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WHATEVER IT TAKES

Lizzie

JANUARY 10, 2004

“Y OU HAVE TO DO SOMETHING FOR HER ,” D AD BEGGED . “S HE’S WHORING HERSELF around and that’s not the girl I know.” A broken sob escaped him. “She wouldn’t do that.”

“There’s a gap in her medical notes.” The doctor eyed my father. “Three years.”

“You’ll have to talk to my wife about that,” Dad replied, sounding weary. “She handles all the paperwork.” He cleared his throat before saying, “Please explain to me what’s happening here.”

“Your daughter is experiencing episodes of full-blown mania—a common factor of bipolar one, however the severity and frequency of her depressive episodes is consistent with bipolar type two.”

“What does it matter what type she has? You know she has it, just medicate her, dammit.”

“It doesn’t work like that, I’m afraid.”

“Why the bloody hell not?”

“Bipolar disorder is complicated, Mr. Young,” the doctor said. “Children and adolescents with early-onset bipolar can be extremely difficult to treat.”

“But you can fix her, can’t you?”

“We can treat her, but it’s not as simple as you think, Mr. Young. Lizzie came off her medication without medical supervision,” the doctor replied. “She has been rapid cycling between manic and depressive states for several months. She is going to need a lot of supervision and care for the next while.”

“How long are we talking?”

“In cases as severe as your daughter’s, it usually takes a minimum of two months before progress is seen, but it could take longer.”

“I can’t handle this,” Dad cried, wiping his eyes with his hands. “My daughter is dead, and my wife is sick. I don’t know what to do for this one.”

“I can assure you that your daughter is in the best possible care.”

“What about the shocking?” Dad asked then, elbows resting on the bed I was strapped to. “Could that work for her?”

“If you’re referring to electroconvulsive therapy, then no, we don’t recommend ECT for patients under the age of sixteen anymore.”

“But it does happen?”

“Under extremely rare circumstances.”

“How extreme does she have to be before someone steps in and does something?” he demanded, throwing his hands up. “The tablets aren’t working. She’s refusing counseling. Her arms and legs are torn to ribbons. How much more must we lose before somebody helps us?”

“I’ll do it,” I managed to whisper. “I’ll do it, Dad.”

Dad turned to look at me. “You will?”

Using every ounce of strength inside of me, I nodded. “I’ll do whatever it takes.”

Relief flashed in Dad’s eyes, and he covered my hand with his. “Good girl.”