A few months before Mom ended up on the streets, she was admitted to the psychiatry ward at the hospital where I work as an ER doctor.
Leading up to that admission, I’d narrowly rescued her from a manic, delusional bender while she was off her psychiatric medication, risperidone. I’d gotten a call from the police: “Your mom has stolen her neighbor’s dog saying they are having a playdate with her cats.”
When I coaxed her to the ER that time, under the guise of getting a prescription refill, she became agitated and started yelling at me as they guided her to the psychiatric lockdown unit.
“You are my daughter, not my doctor!! I am NOT staying here.”
ER security was called. I worried they might put her in four-point restraints. My mom is not a violent person, but she can get animated, especially when off her meds. She’s been the victim of domestic violence and carries the defensive memory of that trauma in her body.
As a health care provider, having to restrain a patient is one of the worst parts of our job ― one of the rare moments when we must use force. I regularly fantasize that someone will invent an aerosolized antipsychotic that will pleasantly knock people out when they are a danger to themselves and others.
Understanding what might happen if Mom escalated, I walked up to her with open arms and stood calmly. Her look gradually softened. I gave her the biggest hug I possibly could.
Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Dr. Liu, a colleague. “Janet, we’re here to help you,” he said in the friendliest voice with both of his palms turned upward. Mom walked calmly into the unit and agreed to dissolvable medication under her tongue.
As an ER doc in Toronto, I never thought my own mother would end up overnighting on a bus bench in her late 60s. But in other ways, it was not a complete surprise. According to a recent meta-analysis, around 67% of people experiencing homelessness have a current mental health disorder, like my mom, who has schizoaffective disorder.
My sister and I had an unconventional childhood due to her illness, which involved being on welfare, using the food bank and spending time in foster care after child protection services found us homeless and camping out in a stranger’s backyard. Against all odds, I managed to put myself through medical school and a Harvard fellowship, and I am now a professor at University of Toronto and the mother of two little girls.
After a few weeks of having antipsychotics administered…
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