Read Online The Quiet Room by Lori Schiller, Amanda Bennett - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Lori Schiller, Amanda Bennett
Tags: REL012000
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medicine, but I didn't know what it was, or how much she was taking, or why he was giving it to her. To resolve the argument, I told Nancy I'd go see Dr. Kline in his office, which wasn't far from my own office in midtown. I called and made an appointment.
But when I arrived at the clinic, I did more talking than asking questions. Dr. Kline was a pleasant man in his fifties with a beard. His office was full of impressive African art. His whole setup, in fact, was impressive. He was clearly well regarded for his work. I spent my time in his office thanking him for the help he had given Lori. He seemed glad to hear my comments.
But then the phone rang again.
It was New York Hospital calling. Lori was in the emergency room. Again. Once again she had tried to commit suicide. Once again they wanted to admit her to a psychiatric unit. This time Nancy was too terrified to come with me. So I asked our older son, Mark, who was home for the summer from college in New Orleans.
Mark and I didn't talk much in the car on the way down. I was too consumed with my own thoughts. It was mid-June, just three months after she had come out of Bellevue, and here she was in a hospital again. What was going wrong? What was happening to my daughter?
When we got to the emergency room, it was like a repeat of the time before, only this time it was much worse. She apparently had had an appointment with Dr. Kline in the afternoon. En route to his office, she had swallowed a handful of Ativan, the tranquilizer that Dr. Kline was prescribing for her, and then walked thirty blocks to the office. When she arrived she was incoherent and rambling so the nurses didn't even wait for her appointment. They felt she had taken an intentional overdose in a suicide attempt. They called an ambulance right away to take her to New York Hospital, just a few blocks away.
Again, by the time I arrived Lori had had her stomach pumped. Again she was contrite.
“I wasn't trying to kill myself, Daddy, really I wasn't,” she cried. “I was just feeling hyper and I took that stuff to calm down.” She seemed in a partial stupor. I left Mark with Lori while I went out to discuss the situation with the doctors. They already knew her history at Bellevue. I was trying to convince them that what Lori was saying was true: She wasn't trying to kill herself, but just trying to calm down.
But when I returned to Lori's bedside, I found Mark white and stunned.
“Dad, she's cursing me out,” the stricken twenty-year-old told me. “She's telling me to get the hell out of here, that she hates me, that she's always hated me.” Mark idolized Lori, from the time they were kids. He looked shocked. “She's been trying to take off her clothes and leave, Dad. I've been having to hold her down.”
And just at that moment she tried to do it again. She was lying in a hospital bed, dressed only in a cotton gown open at the back. When she saw me enter the room, she began to shout. “There's nothing wrong with me. I'm not sick. I'm not staying here.” And then, just as if her brother and I were not in the room, she began to take off her gown.
That was when I finally realized her problems were serious. Lori was the most modest of girls, shy and private. When she was well, she would never ever have considered disrobing before me or her brother. But now, shrieking and yelling, she was preparing to walk—naked and without shoes—into the pouring rain outside the hospital.
I have always tried to stay in control. It is simply part of my nature. But that night at New York Hospital, I lost it. I pleaded with her. I begged her. I did everything I could to try to get her to sign herself into the hospital. Over the next hour Mark and I struggled to get her back into her clothes, and tried to calm her down. I tried to reason with her. Then I tried to threaten her. She was hostile. She was unmoving.
“I'm not sick, Daddy. I want to go home. I want to get out of here.”
I tried to get her to see
But when I arrived at the clinic, I did more talking than asking questions. Dr. Kline was a pleasant man in his fifties with a beard. His office was full of impressive African art. His whole setup, in fact, was impressive. He was clearly well regarded for his work. I spent my time in his office thanking him for the help he had given Lori. He seemed glad to hear my comments.
But then the phone rang again.
It was New York Hospital calling. Lori was in the emergency room. Again. Once again she had tried to commit suicide. Once again they wanted to admit her to a psychiatric unit. This time Nancy was too terrified to come with me. So I asked our older son, Mark, who was home for the summer from college in New Orleans.
Mark and I didn't talk much in the car on the way down. I was too consumed with my own thoughts. It was mid-June, just three months after she had come out of Bellevue, and here she was in a hospital again. What was going wrong? What was happening to my daughter?
When we got to the emergency room, it was like a repeat of the time before, only this time it was much worse. She apparently had had an appointment with Dr. Kline in the afternoon. En route to his office, she had swallowed a handful of Ativan, the tranquilizer that Dr. Kline was prescribing for her, and then walked thirty blocks to the office. When she arrived she was incoherent and rambling so the nurses didn't even wait for her appointment. They felt she had taken an intentional overdose in a suicide attempt. They called an ambulance right away to take her to New York Hospital, just a few blocks away.
Again, by the time I arrived Lori had had her stomach pumped. Again she was contrite.
“I wasn't trying to kill myself, Daddy, really I wasn't,” she cried. “I was just feeling hyper and I took that stuff to calm down.” She seemed in a partial stupor. I left Mark with Lori while I went out to discuss the situation with the doctors. They already knew her history at Bellevue. I was trying to convince them that what Lori was saying was true: She wasn't trying to kill herself, but just trying to calm down.
But when I returned to Lori's bedside, I found Mark white and stunned.
“Dad, she's cursing me out,” the stricken twenty-year-old told me. “She's telling me to get the hell out of here, that she hates me, that she's always hated me.” Mark idolized Lori, from the time they were kids. He looked shocked. “She's been trying to take off her clothes and leave, Dad. I've been having to hold her down.”
And just at that moment she tried to do it again. She was lying in a hospital bed, dressed only in a cotton gown open at the back. When she saw me enter the room, she began to shout. “There's nothing wrong with me. I'm not sick. I'm not staying here.” And then, just as if her brother and I were not in the room, she began to take off her gown.
That was when I finally realized her problems were serious. Lori was the most modest of girls, shy and private. When she was well, she would never ever have considered disrobing before me or her brother. But now, shrieking and yelling, she was preparing to walk—naked and without shoes—into the pouring rain outside the hospital.
I have always tried to stay in control. It is simply part of my nature. But that night at New York Hospital, I lost it. I pleaded with her. I begged her. I did everything I could to try to get her to sign herself into the hospital. Over the next hour Mark and I struggled to get her back into her clothes, and tried to calm her down. I tried to reason with her. Then I tried to threaten her. She was hostile. She was unmoving.
“I'm not sick, Daddy. I want to go home. I want to get out of here.”
I tried to get her to see
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