A Danger to Herself and Others(69)
I find myself thinking about Cassidy. She’s somewhere in this building. In group therapy, maybe, or art class. If I stayed, maybe I could usurp her. Better to be a Queen Bee in here than a freak outside, right?
“We’ll always have to keep watch for Hannah’s symptoms.” Lightfoot says we again as if she’s still part of all this, but after today I’ll probably never see her again. They must have taught her that in medical school: Include yourself in the treatment plan to make parents feel less alone when they’re about to take their newly diagnosed offspring home with them. “A disease like Hannah’s ebbs and flows. Think of cancer that goes into remission and then, seemingly out of nowhere, metastasizes, sending a patient back to the hospital.”
“But if you catch cancer early, you can stop it from spreading,” Dad interjects. “You said you caught this early.”
Dad wants Lightfoot to tell him she nipped this thing in the bud, but Lightfoot won’t (can’t) give him the satisfaction.
“Over the years, Hannah’s medications will need to be adjusted. You may consider new treatments. Your doctor in New York will help you weigh the benefits against the possible side effects.” I wonder if my parents have noticed the sudden shift in Lightfoot’s pronouns: your doctor, not our doctor, but not Hannah’s doctor either. Maybe they taught her that in medical school too: Before they leave, remind parents this is their responsibility now. You won’t always be around to help. “As I said, there is no cure. But it can be managed.”
Even though our brains work differently, I’m positive my parents hear the same implication in Lightfoot’s statement that I do: Hannah’s disease is under control now, but flare-ups may send her back to places like this from time to time. (Maybe I will see Lightfoot again after all.)
I can’t tell if the idea of sending me back to a place like this horrifies or comforts my parents. It must upset them to hear that I might need to be institutionalized again. On the other hand, sending me away whenever things get bad will give them a chance to spend time away from me. They could drop me off at an institution and head for a luxury resort in Europe. Instead of taking vacations from work like other people, they’ll take their vacations from me.
Not so long ago, I couldn’t have imagined that. I spent most of my life certain that my parents wanted me with them as much as possible—that’s what they said, and I never doubted it.
But maybe they didn’t forego babysitters because they wanted me with them. Maybe they simply couldn’t be bothered. Maybe I fit into their lives—expensive travel, fancy restaurants—not because I was born mature, but because it never occurred to them to raise their child any other way.
And maybe they’d been looking forward to being empty nesters when I went away to college next year. Maybe after all these years of taking me with them everywhere, they were excited to be on their own again. Is that why Dad wanted me to apply for this summer program in the first place—not to broaden my horizons, but so he and Mom could have a couple months to themselves?
Maybe they’ll never want to bring me with them anywhere ever again.
“You’re sure she’s well enough to go home?” Dad asks finally.
He’s standing behind me so I can’t see his face, but I can see my mother’s. There’s hope in her expression. They don’t want to take me home.
Lightfoot nods. “With the right help, patients with Hannah’s disease live rich lives—go to college, work, get married—just like the rest of us.”
I wonder how many parents she’s had to give this speech to over the years, how many mothers and fathers she’s tried to keep from imagining their daughters like one of those homeless ladies in Central Park, wearing wool coats when it’s ninety-five degrees out, carrying on full conversations with people only they can see.
Lightfoot continues, “People with diseases like Hannah’s have gone on to write books, to practice law, medicine, psychology—you name it. Her path may be rockier than some, but it can still lead to extraordinary places.”
Lightfoot smiles, and I wonder if she’s remembering how worried I was about falling behind in school. I was convinced being held in this place would keep me from doing all the things I wanted to do. My doctor looks not at my parents but at me and says, “This isn’t the end of all your plans.”
Lightfoot shifts her gaze back to my parents. “Let me remind you,” she continues patiently (she’s said everything patiently this morning), “none of this is Hannah’s fault.” She pauses. “What happened to Agnes isn’t Hannah’s fault.”
“But you said she was hallucinating. Who knows what she might have done…” Dad trails off.
Oh.
My parents aren’t ashamed of me. Or anyway, they’re not only ashamed of me. They’re also scared of me. The day of my hearing, it wasn’t just the judge or even Agnes’s parents Lightfoot was trying to convince.
Lightfoot said that people with my disease are more likely to hurt themselves than others.
More likely isn’t a promise.
More likely isn’t a guarantee. “I know this is overwhelming.” Lightfoot stands. Her patience has finally run out. Our time is up. I stand too, but my parents remain still. They’re in no rush to get going.
“Hannah isn’t the only one who has to adjust to the reality of living with this disease.” Lightfoot walks around the desk to shake my parents’ hands, a gesture which seems to finally make them move toward the door. “But I assure you, she doesn’t need to be here anymore.”