R. D. Laing says insanity is a perfectly rational response to an insane world. After working with schizophrenics for ten years, I have to agree.
My views don’t endear me to my colleagues, however—for example, they resent my taking notes when patients talk among themselves about their meds.
Sometimes I even take the drugs myself to gauge firsthand how they affect me or alter my perception.
But, probably the most controversial thing I do is take a patient’s concerns seriously, without dismissing his ideas as mad ramblings or the products of a disordered mind.
For example, Santos Arruda is a schizophrenic. Some doctors view him as an incurable case and others as a fascinating study—but no one sees him as I do—as a gifted and unique human being.
“He’s got weird vibes,” Marsha whispers.
“How’s that?”
“He seems to know things before they happen and sees more than most people.”
Marsha’s an excellent psychiatric nurse and not given to exaggeration.
As I listen, I adjust the venetian blinds on my office window to give us more privacy.
“Does he scare you?”
“Damn right he does. Weird stuff happens when he’s around.”
My ears perk up.
“I thought you were just spooked, but you say stuff happens—what kind of stuff?”
“Lights go off around him. I saw it—watched him walk down a corridor and knock out every bloody light he passed under.”
“That’s odd.”
“Yeah and it’s happened more than once and if he carries his I-Pod with him, the battery discharges.”
“Anything else?”
“The usual oddities—some things he says are really weird.”
“Like what?”
“Told me the streets should be clean of rain today—stuff like that.”
“Oh, that’s just word salad—nothing unexpected there—the normal abnormal, if you get what I mean.”
“Oh, I do, James—but not many patients can talk backwards fluently.”
My eyebrows arch, but I can’t resist sarcasm, “And you’re suggesting we call in Father Karras?”
“I wouldn’t joke about that. Poor guy—relatives thought he was a witch—took all his mementoes and burned them, said they were amulets.
He hid in a freezer in the basement or they would have dragged him off to an exorcism—as it was he ended up on the streets.”
“Bloody idiots!”
“I’ll say. Look James, can’t you get him out of here? He doesn’t belong. He’s a freelance writer—damn intelligent.”
“Can’t promise anything, but I’ll have a chat with him and see where he is.”
Later that day, I drop by the psych ward and find him staring out the window at the ravine below. He’s using his right finger to tap on his left palm.
“I’m Doctor Reimer, Santos, do you mind if I have a word with you?”
“No, please sit down,” he smiles.
He’s dressed in blue jeans and a jean jacket; his long brown hair pulled back in a ponytail, and looks clean and well cared for. There are no tics, no slurred speech and he appears alert and friendly.
I glance down at his file and see under religious affiliation he’s listed the Church of Scientology.
“Are you going to ask about my religious beliefs?” he asks.
I stare at him. How did he do that—a possible coincidence?
“I’ve been a Scientologist for two years.”
“You and Tom Cruise,” I joke.
“Oh yeah, Tom—just texted him. We keep in touch.”
“Is that what you were doing when I came in—texting Tom?”
“Yeah. Sometimes we talk once or twice a day.”
I begin to feel Santos will not be released any time soon.
“How are you feeling today?”
“Fine…except the walls are vibrating.”
“They are?”
“Yeah… patients too. It’s kind of like a wave, you know. I feel the force and it rolls through the wing and next thing you know all hell breaks loose.”
I gaze around the empty common room and see a few stray patients nodding away on sofa chairs.
“Seems pretty calm right now.”
“It’s like a gathering storm—sort of what Dylan says—you don’ need a weathervane to tell which way the wind blows.”
Literally, as soon as he completes his sentence, pandemonium erupts.
Nurses and hospital security appear out of nowhere and I sit back dazed while the tumult explodes around me.
Back in my office, I’m still trying to piece together what happened. I pick up his file and begin to read:
Arrested for illegal possession of cannabis and cocaine—charged with vagrancy. Referred for psychiatric assessment and formed. Detained 72 hours and then admitted to facility suffering from paranoid schizophrenia with delusions of grandeur.
Nothing unusual about his background or assessment. Being treated with Risperedal—an anti-psychotic—listed as cooperative.
But it’s what the file doesn’t state that bothers me—Santos Arruda is a most peculiar man—someone I need to know and study more closely.
I’m back at nine the following morning and Santos is sitting where he was the day before, texting.
“How are you today, Santos?”
He looks up and smiles. “I’m fine, but I see a fog in here today.”
He balls a piece of paper and tosses it toward the plastic wastebasket. It misses.
He looks at me. “See? —Interference.”
I nod. I don’t see, at least, I don’t see what he sees, but I reserve judgment.
“You see that girl?” He nods in the direction of a young depressive, with unkempt hair.
I nod again.
“You see the shadow people around her?”
I look closely, but see nothing but a morose girl staring off into space.
“No, I don’t. What do they look like Santos?”
“They don’t have faces or features—they’re just kind of like outlines—black entities around her.”
“What does it mean?”
“It’s not good.”
“How can I help her?”
“You can’t do much. I can fly into her room tonight while she’s sleeping and steal her thoughts—that’ll help.”
“How do you do that?”
“Like I said, I’m a Scientologist. We can do psychic stuff. I’m not at the level of Tom Cruise—I haven’t been to the ship and taken the advanced courses. Wish I could afford that.”
I smile inwardly. I figure ole’ Ron’s ship is anchored out there, just beyond the ten mile limit to escape paying income taxes—Santos thinks it’s a retreat for learning high level psychic arts. Who’s to say? —A lot of rich and famous pay their money and believe like him.
“You need to watch her,” he says and nods toward the girl.
I tell him I will and continue on my rounds.
I wonder about Santos, but figure he’ll eventually be released—probably in another two months. He’ll either rent a room or head back to the streets—and then, be arrested again for drugs and most likely end up back here.
It seems sad, but that’s the treadmill he’s on.
Just past three o’clock they announce code yellow—missing patient. The facility goes into lockdown.
I hear from Marsha it’s Sarah Firestone, the young depressive girl I saw in the psychiatric ward.
Every storage room and closet is being searched—security’s reviewing the videotapes from the closed circuit cameras.
I go to see Santos—he’s sitting there, tapping, presumably texting Tom.
“Santos—can you help me?”
“Sure, Doctor Reimer. You want to know about Sarah?”
I nod.
“She’s depressed, but still alive.”
“Do you know where she is?”
“She’s not here—in the hospital, I mean.”
“Do you know where she’s gone?”
“She walked down to the lake. She’s planning to walk out and drown.”
“What part of the lake, Santos?”
“Near the pier. There’s a bend there—some long grass—it’s pretty secluded.”
“I know it.”
I grab two security guards and we exit the hospital and drive the quarter mile to the lake.
We spot her through some trees just going into the water. The guards are out the door and running across the rocky beach as fast as they can go.
I figure the water’s close to freezing and figure she’ll only last minutes at that temperature.
Fortunately, they manage to grab her, as she’s waist deep and just going under the waves.
I’m not a big ideas person—I’m no R. D. Laing, but I know what I observe. There’s something going on with Santos that defies the laws of psychiatry.
If I didn’t take him seriously, Sarah would be dead.
I don’t know how to write that up in the American Journal of Psychology, but as Georg Lichtenberg said, the thoughts written on the walls of madhouses by their inmates might be worth publicizing.
Maybe I should also extend that sentiment to include the texts inmates tap out on the palms of their hands.
