After being buzzed in and giving a silent greeting to the nurses at the desk, I made my way down the hall.
1826.
I paused at the familiar door, tracing the curves of the numbers with my eyes as I caught my breath. Typically, I’d be able to visit her in her room. Still with a nurse present, but at least in her own space. Not today, though. Not after Saturday night left me shaken and with a bruise on my wrist. It’d been over a year since she’d had an episode like that.
Just one more locked door separated me from the visiting area. Another nurse greeted me at the door and escorted me in.
“How is she today?” I checked my backpack and jewelry at the nurses’ station before going further.
Daniel, the nurse who seemed to always be here, gave a stern nod. “Not excitable. We’re not sure yet if the sedatives haven’t fully worn off or if she’s back on the immobility end.”
I swallowed hard as we entered the large, bright space, gilded with damaged dreams, disappointment, and fear. The sign out front scribbled something about hope, but I’d only ever been in here when hope failed.
Daniel started discussing some of the protocols they’d put in place over the last twenty-four hours, but as soon as I saw her slender figure in the wheelchair by the window, all other attention fled my body as I walked toward her. She was facing me, and I mumbled a small prayer under my breath that she’d recognize me.
“Mama,” I whispered, kneeling in front of her, trying to find the focus of her eyes.
Her head didn’t move, but her eyes did. The empty brown holes fluttered over my face before settling on my eyes. They opened a little wider, just as her lips parted.
Please, please let her say something.
She tilted her head to the side, her greying brown hair laying over one shoulder, and with a slight smile she quietly spoke. “Baby.”
Tears clouded my view of the faraway woman I still called Mama. Taking her hand, I smiled and nodded.
“I’m here.”
Catatonic Schizophrenia.
The name doesn’t look pretty, doesn’t sound pretty, and the effects on the person and their family are a self-contained Antichrist to pretty. At that point there were several other diagnoses on the brink of landing on her chart, but the original catalyst was catatonic schizophrenia.
“Georgia?” A delicate male voice called from above.
At the sound of my actual name, my mother’s eyebrows drew in, and she mouthed Georgia, looking between me and the floor for a few moments before turning her wheelchair to face the polka-dot caps of the ocean.
I cleared my throat, sniffing once as I stood. “Hello, Dr. Carver.”
Dr. Carver was well seasoned. Easily in his early sixties, with a head of thick salt and pepper hair. The only wrinkles he had were around his eyes and mouth, and only appeared when he smiled. I admired that despite the work he’d chosen to dedicate his life to, he spent most of it smiling.
“Take a little walk with me?” He held what I presumed to be my mother’s chart as he tilted his head to the hallway that hosted his tiny office.
I looked back at my mother with a sinkhole slowly caving in my stomach. Moving slowly, I put my hand on her shoulder. “I’ll be right back, Mom, okay?”
A thin, cool hand reaching up and resting on mine for a second was the only response I got. It was good enough for now, and far better than Saturday’s responses.
I walked to Dr. Carver’s office with my head down, feeling somewhat like I was on my way to the principal’s office. He was quiet, too. There were very few good reasons to have to sit in a doctor’s actual office, and I wasn’t betting this was one of them.
“Please sit.”
I did. Then, waited.
“Georgia,” Dr. Carver started with great hesitation, “we’ve known for some time that your mother hasn’t been seeing the progress we’d like. What happened Saturday was a setback—”
“She has catatonic schizophrenia, Doctor. By definition she swings between excessive mobility and immobility.” I cut him off by reciting basic medical information to a man who’d been practicing medicine since long before I existed.
He patiently cleared his throat and clasped his hands on the desk in front of him. “I’m aware of her admitting diagnosis, Georgia. That’s what concerns me. Typically, this type of schizophrenia can respond well to benzodiazepines, which she’s on, and psychotherapy, which she’s involved with.” He took a deep breath. “As you’re aware, the length of time between her hospital visits have been shortening...”
“Yes, I’m aware.”
“Is she still living with her sister?”
I shook my head, looking down. “No. My aunt Susan had a baby a few months ago. It wasn’t really ... you know...” Safe. I couldn’t say the word, but it made itself known inside my hesitation.
“So she’s been living on her own?”
I nodded. “She’s refused for six months to move into the vacant apartment in my building. I finally had to rent it out today.” My throat closed around the words. I’d known she’d put up a fight, but I hadn’t counted on it being a forever fight.