receptionist looked up as I approached.
“Hi, I’m here to see Mia Dylan.”
“Please sign your name on the list and take a seat,” she said. “I’ll let the staff know you are here. Someone will come and get you when your visit has been accepted.”
The lobby was the size of a typical medical waiting room, although it didn’t offer magazines or a television for passing the time. Except for the chairs, the place was empty. The walls were bare, too, and it was quiet. There were no windows.
Given that it was early, I didn’t expect to be called right away. The chairs were those uncomfortable wooden ones, and I found myself sitting straight up with the back of my head leaning against the wall behind me, remembering the shell shock I had felt in the same spot earlier that day.
After ten minutes, an older woman came into the lobby. She checked in with the receptionist and took a seat against the opposite wall. Less than a minute later, the door that led back into the hallway opened, and her name was called.
Over the next several minu
tes, this happened two more times. People checked in and were called swiftly into the facility. And still I sat, waiting.
An hour later, as I was standing to stretch, I caught the eye of the receptionist. “Sorry,” she offered.
I nodded slightly and gave her an acknowledging smile. I know, I thought sadly, you can only let me back if my wife wants to see me.
Eventually, I lost all hope of visiting Mia that night, but I couldn’t bring myself to leave. If there was some chance, no matter how slim, that she might want to see me, I was going to be present for her.
The waiting gave me time to think. Mia handled so many of the kids’ responsibilities. Missing Jamie’s tea party was one mistake, but I couldn’t let there be others. Will had golf, Jamie had Girl Scouts, and they both had dentists’ visits, doctors’ appointments, and countless other activities. Plus, I had to plan their breakfasts and lunches, not to mention our dinners. I couldn’t ask grandparents to hang around forever, taking care of us. And then there was my job, which I hadn’t really dealt with since Mia had become sick.
I used the last fifteen minutes of my wait to make a list of priorities for the coming few days. It was depressing to watch the people who had gained access come back through the lobby. They looked discouraged, but at least they had seen their loved ones.
At exactly 8:00 p.m. I stood, thanked the receptionist, and walked out. I tried to imagine what Mia was doing, but it was impossible. I had no idea what her surroundings looked like. I hoped that she felt safe and secure. At least she didn’t have to worry that the devil was going to get her; she had left him waiting in the lobby.
I lay in bed for a long time that night, reveling in the newfound tranquility of our house. As relieved as I felt, I would have preferred having Mia back in the room with me. But she needed professional help, and at least at the GTC she would be receiving it.
The next morning, I went into work after the kids left for school. Fortunately, I had developed a close relationship with the wealthy family that had hired me a year earlier to help them manage their investments. Up to this point, all they knew was that Mia was sick and needed my care. Once again, the mental health stigma had kept me from being completely honest, but it was time to come clean.
Safe, Wanted, and Loved: A Family Memoir of Mental Illness, Heartbreak, and Hope Page 10