Free Slow Dancing with a Stranger by Meryl Comer

wrong.”
    We went together to Harvey’s room. He had not moved from the fetal position I had left him in. The doctor tried to wake him, but Harvey did not respond.
    The doctor did not seem overly concerned. “He’s most likely just sleeping it off,” he told me. He agreed to stop prescribing the Haldol. But he told me to expect that Harvey would need to stay longer than the few days I originally expected. They wanted to try another antipsychotic, called Risperdal, to help regulate Harvey’s moods. “You deserve a diagnosis,” the doctor told me. Then he left the room to tend to other patients. Harvey and I were alone again.
    Harvey was still sleeping, so I went to the family waiting room to call his doctor, whose office was just one floor above us in the hospital. What I learned next shocked me. His neurologist, someone I knew and trusted, was not directly overseeing Harvey’s case. Once we were admitted to the locked ward, the senior attending doctors were in charge.
    â€œWhat about the Haldol?” I asked. “He was treated like a wild man without provocation.” The doctor assured me that he would put in a courtesy call and monitor Harvey’s case but that he couldn’t do more.
    When I got back to Harvey’s room, Harvey was awake and sitting on the edge of the bed. He still seemed dazed. His look was unknowing as he gazed into the distance. It had been just twelve hours, but Harvey no longer recognized me.
    I spent the rest of the day trying to get Harvey to acknowledge my presence. I assured him that he would be home soon. I helped him shower and dress, hoping the familiarity of routine might trigger some recognition. I plied him with liquids, hoping it would help flush out the noxious medicine.
    His ability to stand slowly improved, and his footing grew more stable, so we ventured out to walk the halls. We circled around three or four times. Then, as we came around once more on the way back to the room, I heard a man screaming profanities. Suddenly, two muscular orderlies rushed into his room. A nurse, injection in hand, came running right behind them. In less than thirty seconds, the corridor was silent again. The eerie quiet upset me more than the outburst. Had they treated Harvey the same way last night?
    Without warning, Harvey suddenly left my side and bolted ahead. He was moving quickly, in an erratic weaving pattern. I ran for a wheelchair parked at the far end of the hall and called for help. An orderly responded and together we managed to get Harvey into the wheelchair and back to his room. That episode was just the start of increasingly erratic behavior. Harvey was not the person I had brought in just twenty-four hours earlier. He would never again be the same.
    By the time the doctor who had seen us earlier dropped by, it was already midafternoon. “How are you doing, Dr. Gralnick? You’re a lucky man. Your wife is a tiger when it comes to you.” I couldn’t take my eyes off Harvey, whose only response was garbled and unintelligible.
    From the start of Harvey’s illness, I had never spoken about Harvey’s prognosis in his presence, so I asked to speak with the doctor privately. When we were alone, I told him that Harvey seemed distressed and unable to communicate. “Given Harvey’s discipline as a doctor, I had initially hoped that running a few tests in a hospital setting might tap into some long-term memory and perhaps reassure him. But given the day’s events, it was clear this had not been the case.” I asked again for permission to stay in Harvey’s room overnight to help ease his transition.
    â€œIt’s not allowed, and there are no special privileges because you are a doctor’s wife,” the physician told me. Before I could protest, he added, “It’s also for your own protection.” It might take time before the doctors found the right medicine or combination of medicines to help