“See! I told you she would grow on you.”
“Yeah, yeah.” She laughs. “You win.”
I hand my keys to the valet then walk around to open the door for Giselle. She tells me I don’t have to join her, but when I give her a look that tells her to quit it, she simply nods.
After signing in, we’re brought back to meet with her mom’s doctors: Dr. Burns, who focuses on her mother’s mental health, and Dr. Clay, who focuses on her physical health.
“After evaluating your mother for the last five days, my advisement is to admit her long term,” Dr. Burns begins. “We’ve looked at her previous diagnoses, and while I’ve seen signs of depression, my thoughts are that there is more to it than that. Unfortunately, when it comes to diagnosing a patient, especially when dealing with medication, it’s all trial and error. The brain doesn’t send off a sure sign indicating the issue. It’s not like cancer, for example. We can’t do an MRI and have it find the mass.”
Giselle listens intently, nodding as he speaks.
“If the patient isn’t suicidal, we can have her see us as an outpatient.”
“But my mom has tried to kill herself several times,” Giselle says, finishing his sentence.
“Exactly. When we’re working with someone as an outpatient, she would come in several times a week to determine what’s working and what’s not. Sometimes it’s as little as finding the right medication and dose, while other times it’s figuring out the diagnosis to begin treatment. In your mother’s situation, it’s best to have her under twenty-four hour supervision. We have a team of highly-trained medical staff who can monitor her closely. That way if a medication isn’t working we will know right away. We can lower and raise the dosage and she’ll be safe.” Dr. Burns stops speaking and nods to Dr. Clay.
“Your mother has been evaluated completely, including extensive bloodwork, and physically she’s healthy. That leads us to believe what’s wrong with her is a chemical imbalance of some sort. If you decide to keep her here, she will receive additional bloodwork to continue to rule out any physical issues. With any medication, there’s a risk to the body. We will monitor her closely.”
“Do you have any questions?” Dr. Burns asks.
Giselle looks over at me and gives me a small smile. “Would you mind if I speak to the doctors alone for a moment?”
Not wanting to argue, I nod once and stand. “I’ll be outside if you need me.”
“Thank you.”
I walk outside the door, but when I see the receptionist isn’t at her desk, I close the door and place my ear up to it. Her voice is soft, and I can barely hear what she’s saying, but then one of the doctors speak and his baritone voice is loud enough that I can hear what he’s saying.
“She could see a therapist, but as I said, I don’t recommend it. She’s clearly suicidal, and if left alone we can’t be sure she won’t attempt it again, especially if she’s on the wrong meds. If it’s about money, we offer a private medically-needy loan. You can apply, and if you’re approved they will set up a payment plan.”
The doctor stops talking and Giselle starts. I can’t hear what she’s saying, but I don’t need to. I’ve heard enough. I know what I need to do.
* * *
Giselle looks around, and realizing we aren’t headed toward Brooklyn Heights, asks, “Where are we going?” She’s been quiet the entire drive back, and if it wasn’t for her sniffling quietly every once in a while, I would’ve assumed she was sleeping.
When she walked outside an hour later from her meeting, I was sitting on the bench waiting for her. Under her eyes were puffy and her cheeks were stained pink. It was obvious she’d been crying. She told me they allowed her to visit her mom for a little while, which explained the tears. She mentioned her mom has forty-eight hours left in there and then she’s going to have to make a decision.
“To get a late lunch,” I tell her, answering her question. Then, before she can argue, I add, “And you already told me you took the day off, so I know you don’t have to work.” I shoot her a knowing smirk and she rolls her eyes.
I park my car in the garage, then get out and open Giselle’s door for her.
“I thought you said we’re going to lunch?” she asks.
“I said we’re getting lunch…and we are. I’m going to have them deliver whatever we want to my place.”
We take the elevator up, and once we’re inside, I ask Giselle what she’s in the mood for. She says she would love some soup and a sandwich, so I pull up the delivery app and order from the deli down the street. Once I’ve placed our order, I have her join me on the couch. Figuring she’s had enough of talking for one day, I turn on the TV and click on Netflix.