FIVE
* * *
He wondered if they were capable of real hope anymore.
They were in the office with him, just sitting now. A few moments ago they had been talking, discussing, asking. They were the usual questions, the questions the parents always asked, questions that were half pleading and half dread. And he had answered these questions, calmly and honestly, as he always did.
Can you help her?
Perhaps. It will be difficult.
Why?
I believe that Buffy's condition is more than simply schizophrenia. I believe your daughter is also highly fantasy prone. I do not believe that her imaginary world or her imaginary friends are the result of her schizophrenia, but her creativity. If we are to help her, we must constantly keep this distinction in mind.
What do you mean?
I mean we must be willing to acknowledge that her fantasies are real to her, and respect that. We must respect her belief in them. We must not belittle them or act against them, save where Buffy herself allows it. It is possible to treat schizophrenia and free her to choose her reality, but we cannot stop her creativity, only make her aware of it. So we must be willing to accept that her fantasy world will probably always be as real to her as we are, but we must give her real reasons to want to be a part of this world too, good and bad.
We have to accept her delusions?
No. You have to accept that she accepts them.
What do we have to do?
Love her.
#
An hour ago they had been on the ward; Garrett saw that it was a familiar place to them now, that they didn't notice the stench of cigarettes from the lounge, the mixed smell of urine and bleach that permeated the rooms, the drab, cheerless walls. For those who came in for the first time there was always a fear about the ward, wrapped up in all the clichés about psychiatric hospitals, in visions of straightjackets and restraints and screaming and electroshock. But Joyce and Hank Summers were long past that now, Garrett knew. They were veterans of the system and they knew that the real terror of the ward lay not in the sights and sounds and smells of it, but in the knowledge that their daughter, their only child, was lost, her body warehoused here but her mind somewhere far away.
They had seen Buffy, an hour ago. Sitting in a chair in the lounge by the window, the sun on her face, her hair mussed. Buffy had always liked to sit in the sun, Adams told him; she kept her knees drawn up, her arms close against her chest, staring out into nothing; sometimes she would walk if they led her; sometimes she had to be carried. She was small and light, despite the antipsychotic meds and lack of exercise, and it only took one orderly to do it.
Garrett had been with them when they went to her, when Joyce knelt before her, reaching up to draw back a strand of hair that had fallen into her daughter's face. And Garrett had watched as they talked to her, as Joyce told her about the gallery and Hank spoke of the Dodgers, and they had said remember, Buffy, when we went to that baseball game? Wasn't that nice? Just the three of us?
And Garrett had thought of hope and had felt the weight of it. Because they were counting on him now, on the famous psychiatrist who had told them that he would try to bring their daughter back to them. Even after six and a half years of disappointment, of failure after failure, of each moment of success disappearing before them, he knew as he watched that there was hope, if not in Joyce and Hank Summers, then because of them.
#
"You say the new meds are working?"
It was Hank, breaking the silence in his office.
Garrett nodded. "We're making progress."
"She didn't look any different."
"The periods of awareness are still infrequent. But she is responding now."
Hank went silent again. Joyce's gaze went from one of them to the other.
"She talked to you?"
"Briefly."
"What did she say?"
"She was confused. But she responded to me when I spoke. I'm going to adjust the dosage of risperidone; I think we can expect more periods of awareness once we get more control of her symptoms."
Joyce watched him now.
"And then?" she asked.
Garrett matched her gaze.
"And then the difficult part begins."
* * *
He wondered if they were capable of real hope anymore.
They were in the office with him, just sitting now. A few moments ago they had been talking, discussing, asking. They were the usual questions, the questions the parents always asked, questions that were half pleading and half dread. And he had answered these questions, calmly and honestly, as he always did.
Can you help her?
Perhaps. It will be difficult.
Why?
I believe that Buffy's condition is more than simply schizophrenia. I believe your daughter is also highly fantasy prone. I do not believe that her imaginary world or her imaginary friends are the result of her schizophrenia, but her creativity. If we are to help her, we must constantly keep this distinction in mind.
What do you mean?
I mean we must be willing to acknowledge that her fantasies are real to her, and respect that. We must respect her belief in them. We must not belittle them or act against them, save where Buffy herself allows it. It is possible to treat schizophrenia and free her to choose her reality, but we cannot stop her creativity, only make her aware of it. So we must be willing to accept that her fantasy world will probably always be as real to her as we are, but we must give her real reasons to want to be a part of this world too, good and bad.
We have to accept her delusions?
No. You have to accept that she accepts them.
What do we have to do?
Love her.
#
An hour ago they had been on the ward; Garrett saw that it was a familiar place to them now, that they didn't notice the stench of cigarettes from the lounge, the mixed smell of urine and bleach that permeated the rooms, the drab, cheerless walls. For those who came in for the first time there was always a fear about the ward, wrapped up in all the clichés about psychiatric hospitals, in visions of straightjackets and restraints and screaming and electroshock. But Joyce and Hank Summers were long past that now, Garrett knew. They were veterans of the system and they knew that the real terror of the ward lay not in the sights and sounds and smells of it, but in the knowledge that their daughter, their only child, was lost, her body warehoused here but her mind somewhere far away.
They had seen Buffy, an hour ago. Sitting in a chair in the lounge by the window, the sun on her face, her hair mussed. Buffy had always liked to sit in the sun, Adams told him; she kept her knees drawn up, her arms close against her chest, staring out into nothing; sometimes she would walk if they led her; sometimes she had to be carried. She was small and light, despite the antipsychotic meds and lack of exercise, and it only took one orderly to do it.
Garrett had been with them when they went to her, when Joyce knelt before her, reaching up to draw back a strand of hair that had fallen into her daughter's face. And Garrett had watched as they talked to her, as Joyce told her about the gallery and Hank spoke of the Dodgers, and they had said remember, Buffy, when we went to that baseball game? Wasn't that nice? Just the three of us?
And Garrett had thought of hope and had felt the weight of it. Because they were counting on him now, on the famous psychiatrist who had told them that he would try to bring their daughter back to them. Even after six and a half years of disappointment, of failure after failure, of each moment of success disappearing before them, he knew as he watched that there was hope, if not in Joyce and Hank Summers, then because of them.
#
"You say the new meds are working?"
It was Hank, breaking the silence in his office.
Garrett nodded. "We're making progress."
"She didn't look any different."
"The periods of awareness are still infrequent. But she is responding now."
Hank went silent again. Joyce's gaze went from one of them to the other.
"She talked to you?"
"Briefly."
"What did she say?"
"She was confused. But she responded to me when I spoke. I'm going to adjust the dosage of risperidone; I think we can expect more periods of awareness once we get more control of her symptoms."
Joyce watched him now.
"And then?" she asked.
Garrett matched her gaze.
"And then the difficult part begins."
