Free Detour from Normal by Ken Dickson Page A

strength. I walked into the side room and interrupted the paperwork to have Beth play patty-cake with me or put ice on my neck.
    Though I tried to explain to Beth what was happening, it was incomprehensible to her. No rational person would understand what I was going through. It meant so much to me that she woulddo the things I requested. It saved my life—from my perspective. Hours after being admitted, the paperwork was finally finished and all that remained was for me to sign it. I had no idea what I was signing, nor did I care. Stopping the monster and sleeping were my only priorities. With a few quick strokes of the pen, I was finally qualified to enter Pinecrest and face whatever awaited me there.

    Beth's journal, May 18, 2011:
    Ken struggled to sleep all night. He complained frequently of cramps in his arches. In the early morning, he got up and plugged in my hot wax machine (which I use for softening my very dry hands). When the wax was melted, he dipped his feet into the hot liquid one at a time. Once the wax hardened, he pulled thick white athletic socks over the warm wax on his feet to hold the heat in. That eased the cramping, but he was still unable to sleep. When I awoke, Ken was pacing outside and was very agitated. He kept repeating that something was wrong, that something bad was going to happen. As soon as the girls left for school, I took him to the Desert Hope ER.
    The triage doctor at the ER noted Ken as being hypomanic. Shortly after arrival Ken had some kind of seizure. He was talking to me from the emergency room bed when suddenly his head dropped to his chest and he became unresponsive. I yelled for help, and he was rushed out of the ER for a CAT scan and X-ray, both of which came up negative. The doctor never returned to discuss Ken's case. Insteada social worker appeared and recommended that Ken be transferred to Pinecrest, a behavioral health facility where they could manage his sleep deprivation and monitor his postsurgical health. I asked that he instead be admitted to Desert Hope, but she said that he didn't qualify medically.
    Ken was transferred to Pinecrest by ambulance. When he arrived, he reported that he'd had another seizure in the ambulance. The wait to be admitted at Pinecrest was excruciatingly long. Ken was very agitated and in constant motion. His behavior was very odd. He begged me to walk with him, play patty-cake, rub his neck with ice cubes, etc. When we finally met with an admissions person, we were told that Ken's treatment at the facility would primarily address his insomnia. Ken wasn't considered mentally ill when he was admitted. He signed all the necessary paperwork to allow the facility to release information to me and allow staff to discuss treatment.

    At 4:15 p.m., I was escorted into the facility. A young man offered me a red pill in a paper cup and a small cup of water to wash it down.
    "What's this?" I asked.
    "It's Ativan. It will help you sleep," he said.
    I swallowed the pill and washed it down without further questions. In no time the medication took hold and the monster withdrew. The man showed me to a bed: a three-inch-thick, vinyl-covered foam pad perched on top of a wooden frame with an uncomfortable pillow, some sheets, and a blanket. I quickly lay on the bed. It was the worstbed I'd ever encountered, but at that moment it felt like heaven. I pulled the thin blanket around me and finally slept as if I hadn't in a lifetime.

    "Mr. Dickson," a voice called out faintly. "Mr. Dickson...," the voice repeated more insistently. I tried to open my eyes. They refused my efforts, begging me to let them stay closed. But behind those eyelids I was fully awake, my perfect sleep destroyed. I cracked one eye and peeked at my watch. It had been an hour and a half since I'd been given the Ativan. I sighed, rolled over, and took stock of my tormentor. He was of small stature with a full head of black curly hair, a close-trimmed beard, and brown eyes staring through dark,