Quiet Room - Lori Schiller [34]
Suddenly that alternative was thrust upon us. One day in early fall, we got a message that the doctors wanted to see us—together. Marvin and I met in an open area outside two offices. It wasn't in an office itself, but more like a waiting room, or rest area, a place where the physicians might relax between rounds. We were both tense. Marvin in particular seemed stiff, standoffish, defensive. There were two people facing us. One was a young woman, the doctor most recently responsible for treating Lori. The other was a young man. I had seen him around before, and he had from time to time been a part of our discussions about Lori's treatment. But there had been so many people, I wasn't clear what his real role was. Maybe he was a doctor. Maybe he was a social worker. Maybe he was a researcher. All I knew was that he was very young, and a stiff, scholarly type who seemed ill at ease.
The doctor began. “Lori has been here for over two months,” she said. “We think we have some better idea of what her problems are now.”
“What's wrong with her?” Marvin and I spoke almost together.
“Because of the combination of her severe mood swings and her hallucinations we think that Lori has something we call schizo-affective disorder.”
“Schizo-affective disorder?” Marvin sounded incredulous. “What's that?”
“It's a combination of things. She's got some symptoms of manic-depression, and some symptoms of schizophrenia.”
“So doesn't this diagnosis just mean you don't really know what's wrong with her?” Marvin sounded harsh. I think he was just shocked. It was the very first time we had ever heard the word “schizophrenia” applied to Lori. Even though they had told us before that she was hallucinating they had said that they themselves felt that could just be a symptom of her manic-ness.
The doctor shrugged her shoulders. “What we do know for sure is that Lori is a very sick girl. This hospital specializes in short-term treatments. Lori doesn't have a short-term problem. We'd like to recommend that she be transferred to another hospital in Westchester. It's also part of New York Hospital, but they do medium-and longer-term treatment there. It's also closer to your home.”
Marvin was immovable. “I find this diagnosis very difficult to accept,” he said in what sounded even to me like a very cool, professional voice. “All along we've been led to believe that she would be getting better very soon.”
“I'm sure you know that her symptoms have continued to be very serious …” the young woman began.
“But just what are her symptoms? I'm not sure anymore what her symptoms are, and what was caused by the electroshock, and what by the medicine. Don't you think that we should take her off all the medications and see what she's like then?”
The doctor was dubious. Lori's problems have more to do with her condition than with her medication, she said. And in any case, since Lori had required so much supervision in the past, any experiments without medication would have to be done in some kind of hospital setting.
“But couldn't we take her home? You know that I am a psychologist. If she needs professional supervision, I could take time off and watch her myself…”
While Marvin and the doctor had been debating, the young man and I had sat silently. Just at that moment, though, he broke in.
“Schizophrenia is a very serious illness,” he said. “It may be a very long time—if ever—before she will get better. She will probably never be able to live on her own again. It would be better for both of you if you faced facts.”
I was in shock. This young man, a person I barely knew, had just told us there was no hope. No hope for Lori. The hospital was giving up on her, and we should too. My stomach was tied up in knots. I glanced over at Marvin, who sat there looking stiff and angry.
There were tears in his eyes. But I, who had spent the summer sobbing, couldn't squeeze out a drop.
Schizophrenia? What did that word mean? I didn't understand it. I didn't believe it. All along they had been talking about manic-depression.