Dan’s parents drive him back home while he is sedated. The family gather to help. To access previous chapters, visit Jane Read’s Author Page.

Chapter 11.                                                           

JANE

 

‘I doubt if a single individual could be found from the whole of mankind, free from some sort of  insanity.  The only difference is one of degree.’

                                                                           Desiderius Erasmus

            

 

‘It will be a few hours before anything more can be prescribed so if you want to take him back to York now, we will discharge him while he is still sedated.’

The two psychiatrists are business-like and not keen to section Dan in London which is a relief. We had been half-tempted to check into a local hotel because of our utter exhaustion, but we’d prefer to travel home with a more manageable Dan in the car. We bundle him semi-conscious onto the back seat, cover him with some coats and are ready to set off. I worry again about Graham doing another long drive, with no sleep, or food. But he orders extra shots in his coffee and is keen to get going right away,

‘I’ll manage Dan if he wakes up,’ I volunteer. ‘Maybe he’ll be more like his old self when he comes round’

I’m experiencing a familiar nervousness; one I used to feel when travelling anywhere with a newborn in the car. Long journeys with a baby required careful planning but Dan had always been one of my best travellers. This time, I can’t predict what will happen in the next few hours. What if Graham gets too tired to drive all the way home? What if the sedation wears off before we get there?

I glance out of the car window into the darkness as we pull away just in time to catch sight of a few remaining fireworks, popping and hissing, then fading silently away into the sulphurous fog of the night sky. I had totally forgotten that it was bonfire night.

While Dan sleeps, I try to formulate a plan. I text a few relatives to let them know what is happening and warn them to avoid phoning us just now, because of Dan’s aversion to ringing mobiles. By the time we reach the outskirts of York, the sedatives are noticeably beginning to wear off. He is sitting up, still groggy, slurring his words a little,

‘I sense you guys are worrying. God doesn’t want you to worry.’

His concern for us is touching, but it is clear that nothing has changed. While he remains quiet, we decide it might be a good idea to have a short visit home to regroup, before embarking once more into the unknown. Tom suggested that we might pay a visit our local GP first of all. They might make a referral to York hospital and get Dan admitted sooner.

We arrive home to discover that not only has Rob missed work that day, but Em has not been to school. After the disruption of the previous night, they both felt too tired and too emotional. Em assures us that Monday’s lessons are nearly always a waste of time.

Dan is calm as he makes his way slowly upstairs. I follow, suggesting that he take a quick shower. He does, but I’m not sure that he uses any soap or shampoo or even dries himself properly. He appears spaced out as he pads silently around the house with bare feet.  I slip him a drink of tea and a small snack, which he eats semi-consciously.

Lou’s father, a retired pastor, has travelled over with Rob and Lou to see if he can be of any help. He brings some of his wife’s homemade soup and a few other welcome provisions. Dan decides that Pastor Paul looks so lost and sad that he immediately sets about ministering to him.  I return to our kitchen a little later to find that he has the poor man backed up against the kitchen sink and is gently stroking his ear.

Tom catches the train as soon as his A & E shift at Blackpool hospital has ended and Graham meets him from the station. He is dressed in scrubs, doctor’s bag in hand, admitting as he steps in through our front door that despite all of his training, he is quite scared to face his own brother’s altered state.

‘Did the hospital carry out a general physical examination of Dan, to rule out any neurological cause of the psychosis?’  He asks. I didn’t think they had.

‘There can be hidden causes, such as something creating pressure on the brain, which it’s possible to miss.’

I can’t help feeling proud of his expertise and calm authority. I start to feel a little bit safer with Tom around. He goes upstairs with his younger brother, who allows him to carry out various checks. Tom talks to Dan in a gentle and reassuring way, tolerating his urgent attempts to convince him of his new identity. That day, Dan adopts a new nickname for his brother, ‘The Doubter,’ after the disciple, Thomas, in the Gospels accounts, the one who demanded to see the scarred hands, feet and to touch the side of Jesus before he would believe that he had risen from the dead.

Our own Tom, a reflective thinker, maintains a quiet but healthy scepticism about the Christian faith, refusing to simply join the status quo because it is expected of him, or to pretend to believe something that he isn’t completely sure about. He ignores emotional pressure from others and detects the hypocrisy of many believers. Tom’s wise and scientific approach to life is something we’ve always respected. He accepts the new label Dan has chosen for him with good humour.

‘We’ll let our Tom take the lead in any decision-making regarding Dan,’ Graham suggests. He too, seems reassured by Tom’s presence.

At the four pm GP appointment, Thomas goes in first to talk to the doctor, whilst Dan leans against me in the waiting room. We join them after a little while and Dan launches straight into his vehement preaching and pacing, the minute he has an audience, leaving no shadow of doubt in the GP’s mind about his psychotic state. We are shown to a private room while the referral is made. The window is slightly open, and we listen to the mournful hooting of a lone owl as we wait. Dan imitates its call, with the exact same pitch and tone.

This catastrophe has occurred at the very time we had been intending to focus on our daughter as she begins her exams. Her sixth form visits are also due to start in about a week’s time, and she will need to make her A’ level subject choices very shortly. Although Em has always been sensible and self-sufficient, I worry about how all this disruption might be affecting her. Suddenly we are so preoccupied with Dan, there is little time or emotional energy left for anything or anyone else.

‘While things are so difficult, we can travel over from Leeds after work, to spend time with Emily in the evenings.’ Rob suggests.

‘We can make tea for her and then drive her to her Sixth form open evenings.’ Lou offers. My eyes fill with tears at their generosity.

Rob and Louise proceed to take over almost all parental responsibility of our daughter for the next few months. Em accepts this willingly, commenting that it’s cool to have younger ‘parents’ to accompany her to the open evenings and to help her with her subject choices. She doesn’t make a fuss about anything, but I’m sure she must resent our absence at times.

Rob and Lou’s efforts help maintain some normality in her life. They spend time texting and chatting to her on the phone, even taking her out for some weekend shopping trips, while Graham and I are constantly distracted by day-to-day care of Dan and the step-by-step decisions we are having to make on his behalf. We are aware that our adult children and their partners, are watching us both closely and noticing how we operate in a crisis. This helps to strengthen our resolve and sustain our efforts. Some compensation for our suffering, is seeing the solidarity and strength of our family, the strong community we have built over the years, during the celebrations and good times, joining forces now to help us through this time of stress and uncertainty.

Chapter 12                                                        

DAN

 

  ‘The Edge’ There is no honest way to explain it because the only people

       who know where it is are the ones who have gone over.’

                 Hunter S. Thompson

 

I’m not quite sure what on earth I am doing in this place, but I do know there must be an important reason for me being here. I must prioritise my Heavenly Father’s mission. People keep on asking me the same questions over and over again, which is irritating.

I pace around in circles staring at my mobile phone. Mum asks if I want to hand it over to her and let her look after it. (She probably thinks I am about to chuck it across the floor, like I did with hers). But I march up to the TV screen, which is mounted, high in the corner of the room and I stand beneath it. ‘Children In Need’ is on. I turn towards the seated patients, holding my phone aloft and gesticulating towards the screen. I am prompting them to dial the numbers displayed above me and to donate their money. Then I notice a text which had been sent to me earlier that day by the stage crew at drama school.

I haven’t been to rehearsals. No-one has seen me all day. Perhaps I had better reply.

 

Backstage crew: ‘Hi Dan, can you tell me where you are right now? We are all getting worried because we’ve not been able to contact you’

Dan: ‘Hi there. I’m in York. My family are with me. They are saying I’m ill, but it is a bit more complicated than that’

Crew: ‘Can you tell us what’s happening? Ill in what way? Have you been to see a doctor?’

Dan: ‘I have, but doctors can’t help with this’

Crew: ‘Are you likely to be coming in this afternoon?’

Dan: ‘No’

Crew: ‘Sorry to bother you Dan, but we need to know what is happening.’

Dan: ‘I’m not sure how to explain it!’

Crew: ‘Well try…simplify. It has to go in the absence notes, so we do need a reason.’

Dan: ‘The reason is GOD.’

 

The texts stop abruptly after that.

The following day, Dad contacts the principal to report officially that they have brought me back to York. I overhear him saying,

‘Well we think Dan will definitely be absent from drama school for a week, maybe two, but we will make sure we keep you informed.’

Tom sits with me in the waiting area. I lean comfortably against him. My body goes completely limp as I relax and I slide gracefully from the bench onto the floor, landing with a bump. My brother shouts to staff that I have collapsed, but I honestly think it’s God controlling my muscles again and fully intended for this to happen. They ask me how I am feeling once I open my eyes,

‘I have never felt better. Things are so easy for me now’ and ‘I don’t have to worry ever again!’

I start some deep breathing, inhaling, exhaling, hissing loudly through my teeth which is a vocal technique we have been taught on my training course. A nurse brings a wheelchair across and raises my feet. I lie on my back laughing. Tom is getting quite annoyed now and demands to know why everything is taking so long. Once I am seated on my wheelie throne, my energy and powers return. I shout a series of loud proclamations to all who are listening,

‘Wake up! Wake Up! All ye who have ears to hear.

Listen to me. The time has come!

This pronouncement earns us the benefit of a private room. I sit bolt upright, slicing the air with my hands as I recite some of my favourite Hamlet soliloquies.  I can sense that people around me are enjoying my performance. They are watching me closely. You never know when there might be an agent around, somewhere in the audience.

I am taken into a room where another bloke with a stethoscope around his neck starts talking at me. They say he’s a doctor, but I think he is probably an actor, or a casting agent or even a director in disguise.

‘All these endless questions and pointless forms to fill in!’ I complain to him.

(I’m quite liking my own performance. I think I am making bold choices here.)

‘God has some epic plans for you.’ I tell the man. ’You are definitely capable of landing a better role than this.  I have discovered who I am and I know exactly where I’m heading.  No one can keep up with the speed of my thoughts.’

I am just getting started when he interrupts me!

‘Can you confirm your name and date of birth?’

            ‘I am Dan, Dan Read, and I was born on 15^th of…. . No, no, no… wait!’

I leap quickly to my feet and run to the opposite side of the room with one hand raised, eyes closed,

‘Sorry, sorry, sorry, I am so sorry Lord ‘

‘No, I was lying.’ I confess.

‘I am not Dan, I am Jesus Christ, who was promised to the world. I was born on 25th December! God will lead me everywhere from now on and tell me what I must to do. My life is in his hands. I don’t even need to read the Bible because I can simply feel what God wants. ………..God is FEELING’ I shout.

‘And guess what happened? I even received a text from God yesterday. I can show it to you if you like.’

 I reach for my phone. The man with the stethoscope is rubbing his forehead and smiling,

 ‘A text from God? …. hmmm….. I see.  Did you make a note of his number?’

They leave the room to go and fill in some more forms. Mum and I wait for a long time. She tells me to rest with her for a while and she sings softly to me for a few minutes. It’s pleasant at first but then I get bored, so I jump up to leave the room, walking straight through into the curtained bay next door where a small, elderly lady is lying quietly on a trolley bed.

‘What is your name?’ I ask her.

‘Margaret… Margaret Simpson’ she replies in a faint and croaky voice.

I place both my hands on top of her thinning strands of wispy white hair and I gaze heavenwards, as I pronounce my special blessing on her,

‘Thy will be done!’ I conclude triumphantly.

Her pale and wrinkled face breaks into the sweetest smile. I know for certain that I have helped to heal her broken leg as well as any other ailments she may have. For some reason Mum is apologising to the old lady’s daughter.

‘We are terribly sorry for disturbing you,’ she is saying, ‘It’s just that he thinks he’s… well…he thinks he is God at the moment!’ she whispers.

‘Don’t worry, it’s quite alright,’ she assures us.

Mum ushers me away from behind the curtain.

I am thankful that my heavenly father is leading me to people who need my healing the most.

The shrill, repetitive sound of Dad’s mobile cuts through the silence, infuriating me. He has gone off with Tom and left it here, inside his coat pocket. I spring to my feet, rummaging in the coat and I seize the offending object and quickly mute it before posting it into the nearest clinical waste bin. It drops to the bottom, with a clatter.

Mum is saying that she hopes Tom and Dad won’t be much longer. She always talks quietly and calmly to me, and it soon begins to dawn on me that she is the one person who God wants me to trust and to listen to. From now on, God will be speaking to me through her. She does get upset with the receptionist when we are told that there could be an even longer wait for the admissions team to arrive.

‘But we have been in here for so long already. My husband and I have been waiting in two different hospitals. We haven’t eaten or slept for almost fifty hours now!’ Because she is getting stressed, I join in. I’m feeling her anger inside of me. I start thumping my fist on the counter saying that we expect better service.

Mum says a few hours later, that she thinks it might be good for me to stay and have a rest in hospital for a  while. She mentions that I can choose to be admitted as a voluntary patient instead of being forced to stay and I agree, because I don’t want to be forced anywhere. God must have some very important purpose in bringing me here, most probably to seek out lost souls and to heal the sick. Dad asks me if he can keep hold of my phone for now. He says he will look after it for me and keep it safe. I agree because I certainly won’t need it where I am going. Tom is apologising to Mum for being so long with the consultant and leaving us alone but I assure him that we were completely fine the whole time.

Two men in uniform are standing a few yards away, waiting to escort me to my place of mission. I stride purposefully towards them with my arms outstretched. Mum scurries behind me, only just able to keep up. There is one scary moment which stops me in my tracks. As I step into the dark corridor, I catch sight of a row of trolley beds lined up against the wall with oxygen cylinders or chemical canisters of some sort attached to them, just above the wheel frame. I’m suddenly filled with terror at the sight of these and I turn back to Mum. I realise in that instant, that I’m entering some sort of alien environment. She gently rubs my back.

‘It’s alright’ she whispers.

‘But will it be ok for them to call me ‘Dan’ while I am in here?’ I ask.

‘Oh yes. That is what they will call you, so always listen carefully to them, take the medication they give you and try to sleep when they say it is time to sleep, because you need plenty of rest at the moment. (Her voice is unsteady.) And don’t forget to drink plenty of water. We will come back and see you tomorrow, I promise.’

Mum kisses me goodbye. There are tears on her face.  I won’t show her that my heart is breaking too. Dad and Tom hug me tightly. My family seem to want to keep me locked in their arms. But I gently extract myself from their grasp. I must go now, and they have to leave. I watch them back out, very slowly through the sliding glass doors.

Chapter 13.

DAN  

                         

                           “If you think anyone is sane, you just don’t know enough about them.”

    Christopher Moore‘

 

I am shown into the lounge and told to wait while they get my room ready. I ask each member of staff in turn, whether they enjoy their job here. Then at last, I’m taken to my bedroom. They tell me, ‘Everything you need is in here.’

I find a towel, some soap and a Bible on my bed, so I know that they are right. I have everything I need. I am then handed a beaker of water with a tablet, which I agree to take this time. I do get a bit of sleep but it’s quite a weird, light sleep in which my body is resting but my mind keeps going. My eyes are closed but I can feel the sensation of Mum’s hands, gently massaging my forehead as I drift off.  I’m not sure if she is really there, or just in my dream.

My family visit me the next day, and I talk eagerly to them about my mission and how I need them all to be on my side to help me do God’s work. I know that Tom has come back to see me for a reason. When he stops doubting, the time will be right for the revolution to begin. I tell them I’m eating all my meals in silence, with the Bible open on the table in front of me because that is what God wants.

‘Most guys I meet in here are half asleep. They are sitting like zombies in front of the telly, no-one is talking to anyone else. It’s my job to wake them up. I am here to inject life into this dead place and to tell them a few important truths, so I stand right in front of the TV screen and start shouting at them;

‘THE TIME HAS COME. RISE UP AND FOLLOW ME. I AM HERE TO SAVE YOU.

I AM THE WAY, THE TRUTH AND THE LIFE’

Some blokes are grumbling at me; ‘Sure you are mate, sure you are’,

They are wanting me to get out of the way but I know my message is a lot more important than the crap they are watching.

“I HAVE BEEN SENT TO BRING PEOPLE OUT OF SLEEP AND INTO LIFE AND TRUTH.

ONLY THEN WILL GOD TAKE ME OUT INTO THE REST OF THE WORLD !”

‘We’ll take you out mate, if you don’t shift out’a the way!’ one guy is muttering.

I move towards a less angry looking patient, He is trying to put a DVD into the player and when he presses a button on the remote, the word ‘OPEN’ appears on the screen. I know that this is a direct instruction for me to open my Bible. I do so, in silence, offering it to him with a smile. He looks a bit surprised, but doesn’t take it. I will try again later.

I lead Mum along the corridor to show her my new bedroom, explaining,

‘I have been given a simple room filled with a few simple things.  We don’t need all the clutter that we collect in our lives.’

She agrees and tells me that she has only brought me a few things from home, a handful of clean clothes but if there is anything there that I feel is unnecessary, she can take it away. She hands me the ‘Complete Works of Shakespeare’, which I did tell her I might need, for practicing my monologues and preparing for auditions. She has also picked out two photos from our family albums. These are to put on the shelf near my bed. Immediately I see them I know that they hold important significance, so I start to explain to Mum and to Tom, what they represent.

The first is a photo is of seven members of our family on holiday, lined up on a balcony in Menorca (Dad was holding the camera down below). I think I was about fourteen at the time and I’d been pratting about, leaning over the wall with my eyes and mouth wide open in mock horror at the sight of the drop. I stare at the picture for a few seconds, then explain it to Mum.

‘This is the old Dan, being sick over the wall, emptying himself of all the sin, the porn, the drugs and the alcohol which corrupt our world and our lives.’

The other is a picture of me acting in the play, ‘Bartholomew Fair’. (I was about seventeen, and a member of the local, Riding Lights Youth Theatre.) It’s an impressive headshot. My face is looking upwards, one hand raised high in a strong, dramatic gesture above my head with my muscles and sinews standing out.

‘This is a picture of the new, strong Daniel, teaching and preaching to people and helping them know the truth!’

I notice that staff from the kitchens and the nursing auxiliaries serve me my food,  drink and medication with appropriate humility. I don’t like accepting the tablets because I know there is nothing at all wrong with me and they make me feel tired, but it is fitting that people serve me in this way because of my new identity.

Every time the ward phone rings, I find myself growing angry. Constantly ringing phones are an unnecessary intrusion in our lives. Rob quickly closes the door so that the sound won’t bother me as much, then he mentions that they have bought a new mobile for me to keep in the hospital, with just our family’s numbers on it, (in case I need to speak to any of them) but just now they seem unsure about whether they should give it to me or not because of my hatred of phones. It is inside Mum’s shoulder bag near the big settee, but the alarm has been set for some reason and suddenly goes off whilst we’re talking. I feel around inside the bag to grab it. I draw my fist back to hurl it out through the open window, into the darkness of the grounds beyond. I pause for a second and I look towards my brother. He stops me.

‘No Dan! Give it to me now and I will put it away.’

I hand it over obediently. Then I tell them about last night, when I found myself crawling along on my hands and knees into the lounge where the night staff were reading their papers.

‘Please listen to me’. I said to them. ‘I need your help. I really am Jesus, the Messiah.’ 

They ignored me and carried on chatting away and reading. They made me feel alone in my hour of need. I sense that I am going to be killed before too long (probably by crucifixion).

‘There was this other guy sitting there, sketching in the corner of the lounge. I’m guessing that maybe he couldn’t sleep either.’

He hisses at me, “Hey mate! No-one’s going to listen to you like that are they? You’re crawling around in your boxers mate. Come over ’ere and I’ll listen to you for a bit if you want.”

I look at his sketch book. He’s scribbled a rough pencil drawing of a car and written ‘Jamie woz ere’ underneath it. I like him. He’s cool and seems to know stuff. He’s got a gun tattooed on his right arm.

I tell Mum about the conversation that I had with one of the very pretty nurses on the ward that morning, carefully explaining to her that I have been singled out by God to carry out a world-wide revolution, to save, forgive and to heal people.

She asks if I believe that I am God’s Messiah? I say,

‘Yes, you are right. That is the truth. That is exactly who I am!’

 

Chapter 14.                           

JANE

 

“We do not have to visit a madhouse to find disordered minds.

        Our planet is the mental institution of the universe.”

Johann Wolfgang von Goethe

 

 

We cope in a determined fashion at first, but after a few weeks, the impact of our crisis begins to take its toll. Graham is frequently close to tears. I am struggling to function, repeatedly walking around in a daze with a permanent headache, forgetting what day it is, missing appointments, then feeling guilty when I’ve let people down. I can’t seem to manage any ‘normal’ life at all.  I try to rest for part of the morning if it is possible, knowing that I will need to gather my strength for the afternoon visits to Dan. The daily bouts of weeping have washed away my characteristic optimism, exhausting me in the way a bereavement does. We do our best to describe this situation to our employers, having little or no idea how long our crisis will last, nor how long we will be caring for Dan in the future. The school where I’ve worked for ten years in various roles and where both Dan and Em were both pupils, is very supportive. When I try to return, a colleague asks me,

‘So, what are you doing back here in school, while all this shit is still going on at home?

It dawns on me that I can probably ask for more weeks of compassionate leave while Dan is still in hospital. I need as much flexibility as possible right now. My counselling work for Relate is put on hold for now and the receptionist promises to cancel my client sessions.

We are grateful that Graham’s current job is much less intense than his previous position. He can continue to work from home and although he claims to be doing ‘barely half a job’, Graham is such a thorough and conscientious worker, his ‘half a job’ will be worth quite a bit more than some people’s total output. Working under great pressure with difficult time constraints and inflexible deadlines, is something he grew accustomed to during his years of directorship in the corporate world. It’s a relief that the relentless demands on his time and the long-haul travel involved, had come to an end before our current crisis but we are also grateful for the financial security they provided. Many people find that unexpectedly becoming a carer of a close family member, has the effect of throwing them into financial crisis, on top of all the other stresses.

Rob runs his own music production business and although always busy, he is still his own boss, so there can be some flexibility around the hours he works. Tom is completing medical placements so he can’t easily take time off, but he keeps in close touch, phoning us every day and often visiting at weekends. His wife, Cath, is due to give birth to our first grandson in January so we are reluctant to involve her too much.

Dan has been prescribed olanzapine, a common first choice of anti-psychotic for patients experiencing mania. His belief in his special identity prevents him from seeing the necessity of any treatment. He isn’t fully aware of the potential side effects of these drugs quite yet, their sedative nature and the appetite increase they will cause, leading to weight gain. I am sure he’d be even more reluctant to take them if he knew. I begin to wonder if this illness and subsequent treatments, will severely limit his prospects as an actor. I have not been able to let go of this dream for him quite yet. Graham is more realistic, but says there is little point in speculating about anything at this stage. We need to remain focussed, to concentrate on one day at a time, as every day brings new challenges.

“I’ll show you what the doctors did this morning mum!” Dan lay flat on his back on the hospital bed, his face beaming ecstatically, his eyes wide, his arms outstretched.

“They put something onto my wrists and ankles and my side. Here, here and here!” He said touching each part in turn. “What does that remind you of?”

He is animated and excited again. I am guessing that he is describing an electro-cardiogram (ECG), but I imagine that in his mind, he is thinking about the crucifixion wounds of Jesus. My heart aches to see his misguided joy as he extracts exciting meanings from everything that takes place. For me it is just further evidence of how unwell my son really is. I know I must listen to him whatever he is saying, but I also think I should keep my responses grounded and try to keep Dan in touch with the real world.

‘I expect they were testing your pulse rate Dan, making sure that you are physically fit and healthy.’

He told me that he had gone into a trance-like state and felt completely relaxed whilst they carried out the tests.

“I was sure they would find no pulse at all however hard they searched. Then they would be forced to realise who they are dealing with.”

On the Thursday of that first week, we are introduced to Leo, Dan’s key worker, a young, earnest looking care co-ordinator, with wide blue eyes and brown unruly hair. He is part of the Trust’s Early Intervention team, assigned to visit and get to know Dan, accompanying him on his journey towards recovery. We have thousands of urgent questions, many of which can only be addressed by a psychiatrist. Even then, there seem to be no definite answers. From the start, we find that our own instincts about what is best for Dan and our own research into wider sources of information, are the things we rely on the most.

We are also visited by a ‘Family support worker’ in these early weeks, a sentimental woman with a very silly voice who arrived on a pink bicycle, adorned with plastic flowers. She is inept and uninspiring and keeps repeating to us ad nauseam that we are doing a ‘really-good-job’ with unnecessary emphases on each word, but with little idea of how we are actually coping. Maybe she uses this meaningless phrase with all her clients. I realise I am lacking tolerance right now, but she always seems to be on sick leave or on holiday when we most need advice. I catch sight of her one day, in town when I take a short-cut through a department store. She is choosing expensive perfume with a smile on her face. I can’t help thinking,

‘It’s alright for you, living your life, taking time off and spending your salaries on expensive perfume, while we are left struggling on our own.’

The information leaflets given to us by the hospital and the clinics, are all too basic and often quite patronising in tone. We want to arm ourselves with as much knowledge as we can about this baffling illness. We need to be properly informed and educated about all of this.

Always organised and ever thorough when collecting information, Graham assembles several large ring-binders of articles, medical documents, hospital letters and important contacts, over the course of the next three years. He spends hours putting them all in order. Watching him do this provides me with a sense of security, a confidence that he is still in control. I like to think that at least some of the answers we need, can be found in those files somewhere. I also start buying biographies, memoirs and medical textbooks about psychosis. Other people recommend further reading to us. My own personal diaries and records are kept up to date, minutely detailed accounts of what has taken place each day. We find that they provide us with a useful resource for tracing any progress made, as well as keeping an accurate record of dates when Dan’s meds have been raised or lowered, or when we have noticed changes in him.

But despite our careful research, there are times when we feel completely alone with our problems, such as during the Christmas period after Dan’s discharge, when we need to check his dose of anti-psychotic medication, suspecting that it is too high, too numbing and too sedating, but we find it impossible to get hold of anyone to ask advice.

It is a sad task to have to visit the vast, red-bricked Victorian structure of York’s Bootham Park hospital every day, a place which not very long ago was referred to as the ‘lunatic asylum’. We enter its doors anxiously, dreading what we might find. But there are small compensations. The visitors’ lounge with its big bay windows and old, black leather settees, is often free, and is somewhere we can be with Dan uninterrupted. He is free to ‘preach’ to us in private, or he might lie down and rest quietly for a while. During his moments of fatigue, he lies curled up, eyes closed, his head on my lap, allowing me to stroke his brow and massage his scalp as he drifts in and out of sleep for a few minutes.

We are sorry to see how few of the other men have visitors. They appear neglected by their families and rejected by society. We never miss a day and often come twice, prepared from the outset to make whatever sacrifices necessary, to put our own lives on hold until our son’s recovery is achieved, however long that might take.

 

Chapter 15.                                                            

DAN 

              

          “Better mad with the rest of the world than wise alone”

Baltazar Grayling

 

God is telling me to get up out of bed, to talk to lonely people. I have to pee lots of times, every night because I’ve been drinking so much water to cleanse my soul. Each time I visit the bathroom, I wash my hands very carefully, following the NHS, step by step, hand-washing instructions mounted on the wall. I wash them so thoroughly and so often that they become dry and sore and the skin starts to crack.

There are hardly any people around in the small hours in this place. Night staff try to persuade me back to bed, but I know God wants me to drink as much of this Holy water as I possibly can. One night I fill several jugs and I keep drinking, and drinking. This well of water will fill me with purity and cleansing power and make me ready to breathe out the Holy Spirit onto the lost souls. The nurses have recently told me to stop putting my hands on people’s heads to bless them and warn me that some patients can be a bit aggressive. So, I ask if it is alright to blow on them instead as I pass. They seem to consider this a more acceptable alternative, provided I keep my distance.

On one occasion, I get a bit carried away with my preaching to the night staff. They want me back in my bedroom, but I refuse to go. A security guy takes me by the wrist and bends my arm right around behind my back. I can’t struggle free without breaking my wrist. It hurts. I yell at him.

“You can’t do that to people! You should not be treating anyone in this way!”

I tell them I will make a written complaint because I know my human rights have been breached, so they bring me the official form. I sit in the lounge and start filling it in, but I am struggling to focus. Suddenly it dawns on me that God would prefer me to forgive this man who has wronged me. I promptly crumple up the form and throw it away, telling him that although he’s hurt me and shown a lack of respect, he is forgiven.

I’m now starting to realise that patients are not always treated well in this place. Some things staff are doing seem completely pointless, like ticking random boxes on forms on their poxy little clipboards every day, while they stand and stare at me in silence. Most of the time, patients are not being listened to and they are hardly ever spoken to. I know that some people are in this hospital because of their mental illnesses. This doesn’t apply to me of course. I am here to spread the word of God and to bring new life into the ward. I am a voluntary patient, definitely not insane, free to come and go as I please, but I’ve noticed that all the doors are all locked anyway, so I’m not convinced.

Everything I read is another instruction from God, a special sign, exclusively for me. There is a ‘STOP’ sign on the wall, just outside the security door, for example. Visitors look at it then press the intercom button to announce their arrival. But I know it’s God’s way of instructing me to stop, to slow down and to rest. Every time I catch sight of it, I take a pause from my pacing, sit down on one of the seats in the corridor and keep very still, for at least one minute.

Most of the patients are older than me but one or two seem to be about my age, including a cool-looking French guy called Stefan. We hit it off quite well, despite his English being very limited and my French, much worse. He has bi-polar and is very rowdy and unsettled when he first arrives. I place my hand on his shoulder to calm him down.

‘Peace brother, I whisper. It seems to work and he thanks me, so I decide to do this with all the new arrivals from now on. I mention to staff that patients just need to be listened to and shown love and respect. But they don’t seem to appreciate me telling them how to do their job.

Stefan and I become friends. After a game of table tennis, he picks up my hoodie by mistake and puts it on. When he notices it isn’t his, he apologises. I just say,

‘It’s fine mate.  You can keep it.’

So, he goes off and fetches one of his jumpers to give me in return, which is a bonus, because his clothes are pretty stylish. We plan to swap some of our jeans and jackets the following day. We play table tennis and pool together and sometimes hang out in the downstairs café for a bit, in the afternoons. But suspicions about his true identity begin to grow and take root when I read the sleeve of a vinyl lying in the common room, with the words, ‘Jesus versus Judas’ on the front of the album.

I suddenly realise that Stefan is in fact Judas Iscariot in a cunning disguise, the disciple who ‘appears’ to be Jesus’ friend, but ends up betraying him. I’m getting quite worried about this, so I decide to confide in Reggie, the posh bloke on my ward. Reginald is well educated and well read. He dresses smartly in colourful shirts and bow ties, red braces and tartan waistcoats. I know I can rely on him. He is one of the wisest guys here.

‘What shall I do about Stefan?’ I ask Reggie, when I find him.

‘I just know that sooner or later, he is going to betray me.’

He replies with his usual certainty and his royal-sounding diction,

‘You must love him and forgive him Daniel. Love him and forgive him.  For that, quite simply, is all that you are called to do!’

I trust Reggie. His advice is sound.

Some days we are taken out for short walks as a group. I like to keep my headphones on to listen to music on my way round. One afternoon when I’m striding ahead of the others, I nearly walk straight in front of a moving car, which luckily for me, is sticking to the five mile an hour speed limit in the grounds. A nurse dashes out to grab me, then tells me to take my headphones off and to slow down. He says I must stay in the group with the others. We visit an ancient, thirteenth century church but as we step inside, I burst into tears because it’s my Father’s house and I am sad to see it empty.

We are encouraged to sign up for activities listed on the notice board. I decide I might as well go to the cycle maintenance session, even though I don’t even own a bike anymore. I did have one when I was younger, but it got nicked from the school bike sheds. After that, I used my brother’s and when that one got nicked as well, I gave up with bikes and decided to walk to school instead.

After the session, I don’t remember anything useful about how to repair bikes because everything the tutor said became a series of messages from God, directed towards me!

‘The shape of the frame is there to give the bike its strength and support. The connection of the chain to these pedals is the energy which powers the bike into motion’, etc. etc.

In the break, I start chatting to a new guy who tells me he’s being kept in here because he’s got schizophrenia. I tell him straight,

‘There is no such thing as ‘schizophrenia’, mate. It’s just a pointless label they give to you. It means nothing.’

He agrees with me and appreciates my common sense. I know I am definitely here for the sake of guys like him. I’m making a difference to their lives and helping them feel better about themselves. I’m also getting everyone to understand that patients just need to be listened to and the medication is redundant. My fellow inmates agree with me. Whenever one of them fails to get what they want from the staff, they come down the corridor to find me. One guy pokes his head round my door from time to time, showing me his clenched fist and saying,

‘I’m with you, mate. We’ll fight this fight together, pal!’

I am becoming their leader. This is God’s doing. The revolution begins here. Things are taking place as they were predicted and prophesied. Everything is happening for a reason. This is all meant to be.