January First: A Child's Descent Into Madness and Her Father's Struggle to Save Her by Michael Schofield Page B

climbing the curtains, saying she could fly.”
    “She was literally climbing the walls,” Susan says, giving me a pointed look.
    “Then she was climbing on the furniture and jumping off,” Carly continues.
    Susan shakes her head at me. “It’s the Lexapro. I know it. It’s winding her up just like the Ritalin did.”
    I feel an incredible sense of despair. I was convinced the Lexaprowould work. I arrogantly assumed that because it worked for me it would work her. Instead, it’s left her like this.
    “The staff couldn’t get her to stop, so they gave her an injection.”
    An injection?
    “What injection?” I demand.
    “I don’t know, but it still didn’t work, so they gave her a second one.”
    Susan gives me the same pointed look. “When I called in earlier and asked how she was doing, they told me she was fine.”
    “No, it was pretty scary,” Carly interjects. “She’s a cool girl, though. I really like her.”
    The head nurse suddenly appears. “Carly, go to the community room,” she commands sternly. Carly immediately runs off. The nurse leans in close to us and lowers her voice. “I have to ask you to refrain from talking to other patients.”
    “They’re the only ones telling us what’s going on with our daughter,” Susan shoots back.
    “If you have a question, you can come to me.”
    “Janni got an injection?” I ask.
    The nurse’s hostility and dislike of us is barely contained.
    “I will check the logbook.” The “logbook” is a gigantic three-ring binder that contains the treatment information for each patient. “In the meantime, if you continue to disregard our rules regarding respecting patient privacy, you will have to leave.”
    I can’t believe this. “You mean we couldn’t see our daughter?”
    “Not if you can’t respect our rules.”
    There is no doubt. We are being threatened. And I can tell from her demeanor that it is not an empty threat. Whatever they think is wrong with Janni, they clearly don’t see us as part of the solution.
    “Now, if you will give me a minute, I will check the logbook.” The nurse walks off to the nurses’ station.
    We follow and wait.
    After what feels like an eternity, the nurse returns with the logbook, so big she can barely carry it. She sets it down on the counter and begins flipping through it until she finds Janni’s file.
    “It says she was not following directions so she received an IM of Benadryl.”
    “For what?” I ask.
    “It says here she was not following directions.”
    “What was she doing?” I ask.
    “She was climbing the walls!” Susan shouts before the nurse can answer.
    The nurse placidly reads the report. “I don’t see anything here about climbing the walls.”
    “Because nobody logs anything around here,” Susan fires back. “I called several times today and every time I was told Janni was doing fine.”
    “What time did this happen?” I ask, trying to remain calm so we don’t get tossed. I am more afraid of getting barred from seeing Janni now than anything else.
    The nurse reads some more. “It says she received the first IM around noon and then another at two.”
    “What does ‘IM’ mean?” I ask.
    “Intramuscular. An injection into the muscles.”
    Rage erupts into my veins. In my mind, I visualize them holding the screaming and struggling Janni down and injecting her.
    “Where?”
    “Where, what?” The nurse is confused.
    “Where was she injected?” I say, my voice slow, deliberate, a by-product of trying to control my rage. They are sticking my little girl with needles.
    “We usually give it in the bottom.”
    I grab on to the edge of the table to keep my hands from lashingout at this nurse. They held her down and pulled down her pants and shot her in the butt?
    “Why?” I manage to ask. “Why not just give her a pill?”
    “Usually it is because the patient won’t take oral medication.”
    This doesn’t sound like Janni. She’s been popping pills for three months