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Biography/Memoir Category[ Back to Main Pitches Page ] [ Back to Category Page ] [ Authorlink SMART QUERY ] [ Rate this Work ] Welcome to AUTHORLINK, the electronic clearing house and information service for editors, agents and writers. This section displays brief synopses and excerpts of available manuscripts. Looking for Molly: My Year with SchizophreniaPage Hurley Shugrue Summary "Looking for Molly: My Year with Schizophrenia" is a mother's story of an intelligent and promising daughter, Molly, her struggle with demons, the underlying childhood clues, and her frightening year-long odyssey to lead a separate life. Despite laws which hurt the mentally ill instead of protecting them, Molly makes a brave attempt to live on her own and win her family's respect for that independence, however fragile. Referencing Molly's story, the book offers original research and fresh insight on mental illness, including medication, the law, symptoms, and practical advice for families who continue to suffer.
From The Book Part 1 JOURNAL: THE CHASE February 18, 2007, Morning: Blood Test Bluff "Do you still think your father raped you?" I asked my daughter, Molly, as I silently prayed for green lights and a quick drive from downtown Los Angeles to the 101 Harbor Freeway entrance. "Do you still think I stabbed you three times?" "Yes" was her only answer, enough to confirm my worry that Molly was actively psychotic. Getting her into the rental car and on the way to Cedars-Sinai Medical Center was nothing short of James Bond. My husband, Ed, and I had been staying with another daughter, Hillary, at her Venice Beach apartment, where she helped us plan the fastest route to the Beverly Hills hospital. We also concocted a pretext that would get Molly into the car without suspicion so she wouldn't bolt at the nearest red light. Because Molly's mental illness had damaged several family relationships, my youngest daughter, Rosie, and I were the only relatives that she remotely trusted. Molly was openly hostile to both Hillary and her dad; now that she accused me of wielding a knife, I probably wasn't far behind them. Only Rosie seemed beyond reproach but she was 3,000 miles away. "I don't understand why my doctor wants another blood test," she said. "I just gave an extra sample at that Phoenix hospital. And didn't he call and tell you it was fine?" I knew she was right but I plowed ahead. "Apparently, he doesn't like what he saw," I countered. "In fact, the doctor's so worried, he wants you to do a urine test too." That part of the "doctor's request" was definitely over the top but I decided to add it anyway. We had consulted several medical professionals after Molly's disappearance. One psychiatrist had mentioned that a urine test would reveal drug levels and whether or not she was taking her anti-psychotic medication, Clozoril. What I didn't know then was that this type of urine sample could not be tested at the hospital itself; the only way to know the truth was sending the sample to an outside facility, which would take several days. We didn't have that option. *** My blood test bluff continued at the Cedars emergency room check-in. I was grateful that it was Sunday with little chance to expose my lie, should they call Molly's Boston doctor. Thankfully, someone believed me because within minutes, a nurse whisked her off to the hospital's inner sanctum. I was certainly relieved to be there and hopeful that Molly would get the help she needed. I had heard that doctors could hospitalize and stabilize her with the necessary anti-psychotic medication. In Massachusetts, the primary psychiatric doctor could issue a so-called "pink paper" and she would have no choice in the matter. Perhaps California was equally enlightened. The endless hospital waiting room game started. After one hour, I went outside and called my husband with a "no-progress" progress report. Two hours later, I placed another phone call to him that little had changed. What could possibly take this long? Blood and urine tests are quick, aren't they? Not hearing anything, I began to fantasize that she was already safely in lockdown. By hour three, my husband arrived. I cornered a volunteer and insisted on seeing our daughter. ***
"I'm getting out," Molly hissed, as I walked into her hospital cubicle. "I told you nothing was wrong with me." Then she went on. "Stop interfering with my life." "If you want to support yourself, fine, but give me back my credit card." "I'm on my own." "On my money. Do you think I like babysitting a 25-year-old? Did it ever occur to you that I want my life back too?" "Why are you still here?" "I told you…to get a blood test." "You're following me." "I'm worried about you." "Stay the fuck out away from me." "Give me the card." "Fuck off." I went out to the corridor and flagged down an emergency room attendant. "My daughter can't leave here," I insisted. "She's psychotic; she's a danger to herself." I went on to tell him about her stealing my credit card, running away, the stabbing and raping accusations, her so-called new life in downtown LA. "I'll see what I can do," he said in a kindly voice. The silence back in Molly's hospital cubicle was a welcomed relief. While she fidgeted and resettled herself on the Emergency Room gurney, I stared at her hands and tried to memorize them. My daughter's fingers weren't particularly long but delicate and proportional to her small frame. I knew the doctor's decision could return Molly to downtown LA, her voices, and potential danger. Yet by concentrating on those hands, I'd have something tangible and living to remember if they turned cold.
January 30-February 17, 2007: Vanished in the Desert Only three weeks ago, early on January 30th, we flew out of chilly Boston. While Molly was mostly sullen and quiet, she went along with our plan: Molly, her dad, and I would spend one week with old friends in Phoenix and the second week in Bisbee, a late 1800's Arizona mining town turned 1970's art colony. Ed and I thought that Bisbee might make a good transition from art school to independence for Molly. A community of like-minded people who understand and encourage one another sounded good to us and might work for our daughter. Molly had been restless to leave home. An art college senior, she had suddenly dropped out of school in September, quit her weekend job, and spent most of the fall in her room. Until then, however, she had managed to navigate the many difficult and complicated challenges of her health. Not long after her voluntary 2003 hospitalization for bipolar disorder, she was diagnosed with schizophrenia as well. Her doctor assured her that she was not her diagnosis, technically called schizoaffective disorder, a combination of the two illnesses. Modern drugs, he explained, could help her live a reasonably normal life.
Because Molly had suffered with chronic ADHD (Attention Deficit Hyperactivity Disorder) since childhood, she was used to the necessary discipline of taking medication. Effexor, Wellbutrin, Trileptol, Clozoril were just some of the names that became familiar to me and critical for her. Biweekly tests for blood count levels were as much a part of her life as taking the 7:33 am train to a 9:00 am art class. She even wore her extra 50 pounds with grace, simply ordering bigger leotards for the evening workout at Boston Ballet. ***
On the morning of February 5th, we left Phoenix for Bisbee, a four hour drive traversing flat desert terrain and then winding into the mountains. Throughout the trip, Molly was almost completely silent and non-communicative with her dad and me. Ironically, her face was full of expression, as she smiled, nodded, and shook her head, silently mouthing words. Who are you talking to? I asked, looking in the rear view mirror. No one, she replied. We stopped at McDonald's for a quick lunch, not my favorite dining choice but better than nothing in this increasingly isolated place. As we sat down to eat, Molly looked around furtively as if she were expecting someone. I wasn't exactly alarmed but the thought of her possibly disappearing here unsettled me. We arrived in Bisbee and found narrow and twisting streets, which seemed to carve themselves into the mountainside. Bisbee looked like an honest, working Western town, once full of taverns, miners' shacks, and brothels, and now, charmingly restored galleries, art studios, and antique shops. At the end of our quick overview, we were happy to find a 1900's-era hotel called the Eldorado, where we had a pleasant corner apartment with two bedrooms, a kitchen, and a view of Bisbee. Our first day there was uneventful. Molly wanted to explore the town for herself while we wandered around and got used to the altitude. On other family trips, our children liked to discover a place for themselves and we were always fine with the idea. Did we want to visit Jim Morrison's grave in Paris or hang out at a local café with the Irish soccer team? No, thank you, but fine for our teenaged girls to do together. At some point during the first day, Molly asked me for money. I offered her some cash but she preferred one of my credit cards. Why? I asked. Because you guys always go to bed at 9:00 and I want to go out and have some fun. I don't want to run out of money. Perhaps I should have been suspicious but I was just relieved that she seemed to be finding something to enjoy. Okay, I finally replied, take my Chase card but it only has $50 of credit so handle it carefully. As Molly predicted, my husband went to bed early that evening; I didn't feel tired so I stayed up and read. By 11:00 pm, I was beginning to wonder where Molly might be; at midnight, I decided to call her cell phone. Mom, I've met some people at a bar and I'm having a good time. I think I'll stay another hour and head back home. At 1:00, I called her again. I got lost coming home, she said. I took a path that brought me up into the mountains. I don't know where I am. It's cold and I'm a little scared. Why don't I call the police? I offered. Please don't, she replied. I can make it until morning and then find my way back. The debate continued for a while but she was firm: No police and I'll be home in the morning. *** The next morning, Ed was convinced that some local in a bar had enticed her home. Molly wasn't a great judge of character so we were obviously concerned. I called her again around 10:00 am. I'm chilled, she said, but I got through the night. Don't worry about me; I'll be home at 1:00. She walked through the door at 1:00 pm precisely which only made my husband more suspicious. Molly has never been on time in her life, he whispered to me. Why now, if not with some help? To me, she obviously appeared tired, twigs in her hair, scratches on her arms and legs. I decided to believe the Molly version of the story. Until we knew anything otherwise, who were we to judge? *** I was aware of something moving in our room very early the following morning. It was Molly and she seemed to be looking for something. I was a little surprised that she was up that early but then again, she kept strange hours. She had also spent most of yesterday recovering from her alleged mountain overnight so I figured she was on a different clock. I went back to sleep. Sometime around 6:30 am, I heard my husband's voice. Ed was never an alarmist in any sense of the word; he speaks in a deep voice, strong and sure of itself. The voice I heard that morning was a higher octave, short, and breathless. Get up, he said. Molly's not here and neither are her things. She's gone. The only thing she left behind was her room key, which we found lying on the kitchen table. *** Less than an hour later, Ed and I walked into the Bisbee police station and filed a missing person report. We gave her picture to Officer Austen who was in charge of our case. Remarkably, we had just taken that picture in Phoenix so she might even be wearing the same clothes. Molly was holding a large, decorative red metal rooster that she bought there with her own money.
We then went through the Molly chronology: last seen in Bisbee, supposedly spent the night on the mountain, schizophrenic, bipolar, meds in limited supply, especially Clozoril, which controls her hallucinations. And when you find her, I added, she should go to a hospital nearby and be locked down until stabilized. As gently as possible, Officer Austen tried to explain the Arizona laws regarding the mentally ill. Because she is over 18 years of age, we have nothing to say about her care. In fact, if the police were to catch up with her, they would be the ones to evaluate her mental stability, not us; they probably couldn't keep her unless she was homicidal or suicidal. And then, he added, she's probably not in Bisbee anymore. *** I called Chase several times over the next two days but nothing had yet appeared on my credit card. I also explained the situation and asked for an increase in my credit line, which a supervisor approved almost immediately. What surprised me was the relative compassion those anonymous customer service people expressed for my daughter, even though I had to retell the story each time I called. My husband and I were stuck on the idea that she was hiding locally. In fact, every time we ventured out the hotel door, we searched the faces of those coming the other way. Our contention was that Molly sometimes talked a big game, especially in adolescence when she threatened to move out at least once a month. Despite her threats, she was really a home body, the least independent of our three daughters. Officer Austen was right. The next afternoon, when I placed my umpteenth Chase call, they told me that two charges had appeared on my card: CVS and Best Western. Both of them were in Anaheim, California. But no bus charges. Did Molly hitch-hike across the desert in her state of mind? I spent the rest of my second day on the phone calling 15 Anaheim CVS's and three Best Westerns when I finally got an address match. One CVS was located at 5735 East La Palma and a Best Western on 5710 East La Palma. When I called the hotel, the front desk told me that she had checked out that morning. The CVS pharmacist said she picked up her meds 15 minutes ago. We had to start all over again. *** On our final Bisbee day, we got another important clue from Chase: a new charge at the Cecil Hotel, Los Angeles. How she got from Anaheim to LA was anyone's guess; again, we had yet to find a bus ticket charged to my account. But we needed time to think because everything was coming at us fast. On the one hand, we couldn’t spend the rest of the winter chasing Molly. If she's taking her meds, which the CVS visit would indicate, then she might be stable after all and we're just over-reacting. While I wish she had handled things differently, the communication between us had pretty much broken down long before we left for Arizona. On the other hand, after the Anaheim debacle, if we wanted to do something, we'd have to act fast. Molly could easily check out again and maybe we wouldn't be so lucky the next time, especially if she's hitch-hiking. Also, because our daughter, Hillary, lived in Los Angeles, perhaps she could fill in some of the gaps for us. We called Hillary and asked her if she knew anything about the hotel and where it was located in downtown LA. Yes, she said, she had driven with a friend in the exact area. They had just gone to a concert but had gotten lost. It was dark and terrifying, she said. They call it Skid Row, Mom. They set bonfires at night and do drug deals. It's the drug capital of LA. We asked her to be our LA proxy and talk with the Los Angeles Police Department about Molly's situation. If she was hitch-hiking, if she wasn't taking her anti-psychotic meds, if her judgment was impaired…then things were even more dire than we had thought. With our encouragement and blessing, Hillary took matters into her own hands. She convinced Officer Morales about the necessity of a police visit to the Cecil Hotel. My sister's been missing, she told him; she could be gone by check-out time, her psychotic medication is running out, and she needs to be medically stabilized. We're losing time. Please. Officer Morales was sympathetic and listened to Hillary's plea. He said he would send some police officers, including two women, to the Cecil Hotel. At the same time, Hillary drove her car downtown and found a parking meter directly out front. Just as she slammed the car door, four police officers were leaving the hotel. We did all the necessary tests, they said to her. Your sister was very polite and well-spoken. We asked her a lot of questions and we think she's fine. She's not fine, Hillary replied. Well, lady, maybe you could talk some sense into her. It's really between your family and her. What room is she in? my daughter asked. Room 1019, they answered. And by the way, her bags aren't packed. Hillary called us back. If I go upstairs, she'll blame me for the police raid. Don't worry, I assured her, just blame us; Hillary agreed. By entering the hotel with several guests, she managed to pass by the armed guard unannounced. She then boarded an elevator with the others. The rest, we heard later, was a disaster. Hillary knocked on the door of Room 1019 and Molly asked who was there. When Hillary identified herself, her sister let her in but then ran to the bathroom and locked the door. You called the cops on me, she yelled. The cops already knew, Hillary replied. Mom and Dad filed a missing person report in Bisbee. Fuck you, fuck Mom and Dad, and get the hell out of my room. Just get out. Within moments of Hillary's return call, we were packing our bags for California. February 18, 2007, Afternoon: Good-Bye, Molly Not long after I had spoken with the emergency room attendant, a thirty-something woman resident doctor of Middle Eastern background appeared in Molly's hospital cubicle. My daughter and I each gave the doctor our own versions of the events which lead us to Cedars and she listened intently. "Do you have a job?" she asked; Molly nodded. "Who's your boss and what's his phone number?" Molly found the number in her cell phone and gave it to the doctor. Her "boss" confirmed that the only job Molly had with him was in her imagination. In fact, she was becoming a pest. "Where do you live," the doctor continued. "How do you support yourself?" Every answer from Molly made the doctor shake her head. "Let's see: you have no job, no money, no place to live…" "I live in a hotel…" "Your parents pay for it…". "I only need two weeks…" "You have no grasp on reality…" "Give me a week..." "You said your parents raped and stabbed you..." "I was dreaming…" "How did you lose all that weight?" the doctor countered. "Diet pills," Molly replied. My daughter had an answer for everything. While begrudgingly admiring her guile, I shared the doctor's frustration and concern. "Downtown Los Angeles is a dangerous place," she continued. "You really could be stabbed, raped, or worse, if you stay where you are," she said. "It's not safe for you to live alone. I'm going to recommend that you be stabilized in a mandatory 72-hour lockdown." *** My victory in getting Molly locked down was short-lived. I no sooner returned to the waiting room and shared the good news with my husband when her doctor appeared. "I'm sorry," she said. "My supervisors would not approve the lockdown." She went on to say that California law is very narrow on this point. "While you and I know that Molly needs medical treatment, the hospital cannot keep her against her will." "But she can't support herself," I jumped in. "You said it yourself. She's hallucinating… she'll end up on the streets. She'll be easy prey for anyone or anything in her state of mind." The doctor was sorry but her hands were tied. She then suggested that we have a final "chat" with Molly. "Give your mother the credit card," she said. "But…" "And the cell phone," she added.
"But how will I find a job?" "Do you pay the phone bill?" "No, but…" I wasn't sure I was buying the doctor's tough-love sell. On principal, I resented Molly using my credit card and wanted it back; at the same time, it had kept a roof over her head. And wouldn't the cell phone potentially be her lifeline? When Molly looked at me, I tried to speak. The doctor held up her hand. "Your daughter thinks that she can survive on her own. Well, let her try. It's the only way she will ever understand that she needs help." She then signed Molly's discharge papers and told her she was free to go. *** The hospital room was beginning to close in on me and I had to leave. Without looking at her, I stood up and said, "Good-bye, Molly." Even to me, the words sounded cold and hard. On the way back to the waiting room, I saw my husband walking toward me. "She…is…going…to…die," I said, gasping for air and pulling at his lapels. "She is going to die." Outline Part 11 MOLLY: THE ODYSSEY 1. Molly was Born Different
2. The Teachers' Pet
3. Swimming with the Bottom Fish
4. We're Not a School, We're a Family 5. Soaring with the Eagles 6. Successful Moon Launch but Crash Landing
7. Increasingly Manic Molly 8. Girl Interupted 9. The Christmas from Hell in Willaimstown 10. They're Stealing My Ideas 11. Whitney's Wedding 12. A Stable Start with Mom and Dad 13. Demolition Derby x 2 14. They're Twisting My Teeth 15. She's Coming Undone 16. 911: My Parents were Murdered 17. Have Screw Gun, Won't Travel 18. I'm F**kin Santa Claus
Part lll JOURNAL: THE DESTINATION
February 18- March 21, 2007: Vanished on Skid Row
March 21-March 28, 2007: Police Log: Last Seen on the Railroad Tracks
March 29, 2007: Lockdown at Last March 30-June 1, 2007: Everyone Here is Crazier than Me
June 1- July 4, 2007: The Independence She Wanted
July 5-July 16, 2007: We're Not a Babysitting Agency July 17-October 2007: Stop Bothering Me November 2007: News Worth Worrying About December 2007: Christmas Olive Branches
January 7, 2008-January 19, 2008: Good-Bye, Molly
Part lV EPILOGUE: THE DISCOVERY 1. A Life and Death Decision
2. County of Los Angeles, Dept. of the Coroner, Case Number 2008-0178 Part V APPENDICES: THE HOPE 1. The Slippery Slope of Medication 2. The Legal Quagmire
3. Warning Signs
4. Action Steps
About The Author Page Hurley Shugrue is a contributor to "Yankee Magazine," "Georgia Magazine," the "Chicago Tribune," the Newark "Star-Ledger," the "Boston Herald" and other publications. She produces freelance assignments for clients around the globe. A graduate of Mount Holyoke College, Ms. Shugrue is former assistant director of communications at Lasell College. She is a member of the Beacon Hill Circle for Charity, which conducts tours to benefit women and children. In addition to being Molly's mother for 26 years, Ms. Shugrue has four grown children, two grandsons, and her husband of 33 years. They live with Molly's cat, Misha, in Duxbury, Massachusetts. Copyright 2008-2009, Page Hurley Shugrue (Expires April 11, 2009) To request information on this author or a manuscript contact the listed agent or e-mail: dbooth@authorlink.com AUTHORLINK SMART QUERYEditor/Agent Request for Manuscript/ScreenplayThis service is for legitimate publishers, editors and agents only. Please do not request a manuscript or information unless you can verify that you are an active professional in the industry. Thank you! Note to Editors and Agents: Your contact information will remain highly confidential at all times. The information will be given ONLY to the person whose materials you requested. Respond to any listed writer in seconds. No paper rejections! It's the quick, "green" thing to do. More book deals have been facilitated here than any similar service. SMART QUERY helps you quickly choose and receive manuscript projects that are more relevant to your needs. Thanks. Rate This Work!Please help our writers know what you think about the quality of their work. This feedback form is completely anonymous. No one will contact you! We never reveal your name or e-mail--not even to the writer. Thanks so much for your insights! |
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