Some Say in Ice
This essay is the fifth in a series, Carefully Come Undone, in which Brittany Miles explores the many aspects of raising a child with schizophrenia.
“The doctor will see you now.”
I was led to a dark office. There was light streaming in, casting shadows on the wooden toys, an easel, and games on the floor. So many books on childhood mental illness. I must be in the right place. I had no idea what was next for us.
The psychiatrist and I exchanged pleasantries, and then we got down to it. I was excited to speak to a specialist who worked with kids Layla’s age. I described her adoption, my divorce, solo parenting, and Corey doing what he could from out of state. He murmured and asked questions, asked for clarification, and then asked more questions.
I was ticked. Why can’t he tell me what’s wrong?
I launched into present-day issues: “Layla doesn’t want to go to school because she thinks she’ll get kidnapped,” I explained. That was our problem, not our history. I kept my cool—whoo saa. A voice inside me said, You’re with a professional who knows what they’re doing. Follow along.
The session was over. $200 of nothing. Am I wasting my time? I told the doctor I would see him next week. For more…background.
Getting in my sedan, I rationalized the exorbitant cost for this useless session. Maybe he needs this information before seeing Layla. Maybe the past unlocks the clues. I put the car in reverse. Time to get back to work.
***
Appointment number two was a mirror image of appointment one. Many, many questions. I don’t remember them clearly, just that there were too many. When will he see Layla? I hope for the next visit. The doctor read my mind. He would see Layla next week. For our final diagnostic appointment.
Now we’re getting somewhere, I thought.
I made the short trip home and grabbed a snack. I had to pick up Layla soon but wanted to be alone with my thoughts. Could this doctor be it? We’ve been everywhere else, and it’s always something…but not it. At first, the neuropsychologist diagnosed dyslexia and ADHD. Later there were issues with her vision. I was trying to figure things out, but never getting anywhere.
Smacking my fruit chews, I thought maybe there was a method to the madness. Patience, something I naturally lacked, was needed here. Sighing, I decided to go with the flow. We would have an answer by the time we flew to Iceland for vacation in a few weeks. I pulled out my phone to buy us new luggage.
***
The end came before our trip.
After talking with Layla for an hour at appointment number three, the doctor signaled that he was ready to discuss her case. The medicine and the associated words weren’t too foreign to me, in keeping with what I’d read online.
Then he said, “Your daughter has major depressive disorder with psychotic features.”
All I felt was stillness. The room was filled with the weight of the diagnosis and a pervasive heaviness. Tears were at the ready, but they wouldn’t fall. Layla played Subway Surfers on her phone. Completely unaware of everything going on around her. My throat was dry, and I struggled to say, “All right, what does that mean?”
The doctor started discussing the prognosis in detail. It ended with multiple prescriptions. I was to give my 11-year-old antidepressants. Every day. Was this real life?
I thanked him and told him we’d see him after our trip.
In the darkness on the ride home, I pretended it didn’t happen. Layla asked for Wendy’s, and I drove to the nearest drive thru. For right now, she could have whatever she wanted. We arrived home in what seemed like minutes, and I put her meal on the table. I went into my room and closed the door. I sat on the bed. I tried to cry but couldn’t. I couldn’t seem to catch my breath. Maybe I had a panic attack; I don’t remember.
What mattered to me was that Layla’s condition was far worse than I had initially anticipated. There was no quick fix in sight.
I called my friend Val, who was at work in her hair salon.
She picked up on the first ring. “Mm hmm. What’s up?”
I blurted out, “She has major depressive disorder with psychotic features. I have no idea what to do.”
Val said, “Breathe. We’ll get through this.”
I needed to call Corey. I didn’t want to, but he was her father. He had a right to know. I didn’t know what I’d say. I kept Corey clueless as to what was really going on with Layla. I don’t have a good reason why I did this. Maybe ego? I was super single mom, I could fix this on my own. Probably fear kept me from telling the truth. He had no idea how bad she was. In my parenting calls, I minimized her issues to mere preadolescent moodiness. I didn’t share how she sat in the hall closet naked and screaming.
Layla was eating the last of her meal as our chihuahua, Teddy, begged for fries. She gave him one, and I smiled. Looking at the scene, you’d never imagine how sick she was. Layla looked like every other 11-year-old in the fifth grade. How did things go so tragically wrong?
Getting a diagnosis meant we could treat Layla. I reminded myself that this was a good thing. However, monitoring her hallucinations was crucial. I put on my pajamas. It was 6:30 PM. I told Layla I was going to bed. She didn’t disturb me.
***
With the new meds, she’d be safe to travel. I put school on hold and withdrew her, unsure of what would occur after our trip. Cancelling the trip was a consideration, but I thought, What the hell? We needed an escape. I fantasized that a geographical change would make the disease go away.
While we had fun, there was a noticeable difference from our spring break trip to Waikiki Beach. Her mood had shifted dramatically, becoming chillier and darker. Finding the good was tough. She withdrew into herself. It was some place I couldn’t follow.
I’d never been shut out of her world; I used to be her world.
***
Our once large lives grew small. We’ve spent every day together since late 2018. Layla preferred to stay at home because she was afraid of everything. The constant paranoia was exhausting. At times, I couldn’t keep up with the imaginary agencies we were hiding from. Our circle shrunk to a handful of family and friends. Layla’s internal landscape—which would eventually be labeled schizophrenia—took us more places than any airplane could.
After Iceland, we planned to go down under to New Zealand for our next adventure.
Seven years later, we haven’t made it.
About the Author
Brittany Miles writes fiction and essays exploring family, motherhood, mental health, and identity through lyrical, emotionally resonant storytelling. Her work appears in Newsweek, Business Insider, and The Seattle Times, and is forthcoming in Open Secrets Magazine, Tir Literary Magazine, and Minding Our Business: A Blacklandia Anthology on Mental Health and Healing.
