Silent Epidemic by Jill Province - HTML preview

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SILENT EPIDEMIC

Chapter 1

 

Carolyn Freeman was a square-peg person, living in a round-hole world.  She viewed the conventional path that most considered to be a safe comfort zone with contempt.  The down side was that this had always kept her from being a part of the mainstream.  As a means of survival, Carol had always sought out other square pegs to associate with, keeping her from living in the isolated world of the “conformably challenged.”

From the time she could assign words to her thoughts, Carol’s favorite word had always been “why.”  Carol questioned everything.  If something didn’t make sense, she would beat the problem to death, demanding an explanation or alternative solution.  And since the real world often made no sense, nor did it lend itself to alteration, Carol spent much of her time yelling at the rain.

The incongruence of her reality had left her burned out after only five years in the counseling field.  The initial motivation – to seek out others like herself and make a difference in a troubled world – had not gone according to plan.  The promising world of the helping profession should have provided the best of the square-peg population.  A safety net devised of warm and accepting companions, who like herself, would plunge forward in an uncaring world working together to make it a better place.  Within a short time, however, she had found them to be crazier than the patients and more apathetic than the checkout staff at Wal-Mart.  The kind that asks, “How you are doing?” but never responds to the answer.  One finally learns that it is a rhetorical question.  Carol was surrounded by these people every day, yet she felt completely alone.

The “troubled world” was a bottomless pit of need.  For every person she had managed to help elevate one-step higher, there were a thousand more needing something that was always out of her reach.  Her unyielding logic – that each problem had to have a solution – left her exhausted and frustrated at the end of each day. This unfortunate phenomenon had landed Carol more and more inside her own thoughts instead of listening to patients during counseling sessions.  She had become numb in a sense, and was finding it difficult to genuinely respond with anything like honest concern for their pain.  There was an immense amount of guilt that went along with the realization of her fading commitment.

 It was time to leave for the day, but Carol was on a mission.  Worn out from the drone of policies, procedures and the paper trail of bureaucracy, she continued to plunge forward in an effort to force a solution to a problem that was drowning her.  The small addiction department consisted of herself and one nurse.  The rest of her staff was comprised of part time workers who came and left with such frequency that Carol barely felt their presence at all.  This proposal would provide the proof she needed to support the blinding logic and cost effectiveness of increasing her staff. 

 She was punching numbers into a calculator when her phone rang.  Carol regarded the ringing beast with contempt and thought for the ten-millionth time about smashing it with the closest heavy object.

“Yes?" she managed, trying to keep the obvious annoyance out her voice.

“There is a family out in the waiting room to see you, and Carol...”

“Yeah?” she sighed.

 “You better come see this.”  

Carol hated these invasions.  There were too many of them, and not enough of herself left to care.  But Newberg Mental Health was the crisis center for Newberg County.  This meant that anytime someone landed in an extreme and overwhelming situation, there was no need for an appointment. A counselor would drop what they were doing to rescue them.  The policy on walk-ins was clear.  If the “invasion” fell under your department’s jurisdiction, someone from your group had to comply.  She looked at her half-written, long shot of a proposal after returning the beast’s head to its base.  The party waiting for her in the lobby would most likely be extremely intoxicated and demanding.  A small amount of inadvertent insults would usually be in the blend.  Carol didn’t think she could stand one more drunken tirade.  She hadn’t been sleeping very well and stopped to rub her eyes with her index fingers before dragging herself away from the safe quiet of her office.

Once again, she was the quarterback.  All of the defensive line had left hours before.  Carol had approached the issue several times already with no success. 

“The problem," she would say to the center director, Buck Spears, “is the size of the population we are supposed to be serving.”  Spears would nod and appear to be evaluating the dilemma.  “We have only two full-time people and the part time staff may as well be invisible."  Once again, she would receive the standard managerial dribble about budgets and the cost of benefits for full-time employees.  Carol would listen and quietly calculate the monetary losses from time spent training people who seemed to be in a revolving door of job opportunities.  These meetings would always end the same way, with Spears providing the great American motivational pep talk and Carol taking the bait.  ‘I just have to come up with a way to better organize these people,’ she would think, and go back to her office and the drawing board.

Carol pulled herself out of her reverie and walked down the long hallway.  The carpet was faded and walls were in need of either fresh paint or a wrecking crew. When Carol opened the door to the waiting room, she had to bite her lip to keep from laughing.  Sitting in one corner of the room was the standard two parents and a young man who appeared to be in his late teens or early twenties.  He was tall and painfully thin, and the faded jeans and white tee shirt he wore hung on his small frame.  The oily, dark brown strands of hair that fell over his eyes were an indication that hygiene had not been on the top of his list of priorities.  The scene would have seemed completely normal, except the young man was also wearing a pointed hat made out of tin foil.  Carol looked over at the receptionist who had closed her sliding glass deflector shield, but was still visible through the glass.  The receptionist just shook her head.  Carol thought how nice it would be to have her own sliding glass deflector shield, but that was not an option for a quarterback.  Instead, she reluctantly invited the family to come inside.

When the group was seated in her small office, Carol picked up the crisis clipboard and, with pen in hand, began the standard process.  This phase of the interview did not require too much thought. 

“Okay, I just need some information before we begin," Carol interjected, trying not to convey her sense of monotony.  While the father provided all the vital information about the young man sitting between himself and his wife, the mother continued her argument with her son.  From the tone of the woman’s voice, it appeared as though this discussion had been going on for some time.

“Please, honey," the mother pleaded.  “Just take off the hat.  You look ridiculous and it’s embarrassing." 

“No,” said the young man in a flat, lifeless tone and continued to stare off into space.  That was all Carol needed to hear.  In that one syllable, she heard the empty, haunted sound of a schizophrenic.

She completed the mundane form and set the clipboard aside.  

“Carl," Carol said in a soothing voice, “can you help me understand what is troubling you today?”

“No," Carl stated in the same monotone he had used with his mother.  

Acknowledging the patient’s apparent absence, Carol turned to the family with an invitational look.  The father responded first.

“Our son does not want ‘them’ to read his thoughts," the man stated wearily. 

“It’s more than that, Bob,” the mother intervened.  

Carol waited for the family to sort out their conflicting versions of Carl Banner’s dilemma.  

“He’s not eating,” the mother continued, “and he has loud conversations with no one.”  

Mr. Banner just nodded his agreement.  The man looked exhausted and beaten down as a result of his son’s new behaviors. 

“Okay,” Carol said, regaining control of the interview. “When did you first notice these changes in him?” 

“Two, no, maybe three weeks ago,” Mrs. Banner stated.

“Was there anything significant happening at that time?”  Carol inquired.  Normal life stressors that most people consider to be difficult, but manageable, can be viewed as traumatic and life changing to others - especially if that person is already hanging on the edge. 

“No,” the mother responded.  “He has always been a loner and he seems depressed a lot of the time, but he has never been like this.”  She attempted to put her arm around her son, while he pulled away from her grasp defiantly.  Mrs. Banner seemed used to Carl’s need for detachment and returned her attention to Carol.

“Is he on any medications, or does he have a prior psychiatric diagnosis?" asked Carol.

“No.  Carl has been a typical moody kid – nothing we couldn’t handle."  Every kid with a psychiatric problem was typical kid, where loving parents were concerned.

She stopped writing to rub her tired eyes again.  The end of the day’s fatigue was taking over, and she refrained from any further digging.  Carl’s current presentation went way beyond teenage moodiness, and she had no doubt that an anti-psychotic medication would be in order. 

“Has there been any drug or alcohol use?"  If Carl had engaged in any street drugs, she doubted that his parents would have known about it.  If he had been using a mind-altering substance, the aliens would have had a field day with Carl’s brain. 

“My goodness, no," Mrs. Banner exclaimed, and tried to put her arm around her resistant son again.  Carl sat like a stone with his mother’s arm supporting his back and continued to sit in his chair with a vigilant eye out the window, guarding against any possible threat in the parking lot.

Carol excused herself and went off to find someone from the large pool of the psychiatric department.  This was clearly not an addiction issue.  Tired and extremely annoyed at the continued dumping tactics of her co-workers, she approached the counselor’s break room.  A group was situated around the table discussing something that was obviously amusing, and Carol interrupted the laughter to ask if someone from “psych” could finish a crisis call on a nineteen-year-old psychotic male.  The group looked up and each one in turn began giving a series of excuses.  A few didn’t bother with providing a reason and simply left the room.  Carol, now feeling her blood pressure rise, squared off on the remaining counselor who had responded by returning to her magazine article.

“Do you think you could tear yourself away from your end of the day break long enough to complete your department’s crisis call?”  Carol inquired while attempting to control her frustration.

“I’ve already been here eight hours," the woman stated defensively, and left the room.  

Carol’s blood was now boiling as she looked at the clock on the wall, and calculated her own ten-hour day.  Angry, she backtracked down the hall to her own office.  People’s pain and suffering often failed to conform to state workers schedules, and Carol had no choice but to complete what she had started.  There was no one to throw the ball to, and this was going to be a little more complicated than a raging drunk in need of detox.

“Carl, do you want to tell me anything?”  Carol asked hopefully.

“No," the young man stated again.  Carol wanted to throw some cold water in Carl’s face and ask him if he knew any other word besides no.  She mentally slapped her own wrist for taking her frustration out on a patient.  She knew that she did not do well with schizophrenics.  There was nothing there to work with.  At least in her own chosen specialty, one could dig down and find a fighting spirit underneath the fog.  Here, there was no one home.  She forced herself to plunge ahead. 

“Has Carl said anything to cause you concern about his safety, or anyone else’s?”  

Both of Carl’s parents just looked at each other blankly.  

“Has he threatened to hurt himself, or anyone else?”  Carol clarified. 

“Oh no, of course not," the mother said.  “Carl is a good boy."  Carol’s most effective tool for hospitalization had just been removed.  She knew that he needed to be in a facility where he could be placed back on medication and monitored until his personal “demons” went away.  She was determined to get him there. 

“Okay, I need to ask about insurance," Carol concluded.  The father wordlessly handed her a beaten looking card that had seen a lot of mileage.

“Excuse me for just one more minute," Carol said, as she left the bewildered family once again and went off to the copy machine and a private phone.

While Carol watched the copy machine swing back and forth, she worked to steady her emotions and dialed the number to Newberg Hospital.  “Intake, please," Carol said to the hospital operator.

“One moment,” the voice answered, and Carol listened to a terrible digital version of ‘Hey Jude,’ by the Beatles.  It sounded like an electronic music box.  Carol cringed as she inspected the copy of Carl’s insurance card.  God, Medicaid!    

“Intake,” a voice said, interrupting the Beatles unintended performance.

“Hi, this is Carol Freeman from Newberg Mental Health," she began.  “I have a nineteen-year-old male with a possible history of depression.  He is currently presenting with paranoid ideation, audio hallucinations, and is unresponsive to questioning.”  Carol could hear the intake worker writing and waited.

“Is he a danger to himself or anyone else?" the intake worker inquired.  Carol had anticipated this, but could not see a way around the question.

“Not as far as is reported by his family,” Carol answered. 

“It appears that Carl is not a threat to himself or anyone else.  He does not meet the criteria for admission."  The intake worker stated this as if reading the words from her policy and procedure manual.  During the familiar speech, Carol nodded her head back and forth in time with the words as she had done too many times before.  Carol gave the woman an empty “Thank you,” and hung up the phone.  I guess the only way Carl will be a danger to anyone is if he stops dodging the aliens, or whatever they are, and decides to start fighting back.  She shook her head in frustration.  The truth about hospitalization criteria was that it was a crock. Anyone psychotic enough to believe that they were being stalked or monitored by outside forces was capable of doing a multitude of interesting things, none of which would be considered rational choices, but all of which had the potential for very dangerous outcomes. 

  In the good old days, Carol would have forced the issue a lot harder and probably would have gotten Carl the help he needed, but that required energy and motivation.  These were two elements now missing from the equation today.

The next step in the crisis process was to set an appointment for the person so that they could begin receiving outpatient treatment.  What a lame alternative for Carl Banner.  But Carol was out of options.  She made her way to the front desk where the schedule book was located.  The area had been evacuated.  Must be after five o’clock, or else a fire broke out while I was on the phone, she thought cynically.  Thumbing through the schedule book, Carol grimaced at the full and unyielding pages, noting the next available appointment and filling in Carl’s name.

“Four weeks?”  Mrs. Banner shrieked, when Carol returned with the appointment card.  “My son cannot go around with that thing on his head for four weeks. He needs to see a doctor today.”

“I apologize," Carol offered, knowing that her words were a poor consolation, “but that is the first available appointment.”  The reality of the situation was that Carl would have to wait four weeks just to see a counselor and have his mountain of paper work filled out before he could even think about seeing a doctor.  Carol had learned this lesson the hard way.  In the past when she had taken it upon herself to slide patients who were “desperately in need” into doctor appointment slots before the mountain of paper was completed, she had received the wrath of both the doctor and the administration department.  Carol had gotten into some knock-down, drag-out arguments with the doctors.  The only thing she had accomplished was to cultivate a continued reputation with the entire staff, and raise her own blood pressure.  The patient had never won out, and had always gotten the short end of the stick.  She promised herself after the last fiasco that she would never attempt another rescue mission again.   

“We’ll get our own doctor,” Mrs. Banner squawked, and slapped the appointment card down on the desk.

“Okay,” Carol offered, “but if you have any trouble, I’ll keep his appointment open.”

“Thanks,” the mother said sarcastically, and stormed out of the office.

“My wife is upset," Mr. Banner said sheepishly and walked out behind Carl, who was now using his index finger to test the direction of something in the air.

Carol stood in the quiet office, wondering what was going to happen to Carl before he could see a doctor.  Psychotic episodes rarely healed themselves, and more than likely, he would continue to de-compensate.  She doubted that his two sweet and unassuming parents would be equipped to deal with the escalation of his symptoms.  Shutting off the light, she headed outside.  As usual, Carol’s day ended as it had begun.  So much had been needed, with no solution available. Nothing had changed.