I had had a seizure. It's the only reason they allowed me to see my parents. The powers that be believed that my life might be on the line, so they got my parents to Radford as soon as the Corsica they drove could carry them. This was about the time it was decided that the good people at St. Alban's Psychiatric Hospital absolutely couldn't help me anymore.
This was also about the time that my parents were made aware of the pants wetting incident during group therapy. Needless to say, they were upset. They were also upset about the multiple prescriptions that I had been on and suddenly taken off of, just in case those pills were what caused my unexplained seizure.
I think the decision to have me taken home was a mutually agreed upon solution between my folks and the hospital staff. The counselors and doctors decided that there was nothing more they could do with me. I mean for me. They had been so helpful and giving throughout the previous seven weeks anyway. And my parents were pretty angry with their brand of help and treatment. So on January 17th I was given my walking papers.
I was out of the hospital for the first time since Thanksgiving. Nearly two full months were spent inside those padded walls. Okay, they weren't really padded. But the place was full of doctors and therapists that believed they knew everything about everything and could do no wrong. I can't say anything bad about the nurses. They were genuinely kind and actually cared about their patients. And, of course, Hank.
The doctors, well, they thought I was going home to die. They truly believed that I would either be dead within a few short months, or my parents would be forced to send me to a different hospital. Their suggestion was Johns Hopkins. Neither of their scenarios played out. I never went to any other hospital. And, as you can tell, I didn't die.
I went home. I struggled a little. But I got better. It wasn't long until I had the appetite of a normal teenage boy, just eating and trampling everything in sight.