Wake-Up Call. Joaquin De Torres
Come here at the same time tomorrow. Do you understand?” He nodded calmly, his trust earned. I reached into my shirt pocket and pulled out two of my cards and showed them to him.
“Doogie, this is my card. If you need me, give this card to someone to call me. I will come. Here, keep one in your vest pocket, and one in your pants pocket.” I slid them into the pockets of his hunter’s vest and jeans. He looked at me and smiled.
“Do you remember my name, Doogie?”
“H-H-H-A-A-A-V-V-V!”
“That’s right!” I was elated. I not only found Doug Tuckman, but had dinner with him, and a pre-evaluation-with evidence-that blew my mind. Now I didn’t want to lose him. I thought for a moment of calling the Tuckmans, but quickly discounted it. What if Doogie didn’t show up tomorrow? And I didn’t think that trying to explain what I had just experienced would be of any consequence to them. Faye Tuckman would probably say: “REALLY!?” and not give a shit after that; Blaine would laugh nervously and silently curse the fact that he wouldn’t be collecting his insurance policy anytime soon; and Brittany-well, she probably wouldn’t let me get too deep into the subject before finding a way to distract me.
None of them would understand it based on my story. So crass, they would want to see the YouTube video of it. They would want to see what Doogie looked like, how he was dressed and how he behaved; and in seeing that-from what I experienced at their home-would be embarrassed, distressed and sickened by it. They probably would reject him outright, or be happy that he’s found, but never consider inviting him over for a dinner. I’ve seen it several times before. No, this was not the time to re-introduce Doug Tuckman to his family.
But I had to tell someone about Doogie; not so much for the fact that he should be in my rehab program, but of his amazing knowledge lying dormant beneath layers of mental illness. I needed to know if this was a new type of polarized neuro-skill or just an advanced form of Savant Syndrome.
Reluctantly, I left Doogie there in the park with his head turned up to the twinkling mass of stars and a beautiful glowing moon. He was smiling, his eyes a glaze with the cosmic sight, and his hand pulling out thick sticks of lumpia from the bag one by one.
As I made my typical 45-minute slog through East Bay traffic, I could barely keep my eyes and mind focused. Not because I was tired, but because I was extremely joyous. Like a runner finishing a marathon, or a climber reaching the summit of a mountain, I was exhausted from the search, but exhilarated by adrenaline with the find. I couldn’t stop thinking about what I had just experienced in the park. I had never been so excited about a patient before, and I didn’t really know why. Was it the dreams I was having, and the fact that Doogie asked a question straight out of those dreams? Or, the fact that he responded to the quarter in my hand, a physical representation of a strange symbol straight out of the dreams? I realized that Doogie was the patient in my dreams, and for the first time in my life I was amused by the term: Dreams sometimes come true.
When I reached my apartment, I threw my brief case on the kitchen table and got out my cell. Among all my colleagues and superiors that I could have called, there was only one person I could trust with such phenomenal information. I entered the number and waited desperately for that person to answer.
Chapter 4
Kindred Spirit
I had met Dr. Ivana Livancic six years ago while I was working at Heart of Ascension community mental health center in Sacramento. I didn’t know then that the young, attractive doctor from Travnik, Bosnia would have such an impact on my field in my state in the years to come. I remember the day I met her I got a quick lesson on how to pronounce her name.
She taught me that in the Balkans, names that end in “cic” are pronounced “chich.” So, Livan-chich; and that names ending in “ic” will also carry that “ich” sound at the end. Like the Croatian tennis player Goran Ivanisevic, the great skier Janica Kostelic, or the actor that played in the old medical series “ER” Goran Visnic-that “ich” sound at the end. She gave me another lesson when I treated her to a chili-cheese hotdog at my favorite street-side stand, and she looked me right in the eye and asked, “How can you eat that shit? It’s no wonder your country is the most obese nation on Earth!” I looked at her in shock as she took the steaming dog out of my hand and dumped it in the trash.
“You should take better care of yourself, Dr. Flores!” she admonished. I liked her immediately.
I was working in cognitive behavioral therapy in the Schizophrenia ward, and she was doing research data on patient abuse cases within California’s state mental institutions. We continued to meet at several volunteer events, like St. Anthony’s Dining Room for Thanksgiving and Christmas, where we both served food to the homeless. She was sharp, meticulous, and well-focused. She was devoted to those in need; and, like me, spent every waking hour trying to help those who could not help themselves.
In the mid-2000s, she was assigned to the government oversight staff during Napa State Mental Institution’s Department of Justice’s investigation. The over 140-year-old facility which houses both inpatient mental patients and those deemed insane by the criminal justice system, was one of four institutions investigated for its escalation of violence among patients, patient gang activity, patient abuses, drugging and restraining practices, and several deaths of both patients and staff members. Livancic, for her part, argued that new “changes” in doctrines and policies without additional security or therapy methods at the facilities, would not work. In 2009, Napa witnessed 1,580 violent acts, including 1,275 batteries; yet security guards aren’t allowed to carry firearms or Taser weapons. Despite her written directives for aggressive patient care improvements, eventually, it was not her problem to solve. The problems of violence at Napa against patients and workers continued; in fact, only one of the four institution’s crime rates decreased after the investigation, law suits, and change implementation.
But her work on the oversight staff was highly lauded, and she was invited to work on several prominent psychologists’ panels and projects. She was recognized as a quiet but energetic force in the industry. Livancic’s gifts lay in her deep compassion for patients, coupled with her meticulous research skills through hands-on, patient-centered therapy. Her seemingly endless well of patience came from her extensive experience working with Catalepsy and Echopraxia patients, forms of Catatonia where the person is “frozen” in a pose for hours despite any type of external stimuli. She was also considered an authority for treating patients with Encephalitis Lethargica, a rare neurologic disease that attacks the brain and muscles, leaving the victims in motionless and speechless, statue-like positions for years.
My practice dealt with patients who moved freely; hers, with those who had no motion at all. Two opposite sides of the mental health spectrum, yet her work in reaching the deepest recesses of the most damaged brains compelled me to call her. I felt she should know about Doogie first; and to my advantage, she was just around the corner in Orinda. At 35, she was now on the directors staff of Orinda State Mental Hospital, the state’s newest institution. As a stunning result of her dynamic campaign for change at Napa, Orinda State has separate buildings and facilities for patients for the clinically ill-Ward 1, and those who come out of the justice system-Ward 2. As expected, violence continued in Ward 2, the criminal justice “catch all” for the felons and murderers. Ward 1, however, became a Mecca for true research and rehabilitation for the doctors treating those who were helpless. Ivana was head of the Catatonic research department in that ward.
I had left a voice message on her phone at around 9:15 P.M. explaining that I had a possible ‘breakthrough patient’ and that I’d like her to see him for an evaluation. But that I wasn’t sure why. Ivana didn’t deal with my type of patient, but something inside told me it was her-and only her-whom I should call. She phoned me back at 9:40 and we talked for almost an hour. Her perfect English with a slight European accent was not only pleasing to hear, but comforting. She let me speak, listened to the recordings I’d made, then let me speak some more. She listened without interruption. I even told her about my strange dreams, which I thought she’d laugh at. She didn’t. She understood the connections, and didn’t discount them. I could also hear her scribbling notes with a pen on a notepad.