Showing posts with label mental healthcare. Show all posts
Showing posts with label mental healthcare. Show all posts

Friday, March 11, 2016

The Hurting Redux, or Mental Illness Stole Another One of My Friends


From The Bumper Book, illustrated by Eulali
Though nothing can bring back the hour
Of splendour in the grass, of glory in the flower;
We will grieve not, rather find
Strength in what remains behind;

Thanks to the human heart by which we live,
Thanks to its tenderness, its joys, and fears,
To me the meanest flower that blows can give
Thoughts that do often lie too deep for tears.
~ William Wordsworth, 
from Ode on Intimations of Immortality... (Tintern Abbey)

Last month, a friend of 28 years committed suicide. She had been plagued with depression most of her life and had a pretty good Cluster B personality disorder set. She was also beautiful, smart, funny, and poignant. She loved cats and Shakespeare and flowers and pink and lace. She loved fairy tales, poetry, classical music, and art. There was her love of The Twilight Zone and the conflicted opinion about the merits of Nathaniel Hawthorne and why Hemingway was horrible but wonderful. She was a great supporter of civil rights and liberalism. We loved so many of the same things. We met in 1988 and would fall out of touch sometimes, but always fell right back in sync when we were in the same geographic place again. I knew she was mentally ill, but I loved her in spite of it. She knew that I knew. Eventually, she told me much about her history and how it all started. Ironically, her history was so much like that of my other friend, the one that committed suicide in 1997, who left me in charge of finding homes for all her pets. Back in 2012, I saw the writing on the wall about how this whole thing was going. It finally went there. Frankly, the circumstances are so freakily similar to those that took my friend, who I called "Cindy" in my post in 2012, that I just can't even.

My friend had a kind and gentle heart and, in her own way, raged against the dying of the light even as she tried to take apart the lamp. I feel, quite unreasonably, as though a world that would let a person like my friend wither in her mental illness until there was nothing left is just a messed up place. But I guess we already know it's messed up, especially for the mentally ill.

My friend trusted me with what was most important to her- her kitties. I found what seems like it will be a wonderful home for two of her cats (together) but had to make the excruciating decision to put the third one to sleep because he was very ill with FIV. He was a sweet kitty, the sibling of the two girlcats and of a lucky one-eyed boycat that I placed with my BFF Gloria, almost five years ago. I'm still wracked with, not exactly guilt, but heartache, over the decision to put Hamlet to sleep. I consulted with a lot of people about the decision, and the only potential shelters I'd found to provide sanctuary would have kept him in a cage. I couldn't be sure if they would really attend to his painful stomatitis. Everyone assured me it was a valid, or even a good or right choice.

On Sunday, I received a box, full of my own books that I had loaned my friend over the years, with what appear to be some of her final messages, scrawled all over on the outside of the box. I say final because that last "please," at the end of the "forgive me- please take care of my cats" just trails off. First and foremost, on the top of the box was her message about Hamlet having FIV. I keep looking at that box, wondering if fulfilling 66% of her wishes was good enough. I'm trying hard not to beat myself up over it. But it's really hard. Preventing suffering seems like the best choice, though. I wish I could have done more. For her, too. She was in so much pain.




So I watch her fish (I also inherited them), and listen to my Blanchard wind chimes. History does repeat itself. 

It feels no better the second time around.




© Bright Nepenthe, 2016

Tuesday, August 30, 2011

Trust and Ugly Truths









When I was growing up, my mom had this maxim that she repeated many a time. She said it just the other day when we were on our way to get her new (rescued) kitty, Ashley. She was talking about congress and the debt and such but she said it, with her usual emphasis.


"I'd rather have an ugly truth than a beautiful lie."


Having lived virtually my entire life in the lap of the luxury of a warm and loving family, never really wanting for much in particular other than things like world peace, an end to hunger and for my kids to stop bickering with their dad at the dinner table, I guess I never really gave it much thought about just how hard it might be to offer up the "ugly truth" to someone I didn't think had a vested interest in caring about me no matter what. Or maybe none of my truths were ugly enough to ever have me worried. Maybe I've led that fortunate a life.


~~~~~


In one of my current GAL cases, in the past year the assigned case manager for the youth has changed five times because of instability with his foster care management agency's staff. His present case manager, a not too competent but seemingly well-meaning young woman, has been on his case since shortly (read just days) before his judicial review in late February, 2011. At that hearing, which was before a citizen's review panel called Foster Care Review, she was like a deer in the headlights. But I was hopeful for this one. She used to play ball. Professionally, I mean. She looks really fit and has some fairly interesting tattoos. She has an edge about her, and I was hopeful that maybe that would be enough to bridge the gap a bit with my young man. But here we are at the end of August and, as she admitted to me at the end of July, at her second semi-annual judicial review for his case, he tells her nothing. She didn't know his sister got her kids back in upstate NY. She didn't know he still calls his deported dad in Suriname on my dime or that I pay half his school lunch money and her agency was picking up the other half because the young man got himself into a swanky magnet program at a school that doesn't provide free school lunches. She didn't know his cousins had been down here for a bit but went back to PA and that one of them had an arrest history for possession that I found in our Criminal Justice Information System. She didn't even know there were cousins because his case dates back to 1994 and even just since 2005 he's been in four different homes, had so many case managers it's dizzying and there are reams of reports in his five part file. He's been in the last home, a fabulous home (like the best foster home other than my home) for the past four years. The foster mom and I are the ones that tell his case manager the stuff that's really going on with him. When I asked this young man, who I've known since February of 2005, why he doesn't talk to her, his answer was brutally honest.

"Why should I? She doesn't know anything about me and she's not going to be around long enough to make it worth my while."


And there, in a nice, articulate nutshell, is the leading problem for children and youth in dependency.


On one of my now closed cases, a gifted 16 year old girl told me she wasn't going to be talking to therapists anymore. Over nine months of the case being in the system she had had three therapists. Her sister, age 13, was in the same boat. But the older young woman, seeing the opportunity to get it out there about what it was like being the oldest of five when your mom was so sick and addicted but really loved her kids and was having trouble taking care of them, really wanted to work with the first therapist. And she did. She talked, she made some progress processing her feelings of both anger and relief at not having to keep it all together anymore after the five kids were removed and their mom was in rehab. But the private agency providing therapy reassigned the therapist after three months, breaking the therapeutic bond abruptly when the therapist showed up and told her she was going to have to do a termination session. (That's where the therapist explains that they can't work with you anymore, why, and wishes you well and hopes you keep seeking treatment with your new therapist.) So the 16 year old started over with a new therapist. She was more guarded, but she tried. A couple of months later, you guessed it. That second therapist quit. She left the agency and then the agency assigned a new therapist. Now the 16 year old had nothing to say. She'd sit in her school's conference room or walk around the block with the therapist barely even speaking or just observing meaningless pleasantries. She had learned not to talk to a therapist. The system of care taught her how. 


This is not, by any stretch, the first time this has happened with one of my GAL kids, either. It happened in the DCF days and it still happens far too frequently in privatized care.


The young man I described above is lucky on the therapy issue, though. He has had, through his foster care management agency, consistency in therapeutic services when he's needed therapy. His therapist is marvelous and would keep in touch with him by cellphone if he needed to touch base. It got him through a rough time when his mom died of HIV. But that is such a rarity in the foster care system. In fact, I'd probably pretty much say it was that therapist being there for him. She went out of her way for him.


Instability and loss of continuity in case management and therapy give rise to serious problems in my experience as a GAL. Not at all surprisingly, youths, especially, become unwilling to trust, to invest feelings and effort, into what is a fundamental therapeutic bond- that with their social worker and/or therapist- if it is continually being broken. Most of the kids in the system, if they've been in the system for any length of time, have been bandied from pillar to post, have seen a revolving door of case managers, therapists, attorneys and in some instances, even judges. I've wondered, more than once, about what this teaches children and youth in longterm care about interpersonal relationships. That they're fleeting and not worth investing a lot of yourself?


I asked my youngest, the one who's adopted, and who's now been in my home for seven years, during which time he's had the same therapist week in, week out, (even as I type this he's still in therapy because of what all happened way back when, for seven whole years, yes, really, and I think it's done him a world of good) what he would do if he had to change therapists and start from scratch all over again.


"I wouldn't. Do that, I mean. I wouldn't do that. Talk to someone else about all that stuff? No. No way."

I think it has to be pretty much typical, really. It worries me for him though, since his therapist is near 70 and not in great health. So much trust and shared information is vested in that therapeutic bond. It's simply irreplaceable.


Further evidence for the idea that it's damaging to have a loss of therapeutic or social worker continuity is that after countless therapists, case managers, targeted case managers, independent living case managers and support coordinators and such, my friend Keyoncé had not told his present case manager (who knew hardly anything about his past, not even that his sister was also their client) that he was making ends meet by engaging in prostitution. She was simply dumbfounded and it took most of my morning and finally several three way calls with a very angry and feeling violated Keyoncé to convince her that this was true. Leaving aside the conflict I feel about having shared his private info with her in order to try to keep him safe and out of the clutches of what I can only view as someone preying on him, I'm left with the lingering, almost plaintive remarks she made to me when he was off the line. She didn't know why he hadn't told her, why he was covering things up, why he didn't tell her about all his traffic charges, the sugar daddy who paid them off, the fact that he wasn't really living with the person he said he was anymore, why he didn't mention the lack of electricity and water there as part of why he left, why, why, why? Keyoncé told he me didn't want anybody else "in his business" and now he's mad that I got him to admit it to her, even though I do think he knows how worried about him I am. But why did he tell me? "You know me. You know all about me. I can tell you that stuff."


Would you tell a veritable stranger your life story for the umpteenth time? What if it was a really sordid and ugly story filled with drugs, prostitution, and things people who are supposed to be helping you might want to judge you for? I mean, really, if you were prostituting yourself, would you talk about it easily to the nice lady you just met who doesn't know a damn thing about you, not even that you have a sister you barely know who is the same agency's client? Would you talk about the things that you had done that got you in trouble? About all your ugly truths? 


Well, whether you or I would is not the point.


Without continuity and stability, they don't.







© Bright Nepenthe, 2011

Wednesday, June 1, 2011

Vigilante Sharia or Mental Illness?


Katya Koren




This is Katya Koren, a Crimean 19 year old. She is stone cold dead. 

A reader of the blog sent me links about her, because of the stoning issue and Sakineh Ashtiani.

According to the original report in Daily Mail in the UK, Katya, who liked fashionable clothes (see above) and had competed in a beauty contest in Ukraine, had purportedly, in the eyes of three youths who knew the direct will of Allah the Most Merciful, committed a grave sin in flaunting her assets. So they decided to stone her to death and bury her battered body in a forest.

There are, however, conflicting reports about her death. Huffington Post is reporting that she may not even have been Muslim (although I'm not exactly assuming that would have let her off, you know?) and that the arrested youth, a classmate, may have kidnapped her, raped her and killed her as a result of some sort of obsession. The Mail has published an update on their original report here. 16 year old Bihal Gazhiev may be mentally ill and might have been rambling about Sharia Law.

Given the way mental illness is viewed in some areas of the world, it's not hard to envision how the information might have come to be distorted, if indeed, it was distorted. While I am no fan of Sharia justice (an oxymoronic term, if ever there was one...), I wouldn't want to be claiming that Sharia was to blame if it really wasn't. When the story first broke over the weekend and there were few bits of info, I didn't post on it. Now I'm glad I didn't. 

No matter why or how Katya Koren died, it was a horrific fate for anyone. 





Jared Lee Loughner in Court
(Chris Morrison for the Associated Press)


Meanwhile, on the topic of murder and mental illness, I want to mention that while I was on hiatus, on May 25th,  Jared Lee Loughner, the Tuscson shooter who killed six (including Judge John Roll and a 9 year old elementary school student government representative, Christina Taylor-Green), wounded thirteen, including US Representative Gabrielle Giffords, was ruled incompetent to stand trial by Phoenix Federal Judge Larry Burns. I got quite a bit of critical mail about my post on Loughner, and the fact that I felt sympathy with his family's plight in dealing with his mental health issues and that he had refused treatment but they allowed him to remain in their home. While many viewed the 22 year old as "just a bad kid" and "drug addict", Jared Lee Loughner has been diagnosed with (paranoid) schizophrenia. Loughner was carried from the courtroom at his most recent hearing, where he was ruled incompetent, after an outburst. He will remain in a psychiatric facility under treatment. If he recovers sufficiently, he will be tried for his crimes. Still psychotic, Loughner fervently believes that he killed Ms. Giffords. Ms. Giffords continues her rehabilitative treatment for her serious brain injury in Houston, Texas. She continues to make progress in her recovery.

© Bright Nepenthe, 2011

First Do No Harm



Attribution unknown


I've slept badly (not that I ever sleep all that great) with thoughts of Mom's impending surgery but even more than that, with thoughts of things that have gone on in the past year with a friend that I'd fallen out of touch with. Her privacy was violated in just unbelievable ways by someone who was supposed to be helping her.  As my husband has observed more than once in the past year, the term "mental healthcare" appears to be something of an oxymoron, perhaps better replaced in this instance with the term "mental health violation". Anyway, as soon as I'm done reading "The Hippocratic Myth", I want to renew the discussion on healthcare, with particular focus on mental healthcare.




© Bright Nepenthe, 2011

Thursday, April 21, 2011

"Bureaucratically Impaired"


Breaking Point
digitally modified from a photo of unknown attribution




It was once said that the moral test of government is how that government treats those who are in the dawn of life, the children; those who are in the twilight of life, the elderly; and those who are in the shadows of life-the sick, the needy and the handicapped.
-- Senator Hubert H. Humphrey, remarks at the dedication of the Hubert H. Humphrey Building, November 1, 1977.-Congressional Record, November 4, 1977, vol. 123, p. 37287.



Back on March 30, I almost resumed blogging. I awoke to something that made me really mad. It was an article in the Miami Herald stating that our shiny new Governor, Rick Scott, was planning to make up some budget deficits by invoking his emergency powers and cutting funding to the Agency for Persons with Disability by anywhere from 15 to 40%. As many readers of the blog know, I'm the permanent legal guardian of one of my former GAL youth, whom I'll call Marina. Marina will be turning 22 in June. She is severely autistic, mentally retarded and virtually nonverbal. She is completely dependent upon her caregivers for just about every aspect of her life you can think of. To say I have strong feelings about the 15% cut passed onto her Group Home providers at the beginning of April would have been the understatement of the year, possibly of the decade. In the race to see if his influence could be even more corrosive and damaging to the welfare of those most vulnerable, Rick Scott surged ahead, at least in my mind, of Paul Ryan, with his cavalier plan to save our state some money by reducing care of the most vulnerable, least vocal, non-voting (cynical much?) sector of Florida's population.

To say that there was wholesale panic in the service sector that provides for disabled children, youth and adults would be no exaggeration. There was a lot of negative press about it, too. Take for example the case of Behavioral Services of Brevard County, which closed for several days because they simply how no idea how they could cope with the 15% cut, which came after all the other cuts that happened under Charlie Crist's and Jeb Bush's administrations. APD Support Coordinators, APD Group Homeowners, parents and families of the disabled rallied and protested statewide. After two weeks of vehement protests on the part of those worried about this most vulnerable sector of Florida society, Scott has, possibly, succumbed. He announced on April 14 that he was rescinding his order.  I'd call it averting disaster, but hey, that's just me. And I'm not sure that I really believe he won't still find some back-door way to screw over the disabled in my state.

In the interest of trying to clarify just what Florida taxpayers hard-earned money is going for, I thought I would tell you more about Marina. She is not an exceptional case. In fact, I would have to say that she's probably a little too typical, sadly.

Marina came into the foster care system at age 14. Her parents, who are themselves cognitively and physically disabled, could no longer manage her care. She was removed by the Florida Department of Children and Families and her parents tearfully signed surrenders admitting that they could not provide for her needs. I came into Marina's life when she was 18 because her public school was making repeated calls to the Florida Abuse Hotline about their observations of neglect of care. My GAL supervisor requested first that I become Marina's Surrogate Parent in Miami-Dade County Public Schools, because Marina already had a GAL assigned to her case. But the GAL wasn't a MDCPS certified Surrogate Parent. A Surrogate Parent follows the educational interests of a child or youth who is dependent (a ward of the state) and who has no family member or foster parent that can or will fulfill the role of signing documents like the student's Individual Education Plan, requests for psychoeducational evaluations, and in general asking questions about whether the child's needs and educational best interests are being met. A good Surrogate Parent can make a huge difference in a child's education. They can keep the child from being expelled or inappropriately suspended by requesting Functional Assessment of Behavior evaluations, demanding Behavioral Intervention Plans, questioning implementation of those plans, and a variety of other things. Your arsenal, if you're a thorough SP, is knowledge of the Individuals with Disabilities Education Act of 2004, Section 504 of the Rehabilitation Act of 1973, and familiarity with a slew of different evaluation instruments like IQ tests and achievement or functional assessments and which are appropriately used to accurately determine a child's disability if one exists. The majority of children who enter the foster care system, especially in situations where the children are raised in foster care, have significant educational delays or learning disabilities. Whether they suffer from emotional/behavioral disabilities because of their social history, or whether they have significant learning impairments because of abuse and neglect on the part of a parent, I can think of only a handful of cases I've had as a GAL where the children did not have something going on that would require them to be in a special education setting. Even the one gifted child I've been the GAL for since 2005 had to repeat 3rd grade because he couldn't pass the reading portion of the FCAT. Though he was, after fighting with MDCPS like a Tiger Mother on my part, determined to be mathematically gifted. Anyway, Surrogate Parent = very important for child in foster care. Bad things happen to children in foster care when they have no educational oversight and foster care case managers cannot fulfill this function because it is a conflict of interest in my state.

When I entered Marina's life in 2007 I was puzzled by all the stuff that was flying around like a maelstrom around her. Her foster care management agency claimed they didn't know what was going on or what to do. She was residing in a behavioral-focused Agency for Persons With Disabilities Group Home that claimed she was a "very difficult consumer." (Consumer is what they call their residents in these homes- they are consumers of their services.) When I went to her school to meet with her Special Education Specialist, I felt like the maelstrom stopped. This quite polished and elegant woman sat me down in her dingy office on the cushionless, well-worn chair and had my rapt attention for over an hour as she took time to tell me of her, and of Marina's teacher's, concerns about the young woman. She was being sent to school on days she menstruated with no feminine products, often already soiled with menstrual blood, and in clothes that appeared to have been bought used† and many sizes too large. She was aggressive, biting people or herself until she bled, wailing, grunting, crying, agitated, dirty, smelly, and in general, miserable. This woman and Marina's teacher had reported this to the Florida Abuse Hotline multiple times. The young woman I saw in the classroom was slumped over and almost non-responsive on her desk. Today, I was told, she had hardly been awake at all and now they thought she was being over-medicated. The teachers, several teachers, who came to talk to me told me that they had known her for years and knew her parents, who had surrendered her to the state and that the young woman had deteriorated in state custody terribly. I was, to say the least, shocked. First I was shocked that all these people in what was supposed to be this "F" rated school were taking all this time and trouble to talk to me when they were so busy and understaffed. But the stories they told me- of having to take her to shower her off because she was so filthy, of their getting school uniforms or food for her with their own money, left me utterly speechless. They suggested that I check out the Group Home she was living in and one of them broke confidentiality to tell me that two other young ladies who had been in the same home at their school had been removed from it by family members who said they found the conditions there unacceptable. I reported the whole thing to my supervisor and then met with the assigned GAL who was extremely reticent about doing an unannounced visit at Marina's Group Home. So... I went with her.

Entering this Group Home was sad thing. Marina was indeed the only "consumer" still living there, although the owner had several other homes that were not empty. It was passibly clean but dark, minimally furnished and Marina was in bed, on a Saturday afternoon, wearing the same clothes I'd seen her in the afternoon before at school. She smelled bad, wouldn't get up and rocked when we entered and tried to talk to her. Her well-intended GAL had had only baby or younger children cases before and had no idea of what to expect from a APD Home, or a severely developmentally disabled youth. But even she saw that this was not what to either expect or accept. The Group Home owner, who I later reported in part for the conditions in the home and in larger part for many other things, was short staffed and said the staff she had was frustrated. Marina wasn't being medicated consistently and clearly some of the staff that tended her just simply didn't care about her hygiene or much of anything else. But clearly the Group Homeowner didn't care, either. I took over the case as GAL in late 2007 and one of the first things I did was recommend we get Marina out of this home and into a better one. Her Case Manager concurred and said he thought he'd agree with any home that I could recommend. I interviewed several prospective providers with the assistance of a very helpful team at APD and settled on a home that was run by a woman who had worked at an aggregate care facility (that's wraparound residential, medical, dental, occupational, vocational and rehabilitations services for the disabled) in Miami, called the Community of Landmark. After closure of that facility in 2005 she had opened a series of group homes in Miami with staff drawn from the women and men she had worked with for decades. They offered a bright and airy home, a vast amount of experience, full staff, behavioral analyst services that appeared to be quite detailed, and recreational therapy that might help her lose weight or at least be fitter, since I was concerned about a family history of fairly serious diabetes and high blood pressure. They seemed confident they could help her have a better life, were willing to facilitate visits by her parents, who still cared about her and were so worried about her. At that point I was mostly just confident she would be safer and cleaner. 

This is the beginning of where the Florida taxpayer needs to really pay attention, okay? 

Marina moved over the Christmas holidays. She had to be taken to the emergency room within a day or two. Baker Acted because of a meltdown, because change is so hard for autistics? Oh no. No, not at all. The Group Homeowner called me and said she and her staff decided there was something wrong, that she was ill, that she was probably in pain. A staff member noted her urine was dark and didn't smell right. Always given to stress biting of her own wrist, Marina was having a field day on that wrist. But that was her only sign of adjustment issues to the new home: that she was biting herself. Where was the expected affect? She seemed really... flat. No, the GHowner told me resolutely, there was something about her affect that was just off. They didn't know her all that well, but they were pretty sure she wasn't comfortable. So the Group Homeowner insisted on taking her to the ER, even though she didn't have all the placement documentation for her yet. Good thing, too, because Marina, it turned out, had a fairly nasty urinary tract infection. What's reality of things when you're functioning with the intellectual capacity of a toddler? Do you learn to toilet on your own? Hmmm. Maybe not. But nor may you be happy lying or sitting in your own urine for long periods of time and getting cold and smelly. Because you can produce a lot of urine when you're 5' 6" tall. So maybe sometimes, you exhibit a little more control and hold it. But... wait a minute... if you're nonverbal, how do you tell someone you need to go? Hmmm. YOU DON'T. Then there was the whole business of the fact that she was doing a lot of... well, how graphic does my grown-up audience want me to be? See, just because you've got the intellectual capacity of a 2 year old doesn't mean that you don't have the hormonal drive of an 18 year old. Mother Nature, wow, she's got goals. So masturbation, including public masturbation and self-stimulatory behaviors of all sorts are really common in the disabled population that Marina exemplifies. And so is rectal digging. And really, when you put those three things together, it's not at all hard to see how you might get a urinary tract infection, is it?

Toileting habits is where we begin, people. Bathroom schedules. Staff that pays attention and makes notes. Staff that has experience reading non-verbal cues that indicate that a person may be in discomfort. Maybe you can't pay someone to care but you sure can pay someone to care for you. A myriad of changes ensued in Marina's life. Her hair, which had been a dirty, too tight-braided mess on top of a raw and irritated scalp, was washed and over the course of several days, so that she didn't end up in stimulatory overload and start biting herself or others, slapping herself or banging her head, was carefully re-braided. Clothes were bought with her social security funds, toenails were trimmed, fingernails clipped short so she couldn't scratch herself and, gasp!, painted a pink shade that seemed to make her smile. She went back to school in early January in new clothes, with a uniform shirt and with a sheet of contact numbers for Group Home staff members and changes of underwear and feminine sanitary products in her backpack. A more comfortable harness, required for her bus ride to school, was purchased. The staff slowly began to get to know Marina and inquired about her dental care (hadn't been to a dentist since 2006 and her teeth were thick with tartar) and whether maybe we could ask the dentist (since she'd have to be under sedation anyway for the exam and cleaning and any fillings) if he could round off her eye-teeth so she couldn't gouge quite so deeply into her wrist when she was agitated and biting. A wristband, just like those worn by tennis players, appeared on her wrist to cover the area and extras were sent in her backpack to school. She was moved to a bedroom with a big window, because she likes sunshine and looking out, whereas another young lady new in the home appeared to be agitated by windows and things going on outside. Anyway, a few weeks later, this is what was on the cover of the report I presented to my beloved Judge:

That was in early 2008. I eventually became Marina's permanent legal guardian, after promising her parents that she would be taken good care of, even after she was out of the Dependency Court's extended jurisdiction at age 19. Yesterday, Wednesday, I participated in what is called a QSI interview with someone from the APD at Marina's Group Home. The QSI, or Questionnaire for Situational Information, is where they capture what they call information about "your life and need for service and support." That's code for saying it's where they try to figure out if you need all this stuff they're paying your Group Home provider for providing to you. If you don't participate, you can be cut off from funding or at a minimum your funding can be sharply reduced. During the course of the interview it was first determined that Marina could not be interviewed herself (that nonverbal thing is such a drag....) and then that she:

  • Needs scheduled trips to the bathroom and hygiene assistance in the bathroom.
  • Needs assistance bathing herself safely.
  • Needs assistance dressing and prompting to remained appropriately dressed in public.
  • Needs assistance selecting and cooking food for her meals because is not able to do so safely herself.
  • Needs assistance feeding herself, both in the form of provision of smaller meals, especially at school, where she is likely to eat too quickly (choking risk) or too slowly (frustration when asked to transition and has not finished meal) and to not steal food that looks attractive from peers thereby putting herself at risk of harm from those peers. Also must have all food prepared in small bite-sized portions as she cannot use utensils other than a spoon.
  • Needs regular recreational activity to prevent further weight gain and to keep blood sugar in normal range and blood pressure low.
  • Needs redirection from self-injurious behaviors that include biting self, pica of her own stool, rectal digging, masturbation with objects, and hitting herself.
  • Needs constant supervision in any public location to prevent wandering.
  • Needs assistance managing her medications for aggressive behavior and anxiety.
  • Needs assistance for going to doctor for medication and overall health management.
  • Needs assistance for dental care because she must be fully sedated and needs watchful recovery time afterwards to prevent falling etc.
  • Needs careful monitoring because she appears to be unable to communicate in any clearly identifiable fashion when she is in pain or has any other needs, whatsoever.
  • Needs full-scale removal assistance in the event of a disaster.


Not surprisingly all of the above was deemed highest tier, around-the-clock care. I feel so lucky to have identified someone who can meet Marina's needs and so worried to think that maybe they may not be able to continue. Because the many good people who work in her home work hard for the six women living there. Paying people to provide that level of care does not come cheaply. 

Just look at that before and after photo again. Every day of her life 'before' led to what you see in that before picture. She communicated the only way she knew how about her misery- she hurt herself, she hurt others. She was Baker Acted a number of times because of her uncontrollable aggression, which I'm going to go out on a limb and call her justifiable outrage.

If Rick Scott had gotten his cuts, how many APD Group Homes would end up being like that first home that Marina was living in? 

I'm betting quite a few would.



❧ ❧ ❧


So Florida Taxpayer, here's your assignment. I want you to try to imagine that Marina doesn't have anyone to make sure she takes her bathroom breaks and how much her hospitalization for the ascending UTI that becomes a kidney infection might cost? Or what if she bites herself because she has pain from a UTI and gets a worse infection from that bite, like MRSA, that requires expensive care? Or what if she bites or otherwise injures a staff worker in an understaffed Group Home who then goes on disability leave because they can't work. What if she eats too fast and chokes and she deteriorates to an even lower level of functioning? Or what if someone takes their eyes off her and she simply wanders away when they are on an outing?

Yesterday, the APD worker conducting the QSI shared with me his story of a wandering disabled adult, the 38 year old son of a personal friend in the Tampa area. Someone took the man with them to pick up their child at a daycare. They left the man waiting in the car while they went inside to pick up the child. They came out, he was gone. The police searched to no avail. Everyone hoped he'd turn up. Two days later his body was found in a nearby lake. Apparently he had been attracted by the sparkling sunshine on the water. He did not know how to swim. I guess he wasn't getting the assistance he needed.

Dean Cannon, Florida's Speaker of the House, the man who thinks that uterus is an ugly word, is going to resume his drive on trying to limit reproductive choice in my state next week, evidently. I ask, for about the millionth time on this blog, why if life still in the womb is so damn sacred, life that is already here, in the form of dependent children, the disabled, the genuinely mentally ill or homeless is somehow counted as less sacred than a mere clump of cells in a uterus?

The disabled in my state have no voice other than that of those who try to provide care for them or who are willing to stand up and advocate for them. The truly decent people of this state, the ones with the real family values, for their fellow human family, are those like the teachers in Marina's school, spending time they don't have to safeguard her, or those at the Behavioral Services of Brevard, who were willing to take salary cuts of as much as 25% just to try to keep serving their clients who would otherwise be literally service-less. It's not about conservatives demanding that people take responsibility to pay for their own healthcare or disability needs nor is it about maintaining or creating tax cuts for Florida residents. But it is, most assuredly, about taking responsibility. And being willing to lead. Being willing to say that government does have a moral imperative to safeguard society's vulnerable members.

Decent and moral people of any reasonable financial wherewithal do not deny the disabled their duly needed care, Governor Scott. I hope that you've seen the light for real on the topic. But I, like so many others, am not holding my breath.




†I just want to clarify here, since I'm a lover of thrift shops, in particular for kids, who outgrow things quickly, that Ms. XXXXX's version of "used" meant, badly used, as in worn, not clean and clearly not appropriate.


© Bright Nepenthe, 2011

Friday, January 28, 2011

Your Federal Dollars and What Constitutes Rape




The Scream by Edvard Munch and Bettina Tizzy




This afternoon I happened on an article, posted on Facebook by a friend, that just about made me apoplectic.




The House GOP's Plan to Redefine Rape



was published today in that Leftist-so-far-around-the-bend-they-are-really-Muslim-Nazis magazine Mother Jones. It details the newly submitted House Bill HR 3, literally titled No Taxpayer Funding for Abortion Act.


The language of this bill is striking, as regards sexual acts that could potentially render women pregnant against their will or despite their inability to successfully carry a child to term who would then remain in their care. Some types of rape and incest just don't count for federal dollars spent on healthcare according to this bill. Namely, acts of rape that do not involve force that don't count: sexual acts on drugged or unconscious women who cannot give consent to sex, let alone impregnation, sexual acts on women who lack the mental capacity, i.e. they are mentally retarded, or so severely hampered in intellectual capacity that they do not understand the actions that they are asked to engage in. That's right, unless you're demonstrably harmed, it's not really enough rape, folks. Drug related date rape, unless the woman presumably was beaten to a pulp, would not meet the standard. Incest, for a woman over the age of 18, does not either. (Problem? Hmmm. I can think of circumstances in which really sicko fathers have forced incestuous sex on their daughters well past adulthood, even for decades as in the case of Elizabeth F, held hostage by her father for decades and forced to father six children with him.) The ultimate slap from Bachmann and company on this bill? In many states, rape is not categorized as forcible or non-forcible. (Wow, you mean rape is just rape in some states? OMGosh you are kidding me? Really?) That leaves open the possibility that if a state doesn't specify a difference between forcible and non-forcible rape that they may not be able to use any federal healthcare dollars on abortion in that state.

Outcomes that I can foresee if this little gem is passed by our Republican House? (Edited to note: And not retooled by our spineless Democratic Senate.)

1) The number of welfare children will increase, because guess what, if you can't afford a private pay abortion, you cannot afford to raise a child.

2) The overall educational level to be obtained by all these not-quite-raped-enough women will be curtailed and thus their earning potential will be curtailed and they will be more reliant on the welfare and other public assistance that the Republicans so despise and say we must eliminate. It's the perfect storm- more poor women, less public assistance. I'm-a thinkin' that likely equals still more babies. How 'bout you?

3) The number of children entering foster care will likely increase because, in general, people who don't really want babies usually don't do an especially fine job with taking care of babies. (Being unhappy because you were raped and had a baby from that rape might have a few correlations with subsequent substance abuse and mental health issues like depression. It might leave you a little edgy on the whole mommy thing.)

4) If there are two classes of rape and only one deserves our federal dollars for assistance in terminating an unwanted pregnancy that stemmed from a rape, exactly how long will it be before women start hearing that "that wasn't really rape"? How long before laws start to change, or at least enforcement of them changes because of this perception? How long before maybe that guy who dumped roofies in that girl's drink at that club gets to drag her to the alley or his car and have the not-so-bad rape sex with her and get away with it? How long before that's not rape but the woman's fault for drinking at a bar? Hey, if she'd been with a male relative, who drove for her, this never would have happened, right? Maybe she should not go out. Maybe she shouldn't dress that way. Maybe she should never be anywhere alone with a man. Maybe she was asking for it. Yeah, asking for that rum with coca cola clearly meant I want to have your baby, dude!

All I can say is that if Republicans want to force women to bear children of rape, every damn one of them had better line up and start taking in those children. Representative Bachmann, you get two, honey! That's right, you adopt those rape babies, you a**holes, so that these women can get own with their education, their youth, their longterm care, their lives. Let them recover as they wish.

Don't try to make the choice to abort after rape a privilege available only to people with the money to pay for it.








© Bright Nepenthe, 2011

Tuesday, January 11, 2011

The Blame Game




Attribution Unknown


When it comes to mental illness, what came first? Was it the illness itself that created a damaged family environment, or did the environment cultivate the illness? I'm thinking about specifically Jared Loughner and his parents. Jared Loughner, aged 22, lived with his parents in what's been characterized as a tense relationship. His mother worked but his father did not. The Loughners have yet to release a reportedly prepared statement expressing their thoughts  to the public.


After yesterday's post, I've had some interesting exchanges with people, all of whom I respect, about whether there is blame to be placed on Loughner's parents. Did they breed a monster? Did they allow him to descend into a violent, truly mad state of mind and do nothing? Did they try to get him help and run into the many obstacles I mention in my post below, ultimately finding they could not help their son? Neighbors variously say they were always standoffish, aggressive, angry, withdrawn, and are now devastated by their son's actions. Reports that Pima Community College delivered a letter to the parents home stating that Jared Loughner could not return to classes until he had had a mental health exam, and had been cleared by a mental health specialist, have been construed by many to indicate the the parents failed to get their son help and thereby have failed not just him, but all those people who have been impacted by his actions that fateful day. But Loughner is 22 years old and they could not force him to seek an evaluation or care, or to participate in such care, or to take his medication if prescribed. Some people say that they could have kicked him out if he wouldn't cooperate. The decision to put an adult child out on the street when they are having mental health problems is such a tough one. If the same thing had happened, would we then be blaming the parents for having essentially abandoned their son when his need was great? What if your mentally ill child is harmed while on the streets? What if he/she harms someone else? Loughner had been cited by Pima CC Police on at least several occasions for using illegal drugs. What if you kick your child out and his drug use worsens and it all culminates in his or someone else's death? There are a million frustrating, frightening, helpless things that go into trying to care, even marginally, for a mentally ill adult child. Caring for that child by allowing them to stay at home hopefully safeguards them, and others. But in this case, it didn't. Perhaps it made it worse because there was no pressure to change his situation. We will never know. There are no easy answers here. But let me tell you in no uncertain terms, until you've spent a few days in the shoes of someone trying to seek care for an adult child who is mentally ill, you should not be quick to point a finger, or to place blame. You, unless you have lived it, have simply no idea what the fear- both for and of your child- can do to a parent. And the idea of living with that for months and possibly years? I am sure that it would make anyone angry, withdrawn, or a whole slew of emotions not related to being pleasantly socially accessible.

One of my friends, a man I consider a genuine do-gooder, mentioned that he hopes Jared Loughner gets the death penalty because of the utter heinousness of what he did. Of course, my readers know that I don't support the death penalty. And I support it even less for the mentally ill or cognitively challenged, as readers of this blog well know. But what will we do with this young man? Assuming that the online evidence, which can be traced as far back as 2007, is indicative of his mental state, he seems to fit a lot of criteria for a paranoid schizophrenic who has had a violent psychotic break. (I might add that if you watch the video below, you'll see that he was never threatening violence, even at his college and that he kept all the materials related to Giffords locked in a safe so even his parents couldn't see them.) When someone is supremely guilty but also supremely insane, what are we to do with them? He must clearly never be free again, since many times, mental health patients cease taking their medication when left to their own devices. He could go right back out and do more murder and mayhem. But if he is restored, relatively speaking by medication, to some state of mental stabilty, clarity, sanity, what do we tell Jared Loughner about his punishment for his crimes?

I simply have no idea.






The man's face simply harrows me...


© Bright Nepenthe, 2010

Monday, January 10, 2011

Mental Illness of an Adult Child: Empathy for the Loughners





Earlier today, my very bruised and sutured husband and I were talking about Jared Loughner. The media is rife with stories of his expulsion from Pima Community College, his rejection by the US Army, his YouTube videos, his MySpace ramblings, his purported following of anti-immigration group American Renaissance. By now, I'm sure reporters have even interviewed his dental hygienist and his second grade teacher. The Atlantic is keeping a running account of information that is coming to light on him. It is all very, very sad.

When my husband was recounting what he'd been listening to on the news, about how students and teachers in some of Loughner's classes at Pima CC were afraid of him, he mused for a moment about what on earth Loughner's parents, with whom Jared evidently still lived, could have been thinking letting him get this way, this horribly mentally ill. I turned to him and gave him a gaping stare.

"Really?" I asked.

The prospect of a 22 year old, adult child, in the midst of a mental health crisis or ongoing disorder is, let me tell you, daunting. Our laws and our healthcare practices in this country are stacked against successful treatment, true stabilization of such a child. Parents are left struggling to cope, often with little access to their adult child's healthcare professionals, little participation in their care, and even when that child has a complete and frightening psychotic break, little recourse. Every step of the way is a battle against HIPAA, against your insurance (if you are lucky enough to have it) and with doctors who are just tired of fighting between those extremes, and fighting combative patients, to boot.

From the difficulty of getting mental health crisis care for your adult child, to the wholly inadequate level of intervention offered in most hospitals, all I can say is, you're lucky if your child is obsessed with the Beatles instead of obsessed with guns and congresswomen.

My heart goes out the families of those killed and wounded by this young man. But it also goes out to the Loughners. I'm sure that the end of their long dark tunnel of mental illness has turned out to be a cavern so black and deep that no descriptor for their despair is quite poignant enough.


© Bright Nepenthe, 2010

Tuesday, November 23, 2010

Living in Interesting Times


Image credit: UrbanDigs.com

You know that old Chinese curse, may you live in interesting times? Well aside from the fact that it really hasn't even been shown to be Chinese (how perfect is that? I ask), I'd really like to know why times have to be so damn... interesting. But first and foremost, I have to say thanks to the readers that wrote me to ask if everything was okay. I know a couple of you received cryptic answers that may even have sounded terse. One of my Iranian readers wrote me through a friend in France to say that she hoped I was okay because she was worried when I didn't blog about Sakineh and the despicable interview last week. I was so very touched. And I am okay. It was just a good fraction of everything else around that has been my sticking point of late. It had me majorly down and, with house guests for the past three weeks, dark thoughts, and family need, it was hard to pound the keyboard.

And, to be honest, it's hard to write when the only things that you can think of writing about seem too personal, or as more than a few people have warned me, are just too taboo. I try not to be a whiny sort of person, but as the Comtesses and several close friends can attest, I have been way beyond whine in recent weeks. Some people told me to write about it anyway. Some told not to write about it all. Some people have been quiet comfort. And then there are the well-intended people who are anything but. Oh, the well-intended can just cut you to the bone, can't they? You can see their sincerity- that they really don't want you to be sad, feel bad, be stressed. But the things that they say are, if anything, sometimes even more like flint sparks to kindling than the events that surround you.

So what, my friendly readers, is entailed by interesting times?



We can start with the most recent and lesser bad of the really bad. There's the dear-heart 14 year old, who with all his spunk and resilience continues to be all boy, in spite of being blind in one eye, having the lateral cataract in the other eye, having the resolving (now mild) neurological issues and having the worst ADHD known to (wo)man (okay, I know at least one of the Comtesses is going to argue with me on that one, possibly more than one...). He still likes to ride his bike like a fiend, and really, with helmet on, I think we have to let him because he has so few outlets since his school won't let him do sports or even participate in PE. I prefer him to ride with his friend Connor, who is attentive and sharp-eyed, but hey, the world isn't perfect and sometimes he rides alone in our quiet neighborhood. So imagine the golden Sunday on which the Bikester is riding on a dedicated biking path with Dad in front, Mom in back, into a public park with safe, wide drive areas. What could possibly go wrong? Well, Dad could slow and the Bikester could accelerate and then, at the last minute, slam on his brake. Please note the singular. That would be the front wheel brake. As anyone who rides will tell you, that is not a good plan. Indeed, one 360 degree flip, multiple contusions, lacerations, abrasions, two fractured teeth, three loose teeth and six sutures later, one can say without further discussion that it was purely awful. More than a week later I still have a very achy and banged up little one. And I notice how many people riding bikes in the Greater Miami area are tempting natural selection by riding, unlike my child, without a helmet.

So, imagine that that's the least bad thing. Pieces of my child were on the asphalt. But there's a certain amount of definitive outcome involved with is the jaw broken? is his knee okay? how many sutures in the chin? does the molar need a root canal and crown or not? There are other things that are far less definitive, which evolve over months like the slow-motion action sequence of a train wreck until the seconds just before the train crashes, in which case it all speeds up and you realize that here is a situation with no brakes at all. 

Families are kind of like a train. Everybody is connected and when one car, one life, derails, it impacts the whole train, which can't keep chugging along like everything is a-okay. The question is whether a derailed train car always knows it's derailed. And whether everyone else is willing to admit that car is derailed. And then there's how to get back on track. Or whether you have to build a whole new track.

So a member of my family (please note the emphasis, thank you) has been in a four months long downward spiral, now stationary. Our best case scenario is that it was a complicated psychotic break due to substance abuse. Our worst case scenario is that it was a complicated psychotic break due to a mental illness that can have psychotic features. The break, which spread itself out over two weeks at the end of October into the first week of November, was much worse than the milder one which occurred in the late summer. After three hospitals and a weeklong stay over the course of only twelve days, our family was practically numb. It was bad enough so that none of us even recognized the person. It was like the person we knew and loved had not just left the building, but the continent. Some of us were afraid we wouldn't get that person back. All of us are afraid we will lose that person yet again. And it's been really charming to feel that I adopted a child who was removed by the State of Florida from family circumstances that involved substance abuse and mental health issues on the part of a parent and that he was plonked into a family with no such history and that life ironically just had to provide him with a little PTSD opportunity in the form of a family member who could echo all that nifty stuff from 0-5 years in his mind. That bike accident, echoing a tricycle accident related to child neglect at age 3, was just the capstone to the entire month of November for me.

When I have the presence of mind to do so, I am going to write a blog post about the despicable state of mental healthcare in this country. A country where they release someone because they were stable for twelve hours after giving them Ativan while they were restrained then counting them stable because they were asleep and not raving.

My family guests are leaving this afternoon, to return to the other side of the Atlantic. I am preparing for a Thanksgiving where I get to be thankful for bike helmets, paramedics, the one good psychiatrist, attending physicians who can suture like they're plastic surgeons, Abilify, Duoderm, the UM Law Clinic's RTI defense of my GAL youth, comforting friends and supportive parents and spouse and the fact that I can, in spite of the wickedest Irish genes when it comes to alcohol, evidently get by without drowning my sorrows.

I'll be back later to blog about all kinds of stuff. Like the TSA body scanner battle that took place a couple of days ago on my personal Facebook page. Or the fact that Ahmadinejad was almost impeached. Or maybe just even that my delicious Maine Coon boycat has a 12 cm long whisker that is just ridiculously charming (hey, I'll take a smile anywhere I can get it these days...)

Oh, and now that I think of it yet again- To the charming person, now counted solely as an acquaintance in my mind, who said I shouldn't feel so bad because this family member, who is related to me by marriage, isn't like my direct biological responsibility or something, I would kindly suggest that caring for someone for the past 18 years kind of makes you look at that person as if they are your own. At least if you are human, in my mind. Of course, I have heard all manner of stuff in recent weeks. Maybe I am just a very misguided person.





© Bright Nepenthe, 2010

Thursday, September 2, 2010

Spinning Out of Control

Spinning out of control...
(Image credit: peevee@ds)


It seems to that I get to sit by and watch as people I care about just descend, quite literally, into madness. One young person I know, whom I've known now for about five years, is severely bipolar and routinely stops taking his meds, abandons his general mental health care only to crash so profoundly that it leaves me wondering about attending his funeral one of these days. His latest horrifying misadventure involved multiple abdominal stab wounds and after three weeks in the hospital he appears to be recovering by hanging out in a place so bad and dangerous I don't even want to think about it any more. But he is not alone in his struggle. He may be the extreme end of what I see, but I see plenty along the same vein, sadly.

I really wonder what it is about the human mind that requires crashing before any progress can be made addressing mental health problems. And I wonder whether the entire process just sets up an endless cycle of denial-crash-treatment-brief recovery-denial-crash, ad infinitum. Add to that the overlay of trying to get mental health care for an unwilling adult and one is left with feelings of powerlessness in the fight to safeguard, or even just help, those you care about.

My great unanswered question for the day: How do we help those who don't want help but so desperately need help? I really want to believe there's some option, other than standing by and hoping that you can catch them when they come flying off the merry-go-round. 

But I'm not finding it. 

Nope. 

Just not.






© Bright Nepenthe, 2010

Thursday, July 22, 2010

Truly heartbreaking...




From CNN


From headlines emblazoned across the wires over the past four or five hours, Saiqa Akhter strangled her two autistic children. She told the 911 operator she did it because they were autistic and she wanted to have normal children. Child Protective Services had investigated the family for neglectful supervision in 2009 when the parents left 5 year old Zain Akhter at home alone while they brought 2 year old Faryaal Akhter to the hospital for a respiratory infection. CPS in Dallas had tried to connect the family with services to assist them. If Texas is anything like Florida those services for autistic children are likely to be few and far between. While there is simply way to excuse Saiqa Akhter's actions, until people have walked a mile in the shoes of a parent caring for not one but two children with illness or disability, I really hope there will be no rush to judgment about what an awful human being she is, etc. She sounds, in fact, like an incredibly depressed and mentally ill human being if you read the CNN report. The Dallas Morning News report suggests that Saiqa Akhter's two year old may in fact have been normal, not autistic, further suggesting that Mrs. Akhter suffers mental health issues. Reportedly, the Akhter family had recently emigrated from Pakistan. I simply cannot imagine the sense of isolation of Ms. Akhter, and the depth of sorrow in their family at having lost the two children, and their mother, all in one fell swoop.


© Bright Nepenthe, 2010

When Mental Healthcare Really Doesn't Seem To Be





Marina

I've struggled about how, or even whether, to post about an event I witnessed and participated in this past week. It's a difficult choice but in the end I decided that the more people know about how mental healthcare works, and especially when it doesn't work, the safer some of the most vulnerable members of our society will be.

Above, you see Marina (not her real name). She turned 21 back in June and those are photos I took of her at her birthday party. I met Marina when she was 17, when I became her Surrogate Parent for Educational Decisions, and then shortly thereafter, because of her advocacy needs, her Guardian ad Litem. She was in foster care, but Marina's case is an extremely unusual one. Marina is mentally retarded and severely autistic. She has a serious uncorrected strabismus that probably further complicates her vision. We can't be sure though. Because Marina is totally nonverbal and can't tell us what she sees. She communicates by grunting, moaning if in discomfort, and by warmly taking the hand of those she trusts and leading them to what she needs. But that's not what makes Marina unusual. What's unusual is that Marina is very much a loved child. Her parents, who have struggled with their own disability and health issues, gave her into the foster care system because they could neither afford, nor could they adequately care for, Marina's intense needs. (Marina is tall, strong, and is prone to self-injurious behavior when she gets upset or frustrated.) They visit Marina every weekend, faithfully, and have for years. When Marina aged out of the foster care system, I became her permanent legal guardian because she really needed someone who would make sure she got what she needs to have a reasonable existence on this earth.  Marina is fortunate that we found a fabulous group home, where she is treated kindly, and thoughtfully. To give you an indication of how good this home is, when she transitioned to it, abruptly, three and a half years ago from a really bad home she didn't decompensate, get aggressive or have all the adjustment issues you expect with a severely autistic individual. She rocked, she stamped, but that was about it. So she has wonderful parents, a fantastic group home (I can't say enough good about the ladies in this APD [Agency for Persons with Disabilities] home) and a very competent and vocal legal guardian. That's what makes Marina really unusual. She has a whole passel of people who really care about her and try to make sure she is safe, happy and healthy.

Marina is still entitled to attend Miami-Dade County Public Schools under the Individuals with Disabilities Education Act of 2007, until age 22. She's been attending a summer program for autistic youth this summer. Unfortunately, it wasn't in her usual school and she didn't get there with her usual bus, and of course, to cap it off, she didn't have her usual teachers, either. None of that bodes particularly well when you're severely autistic, but Marina is a trooper. She loves getting up in the morning, getting dressed and putting her backpack on to get ready for school. Marina likes to sleep a lot, but she does like to go out. Except on days when she feels ill from her menstrual period. (I hope we are all grown up enough to handle real world stuff....) On those days, when she has cramps, she gets fretful. After a month in her summer program, Marina had a bad day and was brought home, dosed with her Tylenol, put to bed to rest and the following morning, last Friday, she got up and got ready for school, seemingly feeling well and upbeat. Unfortunately, once at school, she started feeling ill from her period once again.

Imagine feeling pain, and queasy, and uncomfortable, in a strange place, with strange people. Now imagine doing it when you can't speak and you're severely autistic and prone to total overload on sensory stimuli. Marina, as she occasionally does, started biting her wrist and getting agitated. (She wears a wristband, just like a tennis player, to protect her wrist most of the time.) When the group home staff (who care for 5 other ladies) could not drop everything and promptly pick Marina up in less than thirty minutes, and she continued to bite herself and push school personnel away, they called the school police. Who handcuffed her (this happened once before in the spring at her regular school and the teachers and group home owner made the police take the cuffs off) and proceeded to Baker Act her (that hasn't happened in years to Marina). The Baker Act in our state is a 72 hour hold for psychiatric evaluation. Because you're deemed a danger to yourself and/or to others. So in addition to feeling sick, upset by being unable to communicate it (her regular teacher knows when she needs Tylenol), in a different environment, and handcuffed, Marina was then transported to an area hospital's mental health ward and committed. Not surprisingly, Marina got even more upset. But here's where the interesting part begins.

This all went down on a Friday, one of the worst possible days for someone to have psychiatric misadventure. After being notified promptly by the group home personnel and by a friend who is a teacher (but not Marina's teacher) at that summer program that Marina had been Baker Acted, I spoke to a resident who said that they would release her that day. Only they didn't. In fact, the group home assistant manager and I spent the next THREE days playing find the attending psychiatrist (I've still never laid eyes on the man or heard his voice) in order to get her released. During that time, Marina got so agitated that they dosed her up on a ton of Ativan. From reviewing her medication record when we finally got Marina out of there on Monday, I saw she finally got some Tylenol on Saturday. Marina normally doesn't take all that heavy duty benzo stuff. She takes a mood stabilizer and a very low dose of an antipsychotic that takes the edge off, so that when she gets upset she doesn't get aggressive. And, other than Tylenol or an antihistamine, that's pretty much it. 

So what did the assistant manager and I find when we finally got our Marina back on Monday? An intake form in which it was stated that she was extremely aggressive, unresponsive verbally, was having auditory hallucinations and there was a tentative diagnosis of Atypical Psychosis. Missing on the form? AUTISM. NONVERBAL.

That's right, the school sent no information other than the group home contact number. No history, no insight into what was going on. NADA, people. When she was transported to this hospital, they left out a few things. Just a few. Like the patient was autistic and nonverbal, which would therefore make it unlikely that she would be verbally responsive and settle down nicely in the strange environment with the bright fluorescent lights and all the strange faces and strange sounds.

When I asked how they determined she was having auditory hallucinations since she's totally nonverbal and cannot therefore report them, I was told that when they were questioning her that she sat cross-legged, hands over her ears, rocking back and forth (a comfort behavior) and crying. For several hours. Um, yeah. Definitely Voice of God stuff.

Eventually they contacted the group home and legal guardian and found out that Marina was autistic. To their credit, this mental health unit kept Marina on the Senior side of the unit, away from younger and therefore potentially more dangerous adult patients. But she was still unreachable by us until Monday morning. We received contact numbers for the attending psychiatrist that were office numbers rather than beeper or cellular phone numbers. An office number that only took messages that would be answered Monday through Friday, 9 am to 5 pm. So they loaded Marina up with Ativan and she eventually sort of tuned out everything. They wouldn't release her, after initially saying they would. Why? The observations from her admitting documentation were "too serious to allow premature release." I spoke to Marina's mother no less than four times over the next two days because she was so worried about Marina and how she'd be doing in a strange place with people who were strangers.

On Monday of this week Marina took my hand and that of the assistant director of her group home and firmly walked out of the psych ward in her hospital gown and strode toward the group home van. She went home, napped, ate her dinner and the next day went to see her regular doctor who put her right back on her regular medication.

She's done with that school program for the rest of the summer. She's just going to do recreational outings and something called the Companion Program until she can go back to her regular school for her last year of school. She was happy and smiling and her mother is going to visit her on the weekend, same as always.

But just think about it. This young woman has everything going for her. She has parents who love her and wanted to know what was going on. A group home that pursued things and was very responsive. A legal guardian who kept trying to get her released. A regular doctor who wasn't going to change her medication because of one bad day. And she herself has been resilient enough to seem to bounce back once she is back at her home and back into her routine with familiar faces and all her familiar things. Marina is truly lucky.

But I can tell you that my youngest child's schizophrenic biological aunt has been Baker Acted by my estimate at least six times in the past year. She has no legal guardian, no interested party seeking to make sure she receives follow up care to remain stable. And no guarantees that every time she is going to go in that someone will pull her file AND READ IT to find out what she suffers from, how she's been treated and whether she's improved.
My brother in law is a psychiatrist in Spain and he thinks the American mental healthcare system is barbaric. I can't really argue on that. And I think our mental healthcare in this country has been this way for decades. In fact, there is award-winning evidence that it has been.
One of the most moving books I've ever read on mental healthcare is Susan Sheehan's Is There No Place On Earth For Me? It chronicles the story of a young woman, Sylvia Frumpkin, who is schizophrenic, treated at the notorious Creedmoor facility in New York, her repeated psychiatric hospitalizations, and frequent misdiagnoses in emergency settings. On several occasions, Frumpkin pleads with doctors, telling them that she's been misdiagnosed and that medication they want to prescribe has made her worse rather than better in the past. (She is especially upset when put on Lithium, after being misdiagnosed as bipolar by a Chinese doctor who barely speaks English, doesn't consult her file and doesn't understand that her cultural references in one of her delusions are all clear indicators that she is schizophrenic. She decompensates further and loses months of her life before the diagnosis and her medications are corrected.) Sheehan won a Pulitzer Prize for the book, which had been serialized in The New Yorker, in 1982.
I am sad to report that from my perspective nothing much has changed in the past 28 years.





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© Bright Nepenthe, 2010