The Quiet Room by Lori Schiller, Amanda Bennett

stimulus to the brain to jolt it out of whatever was causing these wild swings. They brought us the papers. We signed them.
    They wouldn't let us be there during the shock treatments themselves, so I never knew what happened or what they were actually like. But when I saw Lori in the evenings, she seemed much more subdued. Maybe she was just tired and out of it. But the evenings when she had been treated she always seemed so far away. After six treatments she seemed to be getting better, and she was allowed to do without the full-time nurse. One night we were even allowed a pass to take her out to dinner. But very quickly she relapsed. They shocked her six more times. Then six more after that. It went on and on, July, August and then into September. Altogether she had twenty treatments. Except for the lethargy on the days she had the treatment, we saw no lasting effects.
    Payne Whitney, it seemed, was running out of tricks. It was a short-term facility. At first we had taken that as a hopeful sign. She was going to check in, get treated and get out. We never thought of the alternative: That she would not get better. That psychotherapy would not work. That drugs would not work. That electroshock would not work. That she would not return home. That she would be moved someplace, to a longer-term facility, where the truly sick patients are sent.
    Suddenly that alternative was thrust upon us. One day in early fall, we got a message that the doctors wanted to see us—together. Marvin and I met in an open area outside two offices. It wasn't in an office itself, but more like a waiting room, or rest area, a place where the physicians might relax between rounds. We were both tense. Marvin in particular seemed stiff, standoffish, defensive. There were two people facing us. One was a young woman, the doctor most recently responsible for treating Lori. The other was a young man. I had seen him around before, and he had from time to time been a part of our discussions about Lori's treatment. But there had been so many people, I wasn't clear what his real role was. Maybe he was a doctor. Maybe he was a social worker. Maybe he was a researcher. All I knew was that he was very young, and a stiff, scholarly type who seemed ill at ease.
    The doctor began. “Lori has been here for over two months,” she said. “We think we have some better idea of what her problems are now.”
    “What's wrong with her?” Marvin and I spoke almost together.
    “Because of the combination of her severe mood swings and her hallucinations we think that Lori has something we call schizo-affective disorder.”
    “Schizo-affective disorder?” Marvin sounded incredulous. “What's that?”
    “It's a combination of things. She's got some symptoms of manic-depression, and some symptoms of schizophrenia.”
    “So doesn't this diagnosis just mean you don't really know what's wrong with her?” Marvin sounded harsh. I think he was just shocked. It was the very first time we had ever heard the word “schizophrenia” applied to Lori. Even though they had told us before that she was hallucinating they had said that they themselves felt that could just be a symptom of her manic-ness.
    The doctor shrugged her shoulders. “What we do know for sure is that Lori is a very sick girl. This hospital specializes in short-term treatments. Lori doesn't have a short-term problem. We'd like to recommend that she be transferred to another hospital in Westchester. It's also part of New York Hospital, but they do medium-and longer-term treatment there. It's also closer to your home.”
    Marvin was immovable. “I find this diagnosis very difficult to accept,” he said in what sounded even to me like a very cool, professional voice. “All along we've been led to believe that she would be getting better very soon.”
    “I'm sure you know that her symptoms have continued to be very serious …” the young woman began.
    “But just what are her symptoms? I'm not sure anymore what