and I can see from his nametag that he’s the infamous Dr.
Morrison. Once he reaches us, he holds out his hand and introduces
himself.
“Ms. Aimee Richardson, I presume?” he asks
seriously.
I nod my head in answer to his question, fear
robbing me of my speech.
He must be used to this so he continues. “My
name is Oliver Morrison and I am the psychiatrist assigned to your
mother,” he states. His grey eyes pierce my blue ones as he
pauses.
Apparently, he is waiting for me to respond.
Since this is my first time ever in any kind of looney bin, I have
no idea what to say. So, I nod my head again, acknowledging what he
just said in the hope that this will encourage him to continue.
Luckily, it does.
“Mary is suffering from paranoid delusions.
The clinical term we use for it is called persecutory delusion. She
truly believes that someone is coming to harm her, and those
delusions are keeping the rational side of her brain from
functioning correctly. We see this a great deal within the context
of diagnosed schizophrenia, but Mary has no history of that type of
behavior. Furthermore, we tend to see evidence of paranoid
delusions years before they take root this severely in a patient.
Can you tell me please, Ms. Richardson, if you have seen Mary
exhibit any paranoid behavior within the last year?”
Reeling from the information the doctor just
dumped on me, I search my memories of the past year for any sign of
paranoia or delusional thinking (whatever that is) and I come up
empty. Mary’s behavior hasn’t changed a bit in past years. She is
the same sweet, patient, caring woman she’s always been. The only
thing she is at all paranoid about is my safety, but that’s a
normal reaction for anyone that cares for a child. I look over at
Logan with my confused expression, silently asking for help. He
just shrugs, as much at a loss as I am. Our silence seems to be the
answer Dr. Morrison expected.
“I see,” he states while he scribbles
something on his clipboard. “I’m not at all surprised. The people
that I have seen in this hospital, referred here through hospitals
in your area, have all exhibited similar traits within their
paranoia. It’s like the disease was somehow inserted into their
subconscious. One day they are normal, functional people in
society. The next, they are fighting demons that are so real to
them they can’t decipher reality from imagination. We have put her
on muscle relaxers and dopamine, hoping to make her more
comfortable. If you follow me, you can see her now.”
Logan takes my hand as we follow Dr. Morrison
through the thick double doors that lead to hell. The nurse gives
us a knowing snicker as we pass her. I wonder yet again if she
isn’t as deranged as the patients in this hospital are. The minute
we pass through the doors, the décor changes from blue to stark
white. There are pictures lining the walls depicting happy scenes
or nature, which I can only guess are supposed to aid feelings of
calmness for the patients.
The hallways seem endless as we pass by door
after door. I peer into the little window of each one and I can see
that some are offices, while others appear to be patient rooms. As
I pass by one door in particular, I see a young man pacing about,
scratching his head and his face with his fingernails in obvious
agitation. His face is lined with angry red fissures streaked with
blood. His head is bald and he is wearing a white hospital gown
with birds on it. I face forward and quicken my pace. We finally
arrive at Mary’s room; the door is wide open and I can see Mary
lying in bed, wearing the same white gown dotted with birds. Her
eyes are closed and her face looks peaceful. The demons must have
taken a break. I look at the doctor and find that I have a voice
after all.
“What exactly have you done to her, Dr.
Morrison? Why isn’t she awake?”
“Mary has been through a lot. The
antipsychotics will have an adverse effect on her sleeping habits
in that they tend to
Morrison. Once he reaches us, he holds out his hand and introduces
himself.
“Ms. Aimee Richardson, I presume?” he asks
seriously.
I nod my head in answer to his question, fear
robbing me of my speech.
He must be used to this so he continues. “My
name is Oliver Morrison and I am the psychiatrist assigned to your
mother,” he states. His grey eyes pierce my blue ones as he
pauses.
Apparently, he is waiting for me to respond.
Since this is my first time ever in any kind of looney bin, I have
no idea what to say. So, I nod my head again, acknowledging what he
just said in the hope that this will encourage him to continue.
Luckily, it does.
“Mary is suffering from paranoid delusions.
The clinical term we use for it is called persecutory delusion. She
truly believes that someone is coming to harm her, and those
delusions are keeping the rational side of her brain from
functioning correctly. We see this a great deal within the context
of diagnosed schizophrenia, but Mary has no history of that type of
behavior. Furthermore, we tend to see evidence of paranoid
delusions years before they take root this severely in a patient.
Can you tell me please, Ms. Richardson, if you have seen Mary
exhibit any paranoid behavior within the last year?”
Reeling from the information the doctor just
dumped on me, I search my memories of the past year for any sign of
paranoia or delusional thinking (whatever that is) and I come up
empty. Mary’s behavior hasn’t changed a bit in past years. She is
the same sweet, patient, caring woman she’s always been. The only
thing she is at all paranoid about is my safety, but that’s a
normal reaction for anyone that cares for a child. I look over at
Logan with my confused expression, silently asking for help. He
just shrugs, as much at a loss as I am. Our silence seems to be the
answer Dr. Morrison expected.
“I see,” he states while he scribbles
something on his clipboard. “I’m not at all surprised. The people
that I have seen in this hospital, referred here through hospitals
in your area, have all exhibited similar traits within their
paranoia. It’s like the disease was somehow inserted into their
subconscious. One day they are normal, functional people in
society. The next, they are fighting demons that are so real to
them they can’t decipher reality from imagination. We have put her
on muscle relaxers and dopamine, hoping to make her more
comfortable. If you follow me, you can see her now.”
Logan takes my hand as we follow Dr. Morrison
through the thick double doors that lead to hell. The nurse gives
us a knowing snicker as we pass her. I wonder yet again if she
isn’t as deranged as the patients in this hospital are. The minute
we pass through the doors, the décor changes from blue to stark
white. There are pictures lining the walls depicting happy scenes
or nature, which I can only guess are supposed to aid feelings of
calmness for the patients.
The hallways seem endless as we pass by door
after door. I peer into the little window of each one and I can see
that some are offices, while others appear to be patient rooms. As
I pass by one door in particular, I see a young man pacing about,
scratching his head and his face with his fingernails in obvious
agitation. His face is lined with angry red fissures streaked with
blood. His head is bald and he is wearing a white hospital gown
with birds on it. I face forward and quicken my pace. We finally
arrive at Mary’s room; the door is wide open and I can see Mary
lying in bed, wearing the same white gown dotted with birds. Her
eyes are closed and her face looks peaceful. The demons must have
taken a break. I look at the doctor and find that I have a voice
after all.
“What exactly have you done to her, Dr.
Morrison? Why isn’t she awake?”
“Mary has been through a lot. The
antipsychotics will have an adverse effect on her sleeping habits
in that they tend to
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