Quiet Room - Lori Schiller [74]
I was convinced we were going to find a cure for her. But then one visit something happened that changed my mind about becoming a psychologist at all.
Lori and I were sitting and talking when, all of a sudden, I heard loud voices down the hall. One of the patients was having an argument with one of the orderlies. The patient was an older dark-haired woman, maybe in her late fifties, very drawn, wearing a man's dress shirt that hung almost to her knees. She was wearing socks, but not shoes. I knew what that meant. Lori had told me that her own shoes used to be removed as a precaution against running away.
The woman patient was screaming and shouting profanities. The orderly was speaking calmly and firmly. He was telling her that if she didn't control herself, she was going to have to be put in the Quiet Room. I looked at Lori. She was turning white.
Then, down the hall, the patient lost control. She lunged at the orderly, flailing and hitting. Other workers saw it, and rushed to his aid. Someone hit the emergency button, and it was pandemonium. The other patients were getting agitated, standing up and pacing jerkily around, or wringing their hands. I could tell by her face that Lori herself was getting more and more upset. I was upset myself. There was running and screaming, and bells ringing all over the place.
Everything seemed in turmoil. Lori began pushing at me.
“Go! Go! Go!” she yelled frantically. “Get out of here! Get out!” And suddenly hands were behind me, I don't know whose, pushing and tugging me toward the door. Then just as suddenly I was no longer on the unit, but outside it, standing on the landing in a stairwell, facing a locked door. From outside, I could still hear the emergency alarm ringing, and the sounds of running and shouting, but now it sounded far away. ’
I was shaking. Lori had told me about this kind of thing before, but I hadn't realized what she had meant until I had seen it myself. Sometimes that kind of thing happened to her too, I realized. All the old fears resurfaced. That commotion I had just seen could have been my sister.
It could have been me.
I didn't stop shaking until I got home. And somewhere along the way I realized that if this was the reality, I still couldn't face it. If someone was going to find a cure for Lori, it wasn't going to be me.
18
Lori Futura House, White Plains, New York, April 1986-October 1986
The more wild and out of control I became, the more the doctors and nurses and social workers reached for their trump card: the state hospital.
Time and again my doctor sat me down. “We can't keep you here forever, you know,” the psychiatrist warned. “You don't want to have to go to a state hospital, do you? ”
I was terrified of state hospitals. I had never seen one, but I had heard all about them. They were grim and depressing. They were where people went forever. Every time they threatened me, I made an effort to control myself. But sooner or later the pressure built, the anger of the Voices rose, and off I would go again.
For another two months the cycle continued. Crises. Quiet Room. Threats. Calm. Then another explosion, more time in the Quiet Room, more wet-packing, more talks with the psychiatrist, more threats of the state hospital.
Finally, their patience wore thin when, just after one state hospital threat, I punched out a window during a fire drill. That was it, they said. They could do no more for me. I was going to be discharged immediately.
For months and months, all through my hospital stay, I had been agitating for this. Now, suddenly, with their ultimatum, I panicked. Leave the hospital? What was I going to do? How was I going to exist? Suddenly I realized that, while I hated being in the hospital, at least I was safe there from hurting other people or hurting myself.
Give me a little more time, I begged them. Just