A BREAKDOWN NEXT DOOR

A week ago Sunday, my husband and I spent the day knocking on doors
and apologizing to our neighbors.

The night before, I had called 911 for an ambulance to transport our
schizophrenic son to the hospital. Again. He didn't want to go. Again.

He pushed me away from the phone and began raging at the 911 operator
as we ran from the house. Almost immediately, there were two police
officers on our front lawn. Our son stood in the kitchen, shouting at
them to leave. They called for backup; four, then six officers on the
front lawn. Patrol cars blocked traffic on the narrow street in front
of our North Hollywood home. Our son called 911 again, screaming,
shouting: "There are police officers here, make them go away!"

I tried to reason with the police: "We just need an ambulance." But
by this time, it was out of my hands.

Two more officers arrived and ordered me to the edge of my yard, away
from the view of the kitchen window. Another pair of officers pulled
me aside, asking me what had happened. "I called an ambulance," I
said, watching two more officers stride across the brown lawn. One,
her dark hair pulled back in a tight bun, carried a shotgun wrapped
in what looked like bright green cloth. She paused to smile at me,
"Just bean bags, not lethal," and stood at the ready under the mulberry tree.

We could see our son pacing back and forth in the kitchen, his long
hair flying. By now there were more than a dozen police officers on
the front lawn. They asked if there was an entrance in the rear. We
directed them to the back patio, warning them not to trip over our
elderly dog asleep in the breezeway.

We have been through this so many times before. We've heard all the
arguments from well-meaning people about how Big Pharma is bad and
that we should try diet or therapy or other things. But from here in
the mental health trenches, the reality is very simple. When our son
takes his prescribed psychotropic medications, no one would ever
suspect the depth of his illness. But when he is off his meds, he is
unable to eat, sleep, bathe or make sense. He is overtaken by
delusions: The Red Hot Chili Peppers have used his name without his
permission; sitting on his guitar case is the same as playing the
guitar. He regularly becomes violent when we suggest he should resume
his medication or stop smoking pot.

Oh, yes, pot. Research has shown that marijuana use is toxic to
schizophrenics, that it exacerbates psychosis. It was an astounding
surprise to me that marijuana could be so dangerous. But it sets our
son into a blink-of-an-eye downward spiral that starts with the idea
that he should set his prescribed medications aside. He then starts
dressing in rags and refusing to bathe. He becomes increasingly
incoherent -- responding, as one doctor put it -- to "unseen
stimuli." The cycle generally ends with an involuntary
hospitalization. His newly minted "medical marijuana" card has
complicated everything.

As more and more officers arrived, my cellphone rang. Our son. I held
the phone away from my ear so my husband and I could both hear it.
"How could you do this to me? I hate you! Stop being my mom!"

There was still no ambulance, but now officers had pulled the screen
from the dining room window and climbed inside. There were shouts,
thumping and thrashing as they tackled our son. Four officers carried
him down the front steps, howling and spitting. They pulled a hood
over his head, handcuffed him, hobbled him with an ankle leash of
thick webbed nylon and set him on the curb.

Finally the ambulance arrived. Firefighters in yellow reflective
coats stood watch as a pair of paramedics struggled to place monitors
and a blood pressure cuff on our son.

"I need help. I need to get to the hospital!" he wailed as they
muscled past his resistance to get a pulse.

The ambulance pulled away from the curb and a police officer gave us
directions to a local hospital emergency room where he was to be evaluated.

Our son had his first psychotic break in his freshman year of
college, and he has been in and out of hospitals ever since. It is
always the same. We follow the ambulance, wait to see him admitted or
transferred, worry over him.

This is his sixth hospitalization in less than a year and comes just
eight days after his previous discharge. At 24, he is no longer
covered by our insurance, but this may be to his advantage. We've
been told he can now access services through the Los Angeles County
Department of Mental Health, and we're hopeful there may be more
options for him now.

With severe mental illness, nothing is certain. Except that we owed
our neighbors an apology for the disruption.

It felt odd, standing on doorsteps of neighbors we hardly know,
telling them we were sorry. All those who answered their doors were
quick to wave our apology away: "No, no, no problem."

For all of them, including those who did not answer, we left a note.

We were hesitant to share our story with our neighbors, but giving up
the pretense of privacy offers us a chance to be free of the burden
and shame of this mystifying illness.

By being open, we may even be able to help someone. Our letter to our
neighbors included information about NAMI, the National Alliance on
Mental Illness, an all-volunteer grass-roots organization dedicated
to helping individuals and families living with mental illness.

NAMI has helped us understand we are not alone. Millions of
Americans, an estimated one in five families (22%), are living with
mental illness. As a matter of fact, two of the responding police
officers on Saturday night, including the blond female officer
assigned to keep me company, told us that they too had family members
with serious mental illness.

Our odyssey has taught us many things, but none more important than
these: Mental illness is no one's fault. Treatment works. There is hope.