I hope this is my last post for quite some time about dealing with inadequate mental health care. Shayne was released earlier this week, even though he really wasn’t completely ready. He is still having problems filtering out his hallucinations, is a tad bit paranoid, and still really freaked out about freaking out so badly–sort of like PTSD actually. But whatever, treat ’em and street ’em is the motto.
So most times a release from the hospital comes with scheduled appointments to outpatient providers within a few days. Shayne had appointments at the place in town where he goes for therapy. He hasn’t been going there very long, but his counselor is solid. She’s been around the block a little and at least is a little knowledgeable about his diagnosis. She also made it possible for an actual psychiatrist to work with Shayne, so he can get his medicine at the same facility–that’s good care–professionals working together to provide wrap around service. So I thought.
When I took Shayne into his appointment yesterday, the staff didn’t realize that Shayne had an appointment. I pulled up my phone and showed them my confirmation text. They looked at each other, puzzled, then got on the computer. Then the receptionist got on the phone, right in front of us and called someone and asked about a name I’ve never heard of before. So I said, “That’s not who Shayne usually sees.” The receptionist told me that he would meet with a case manager since it’s an after care appointment. A few minutes later, two women who are barely old enough to be adults ambled in with their Sonic cups and stood in the receptionist area, shooting the breeze with each other. The receptionist nudged one of them and told her that her appointment was there. The girl literally said, “I have an appointment?” She proceeded to sit down at the computer screen to read about the appointment. She looked up and said in my direction, “What kind of after care?” It was all I could do to not say, “Are you freaking kidding me?” Instead I employed my deep breathing and spelling Pittsburgh three times method of calming myself. I don’t want to get into the whole back story in the lobby with an audience, so I just said, “Shayne can tell you what he needs.” I wasn’t really sure that he could, but he isn’t six either, and I could sense his agitation and frustration. So she asked him to come back to her office and I asked how long the appointment would last and was told an hour. An hour reassured me because he was hyper anxious and needed to talk to someone who could help him. Not that I had a ton of faith in the case manager or whatever she was. So when Shayne went back, I said to the secretary. “That can’t happen again. The person that helps him needs to know what she is doing, or at least pretend to, or he is just going to walk out of here. He is not going to trust anyone who acts incompetent. He is schizophrenic, not stupid.” I guess I shouldn’t have expected a response. But they just stared at me. No one said a word.
So I left to take Darian to turn in a job application across town. The phone rang before we even got a mile away. Shayne was finished. I glanced at the clock. He hadn’t even been there ten minutes. They have rescheduled him with his normal therapist for next week. It was on the tip of my tongue to ask why that wasn’t done to begin with, but what is the point? He sees the doctor today. This is his first appointment with her. Please, God, let her know what she is doing.
In the meantime, I am duck sitting again. James collects bugs for her. I gave her some wasps yesterday that I found floating in the rain barrel. She’s kind of a brat though, so I didn’t go out of my way. Maybe I will have Shayne gather grasshoppers for her. It would be ironic if the duck turned out to be a better treatment plan than what modern medicine is offering.
Just Another Damn Thing to be Strong About 