MIND ON THE RUN
A Bipolar Chronicle
dottie pacharis
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In Memory of
Scott C. Baker
January 18, 1967 – February 5, 2007
Dedicated to his wife, Sarah, and his siblings,
Kathy, Jeff (Buddy), Tricia,
Chris, and Jodie
FOREWORD
The story that follows documents the events of a young man living and dying with an unpredictable illness that affected every person around him. You’ll read of hopefulness when solutions and safety nets seemed in place. You’ll read of frustration and disappointment when everything falls apart because one person in a position of authority couldn’t understand the illness, the patient’s history, and the toll it took on Scott Baker and his family.
I had the privilege to be Scott’s pastor from 1998 until 2003, when he moved his membership to a church closer to his new home. Congregation members often described him as charismatic, energetic, enthusiastic, generous, intelligent, exciting but unpredictable, a successful businessman, and having a heart of gold, willing to help anyone.
As you read this well-documented journey of a man and those who loved him, you may find yourself filled with frustration and helplessness similar to the emotions of Scott’s family. When I read the manuscript, I was reminded of my own emotions and sense of helplessness. I was grateful I had a medical background in nursing and had worked at St. Elizabeth’s Mental Hospital in Washington, DC.
During the one manic stage with which I was closely connected, phone calls or knocks on the door would come at any time — day or night — and no amount of persuasion would change or alter Scott’s manic agenda. Occasional outbursts during a meeting or worship service required explanation on my part. As his outbursts and eccentric behavior grew more frequent and more public, I had many opportunities to educate my congregation about mental illness. Scott’s increasingly frequent outbursts and demonstrations of unsafe and poor judgment became more difficult to explain, especially when an hour before or an hour later, Scott’s behavior and conversation appeared normal.
I write to honor Scott’s memory and faith. I write to honor Scott’s wife, Sarah, who loved him and did all she could to support him throughout his erratic, frightening illness. I write to honor Scott’s family, who had resources most people do not have. This supportive family tried every possible means of averting Scott’s final choice. I watched them change family and work schedules to be there for him. I watched them develop a network along the East Coast to keep him safe. I admired them for their creativity, diligence, and perseverance.
My prayer is that the story Scott’s mother shares with us here will help those in authority to better understand the need for legal and medical directives that address individuals who can’t follow medical advice due to temporary mental situations caused by bipolar conditions. My prayer is that all who read this story of one family’s continual battles with existing laws will join our effort to find more compassionate and workable laws that both honor the individual’s rights and provide families with appropriate, personalized plans for care. The result will be peace of mind and safe, effective medical care. My final prayer is that we, as a society, will continue to support research on how to effectively intervene while providing better care for all those involved with every mental illnesses.
Rev. Kathleen Monge, R.N.
Pastor in the Virginia Conference, United Methodist Church
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
To Jeanne Butzer, Roz Clark, Zimmie Goings, Joan Gordon, Stuart Pagel, and Joe Stehr for their editing assistance.
Special thanks to Tom Poland, journalist and author, for his professional manuscript assessment and editing assistance. Tom is an adjunct professor in the University of South Carolina’s College of Mass Communications and Information Studies and an evening programs instructor of creative writing at Midlands Technical College in Columbia, South Carolina.
Many thanks to Scotty’s high school girlfriend, Lorie Kirby Knowlton, for her friendship and support of this book to honor Scotty.
And to my husband, George, for allowing me to put my life on hold and devote two years to writing this book, for tolerating my many mood swings as I relived Scotty’s illness and struggled to accurately record it on paper, for reading the manuscript more times than I can remember, for providing valuable feedback and suggestions, for his support throughout Scotty’s illness, and for his continued support and assistance in writing this book.
WHY THIS BOOK?
This book chronicles my family’s tragedy — the life and death of Scott C. Baker, known to us as “Scotty.” It’s the story of a suicide that proper treatment would have prevented. It’s a story of our efforts to help Scotty through five major, prolonged bipolar manic episodes.
It’s also an account of our family’s experience with the inequities of this country’s mental health care system, a system that takes hubris-like pride in protecting the individual rights of mentally ill people. In a classic case of overkill, the system’s stringent shielding prevents families from getting loved ones timely, humane treatment. By allowing Scotty to go untreated for long periods, the system failed Scotty and left his family with the devastating shell of a severely ill man.
I always thought that if I outlived Scotty, I would write a book about his sad bipolar world. I wanted the book to pay tribute to him and all he endured. I wanted to write it for other families dealing with the same circumstances we coped with for more than thirteen years. My hope is that these families will be as outraged at our failed mental health care system as we were. My hope is they will join advocacy groups and get involved to change this country’s laws governing the treatment of mental illness.
And so, I write this book with love and honor for Scotty, remembering him in all his well days, and those other days when he suffered so. I hope this book will help those unfamiliar with mental illness to realize that these people are not nuts, crazy, mad, or wacko — words I frequently hear used to describe the mentally ill. They have a brain disorder, they are ill, and like people with any other illness, they need medical treatment.
Much of this book chronicles Scotty’s five manic episodes and what our family endured attempting to help him get treatment and recover. Most of the people you will meet on these pages are Scotty’s immediate family and friends: his wife, Sarah; his sisters and brothers, Kathy, Jeff (Buddy), Tricia, Chris, and Jodie; his cousin, Sue, and her husband, Mike. You’ll meet his employee, Joe, my husband, George, and me, Dottie, Scotty’s mother for his last 30 years. You’ll visit many places up and down the East Coast. So much happened between Scotty and us, before, in between, and afterwards that this book cannot hold it all. The incidents you read about here speak to just a part of the troubled times throughout his illness.
CHAPTER 1. SAD JOURNEY
“You know, my mother loved flowers. I sure wish she could see all the pretty flowers that people brought her.”
Words from a little boy. Little did I know that day the impact this child would have on my life — the little eight-year-old boy standing next to his mother’s casket, talking about her flowers. That’s how I met Scotty.
That was the beginning of Scotty’s story as I know it, the beginning of Mind on the Run, his journey through elation and depression, my sentimental journey.
I knew his dad. We worked together and I went, along with others, to the funeral home to show our sympathy and compassion for him and his family during that tragic time. It was a difficult turning of a page in his life. His wife committed suicide and thus ended her struggles with severe depression and alcoholism. Now it was up to Scotty’s dad to carry on with the care, nurture, and tending of four children.
I came to know Scotty’s father later. Clovis Millican Baker, “Toby” to friends and family. Toby, a retired Navy Supply Corps officer, and I worked for a large financial institution in Washington, DC. We became friends, and over time our friendship turned into love.
Two and a half years after meeting Scotty at the funeral home, I married Toby. Scotty was now 10 years old. He had two sisters and a brother: Kathy, 18; Tricia, 13; and Jeff (Buddy), 17. I had two children from a previous marriage: a son, Chris, 11 and a daughter, Jodie, eight. Our new combined family of eight settled into a five-bedroom home in Springfield, Virginia, just down the street from where the Baker family had previously lived.
Soon after our marriage, Toby adopted my two children and we became known throughout the neighborhood as “the Baker Bunch.” Two full-time careers and a family of six children between the ages of eight and 18 presented a challenge to all of us. Life in the Baker household was hectic, to say the least.
The older kids, Kathy and Buddy, were away at college during the school year and came home during the summer months. Our neighborhood had elementary, middle, and high schools within walking distance of our house, so the four younger kids walked to their respective schools. All four were very involved in school activities and played sports, but Scotty stood out, having a special drive about him to do more than just be a little boy and enjoy his childhood.
A boy in high gear always looking to see what was next — that was Scotty. His million-dollar smile, sense of humor, outgoing personality, and energy surpassed anything I’d ever seen. He captured my heart with his charm and was easy to love. He praised my cooking and his favorite meals. He was one of those kids who endeared himself to everyone.
Scholastically, Scotty was in a class all his own. Straight A’s throughout elementary, middle, and high school were the norm, with little effort on his part. I rarely saw him study. He was gifted and by far the smartest of all six kids. Life did not challenge him — not yet. He was gregarious and a perpetual seeker, searching each day for new opportunities or new things to think about. Often, he found them.
Scotty became an entrepreneur at a young age. The weekend lemonade stand, a Krispy Kreme doughnut route, and delivering the daily newspaper on his bicycle became moneymakers for him. At age 12, he convinced the manager of a fast food restaurant in the local mall to hire him to chop lettuce and tomatoes after school and on weekends, no doubt lying about his age to get the job.
Scotty’s siblings all played soccer. He played for a short time in a neighborhood league, but since no money could be made playing, he trained and became a soccer referee, working three to four games a weekend, earning $20 a game. Scotty even refereed adult games, never letting any outspoken adult players intimidate him.
Much of his referee earnings funded his love for bicycles. He always owned the latest and greatest bicycle on the market. If he tired of one, he sold it for a profit and purchased a new one. Scotty possessed natural talent for making money even as a kid.
At 13, Scotty cultivated a friendship with the owner of the bike shop in the local mall and convinced the owner to hire him part-time. With his outgoing personality, love of sales, and extensive bicycle knowledge, he soon sold more bikes than the owner. Backed by his impressive sales record, Scotty approached the owner a few months later and negotiated a commission on each bike sold, in addition to his part-time salary.
By 14, Scotty took charge of the store at times. That’s how comfortable and impressed the owner was with Scotty’s management and customer relationships.
Graduating from high school at the top of his class and voted “Most Likely to Succeed,” Scotty was anxious to move on to college. James Madison University in Harrisonburg, Virginia, granted him early acceptance. Four very quick years later, during an unseasonably late snowstorm in May 1989, Scotty graduated with honors and an accounting degree. He received a job offer and began his career with what was then a “Big Ten” accounting firm in Washington, DC.
Before joining what he viewed as the “DC rat race,” Scotty treated himself to a European vacation. He joined college friends on a one-month trip to Europe, traveling by train on a Eurail pass and staying at youth hostels. Money he earned at his part-time job waiting tables at a restaurant near the campus funded his trip. Only Scotty could describe his travel adventures so delightfully. We envied his travels and the things he saw.
During his second year with the firm, Scotty was chosen to participate in the Loaned Executives Program for the United Way in the DC area. Each year, community-minded employers lend key personnel to United Way as full-time fundraisers for its annual campaign. These executives use their talents and skills to develop successful campaigns in companies and organizations throughout the Washington metropolitan area.
This campaign sparked Scotty’s first interest in philanthropy. He volunteered for Big Brothers of America. He found the United Way work so rewarding that he considered changing careers, but the limited non-profit earning capacity deterred him. He settled for displaying the many letters of commendation he received from his employer and United Way for his volunteer service.
On one hand, he had his business interests, and on the other, his romantic interests. One beautiful girl after another frequented our home. Here today and gone tomorrow was his dating philosophy, so I never let myself get attached to them. One girl, however, transcended his philosophy.
Scotty met Sarah Murray, a 19-year-old student at Marymount University in Arlington, Virginia, through a mutual friend. She modeled professionally in high school and was stunning. Sarah was different, and Scotty fell in love with her almost immediately. They married in August 1993. Sarah’s parents loved Scotty and encouraged the marriage even though Sarah and Scotty had dated for less than a year.
Happy-go-lucky, not a care in the world, Scotty enjoyed each day to the fullest, viewing it as an opportunity to make a difference in the lives of others. No matter what the task, he made it fun for himself and entertaining for those around him. Life was good.
Married to a beautiful girl, climbing the ladder of success, an avenue of golden happiness lay ahead. Five months later in December 1993, disaster struck. Without warning, Scotty changed, becoming weird, maniacal, out-of-control, psychotic. In January 1994, Scotty’s diagnosis came in — he was bipolar.
Sarah, young and shocked, stayed with Scotty five months. Unable to accept a husband with mental illness, her parents encouraged her to move back home and file for divorce. They, too, could not handle the stigma of a mentally ill son-in-law.
We moved on without Sarah, trying to fathom what had plunged Scotty into his disturbing world. His diagnosis brought two words into our lives, words as destructive as a runaway train: bipolar disorder.
Those words jangle the nerves, as though the world has turned upside down, and that’s the truth. The disease unleashes a mind on the run that turns life topsy-turvy. I knew nothing about mental illness and sought information and guidance from the National Alliance on Mental Illness (NAMI). NAMI defines bipolar disorder, also known as manic-depressive disorder, as:
a complex medical illness of the brain involving episodes of serious mania and depression. It often runs in families. Genetic factors may create a predisposition in some people, and life stresses may trigger the onset of symptoms.
Your chances of getting bipolar disorder are higher if your parents or siblings have the disorder. It’s a lifelong illness with recurring episodes, and recovery between episodes is often poor. In the United States alone, over 10 million people have bipolar disorder.
According to NAMI, “bipolar can occur at any time but usually begins before age 35. People between the ages of 15 and 25 years have the highest risk of developing this disorder. However, the delay between the first signs and symptoms of the disorder and proper diagnosis and treatment is often 10 years.”
Although Scotty was 27 before finally being diagnosed, I recall some fleeting signs of mania during his teenage and college years. At the time I, like others, thought nothing of them. We dismissed them as different behavior due to his very outgoing personality.
This horrible illness took Scotty on a 13-year roller coaster ride. It eventually robbed him of his outgoing personality, his self-esteem, and his self-confidence. It destroyed his short-term memory and his thought processes, rendering him unemployable. The illness weighed heavily on two marriages, neither of which survived. His best friend became his dog.
People reading this book who have a family member or close friend with bipolar disorder may become concerned that they, too, will face situations like those that follow. Put your mind at ease. I assure you Scotty’s illness was much more severe than most. When manic, Scotty never realized he was sick and thus couldn’t make rational decisions regarding treatment. For him, the illness erased anything resembling reality.
I have friends who are bipolar whose illness is less severe; for the most part, they manage their illness and live normal lives. Many have very successful careers, happy marriages, and children. They take their medications and are proactive, not reactive, to warning signs. Yes, they have a very serious mental illness, but they manage their illness — the illness does not manage them. These people are true role models for others struggling with this illness and are to be commended.
The chronicle of Scotty’s mind on the run looks at the other side of the problem, where the person with bipolar is not able to care for himself. It is a look at what can and, more often, cannot be done by the family of the person who has bipolar disorder.
How can I recall so many details so completely? I once worked as the office manager for a large law firm in Washington, DC. The position required me to keep copious records, a practice that became ingrained. Throughout Scotty’s illness, I kept a journal of his psychotic, manic behavior. In the midst of all the horror, optimism, disappointment, and struggle, a simple goal guided my journal: the hope that my notes might help his doctors better understand and treat his illness.
What follows is a straightforward account of heartbreaking disintegration, the unraveling of Scotty’s life. It describes the impact on his wives and family, who all tried so hard to advocate for him. Additionally, it documents the gross inadequacies of a mental health system that failed to protect a man who could not protect himself.
Scotty, so full of talent, so determined to make a difference in the world, became a man beset by imagined threats and loneliness, with little control over his life. Witnessing this firsthand was a painful, frustrating experience. It was especially exasperating since the system designed to save him failed all of us so miserably.
No one in our family understood the magnitude of bipolar disorder in the beginning. The doctors told us after that first frightening episode that Scotty would be okay as long as he took his medication. We wanted to believe that. It restored our comfort level. None of us foresaw the nightmare that lay ahead.
Although painfully aware of the suicide statistics for sufferers of bipolar disorder, I held hope that Scotty would not follow that path. I hoped in vain. Scotty’s sad journey ended in suicide on February 5, 2007. Some 32 years after first meeting this little eight-year-old boy standing next to his mother’s casket, I returned to the same funeral home to say farewell. This cute little boy who had become such an important part of my life, this little boy I had mothered to adulthood, was no more. Across the years, his words from that first meeting came back to me.
“You know, my mother loved flowers. I sure wish she could see all the pretty flowers that people brought her.”
He came into my life through tragedy — he left the same way.
CHAPTER 2. WIRED AND OUT OF CONTROL
The Baker family was enjoying a good life. Toby was our anchor. Strong and wise. Generous. Some Christmases rather than buying gifts for one another, he’d give to the homeless. That was Toby. Give to someone else before himself.
Toby fell to cancer and though he fought bravely, a four-year battle took him from us in June 1992. Saddened by his father’s death, Scotty gave no indication of having more than normal difficulty dealing with it. In fact, I admired his ability to quickly return to his demanding job and resume an active social life. A new girlfriend soon appeared on the scene and talk of marriage surfaced.
A few months later, they were engaged. Concerned that they hadn’t known each other long enough, I tried to talk Scotty into a longer engagement. “Mom,” he would say every time we had this somewhat confrontational discussion, “this is the wife of my dreams. I appreciate your concern, but trust me. I know what I’m doing here.”
They married in August 1993, though they had dated less than a year, and made their home in nearby Centreville. All seemed well, but it was not — out-and-out disaster was coming.
Disasters fall into three camps. There are those you see coming from afar, a hurricane for instance or a raging forest fire. You have time to prepare and escape. Other disasters like tornadoes strike with little warning and quickly inflict lethal damage, but there’s still a chance to take cover. Disasters of the third camp strike without warning and destroy everything. Moreover there’s no way out. An earthquake brings your world tumbling down. It spares nothing.
On a Sunday morning in mid-December 1993, an early morning phone call awakened me. The call came from Scotty’s youngest sister, Jodie, who lived in Fort Myers, Florida, with her husband, Alan. The early hour and tearful voice signaled a problem. A powerful, telling quake had struck Scotty the night before and the aftershocks and tremors would never abate.
“Mom, sorry to call so early,” she said. “You’re not going to believe what I’m about to tell you. We saw Scotty yesterday. He was in Fort Lauderdale on business. Something is wrong with him. He was completely out of control, almost like he’s wired!”
“Jodie, what are you talking about?” I asked, half asleep.
“Scotty was like a maniac last night, high-strung and just downright obnoxious. He never stopped talking and made no sense at all.
“Mom, he drove us to dinner like a madman,” she continued, “doing over 100! I’ve never seen him like that before. Alan and I were scared, but Scotty was acting so weird, we were afraid to say anything.”
“Come on, Jodie,” I said, “you’re exaggerating.”
“I’m not exaggerating, Mom,” she said, shouting to make her point.
“Jodie, please calm down. Maybe he just had too much to drink.”
“Mom, you don’t understand. Scotty was not drunk! When we first walked into his hotel lobby, we heard him before we saw him. He was causing such a ruckus in the gift shop, the manager told him to leave or he would call the police! Scotty saw us, gave me a hug, and took us up to his room. He wasn’t even embarrassed that he had just been kicked out of the store!”
“You won’t believe his room. It was trashed, almost like a tornado hit it. Stuff was everywhere. He wrote all over a wall mirror with a magic marker, something motivational, maybe a Bible verse, I don’t know. I didn’t want to ask him. He never sat still. He paced back and forth, mumbling stuff that made no sense.
“Sarah won’t even talk to him. Can you believe that? Scotty called her several times from the room. She hung up on him every time. Have you talked to her? Does she know what’s wrong with him?”
“Jodie, I’m shocked. I don’t know what to say. I’m sure everything will be okay. Don’t worry,” I assured her.
“Mom, you had to have been there. This is serious. He’s a different person. I’m worried — just having dinner with him was unbelievable. He talked loud, people stared at him. I had to tell him to lower his voice several times. He just ignored me, almost as if he was on another planet and never heard me.”
“He’s starting a new company called ‘Save the Animals.’ He knows I love animals and wants me to run it.
“Wait till you hear this!” she exclaimed. “He has one million dollars in cash to invest in the company. He really thinks it will gross millions. He’ll donate the money to benefit homeless animals.
“Mom, it gets worse. He’s running political programs for Bill and Hillary Clinton! It’s confidential. He told me not to tell anyone. He wants me to take charge of those, as well. I didn’t know how to respond to him. I just sat there dumbfounded! What do you think is wrong with him?”
“I have no idea, Jodie,” I told her. “I’m stunned by what you’re telling me.”
“We couldn’t wait to leave the restaurant,” she said, “but the drive back to the hotel made us wish we were still in the restaurant. I just knew we would crash.
“But this time,” Jodie said, “Alan was irritated with Scotty’s reckless driving and told him to slow down. Mom, he paid no attention to Alan, like he never heard him!”
Jodie described their return to the hotel, how Scotty insisted they go to the gift shop, where he wanted to buy them everything in the store. Once again, his manic behavior got him evicted. Twice in one evening, Scotty was told to leave the premises. Showing no signs of embarrassment, rather joking about it, he insisted they return to his room and call Sarah. Jodie declined. They said goodbye in the lobby and drove back to Fort Myers, a good three-hour drive.
Jodie’s phone call upset me. I was flabbergasted by her description of Scotty’s behavior and did my best to console her and assure her it was probably alcohol related.
“Mom, it wasn’t alcohol related,” she quickly responded. “I’m telling you something is seriously wrong.”
“You’re probably right, Jodie, but let’s keep this conversation between the two of us until I can talk with other family members.” She agreed to do so.
At times like this, I missed Toby. He would know what to do. I didn’t. Knowing Scotty drank too much alcohol, I’d discussed my concerns with him many times. His drug use in high school had also been a concern. I felt his behavior was either alcohol or drug related, perhaps a combination of both, and I would ask his older brother, Buddy, for advice. At least, I thought I would.
Procrastination set in. I didn’t want to burden Buddy. He shared my concerns about his brother’s drinking, and I didn’t want to worry him. Uncertain how to confront Scotty on his weird behavior without involving Jodie, I took the easy way out. I did nothing. I buried my head in the sand and reassured myself it was just a one-time, bizarre incident that would never happen again.
But the fault deep within Scotty was active. An earthquake struck again. Early in January 1994, Sarah began calling Scotty’s sister, Tricia, who lived in Norfolk, Virginia.
“I’m really worried about Scotty,” she told Tricia. “He’s acting weird! He doesn’t sleep. He has become extremely religious and talks constantly about God’s plans for him.”
By mid-January, he was involuntarily hospitalized. It was clear that something was very wrong with Scotty. None of us had ever witnessed such psychotic behavior. To make matters worse, we possessed a limited collective knowledge of mental illness.
On January 18, l994, Scotty spent his 27th birthday in a padded cell in the psychiatric ward at Inova Fairfax Hospital in Falls Church, Virginia. His family could view him on camera only. Inova diagnosed Scotty as having bipolar disorder and transferred him to the Woodburn Center for Community Mental Health in nearby Annandale.
“This place is not really a hospital,” Scotty told us. “It’s a training ground for the CIA. My room is bugged. All my conversations are monitored. These people are not doctors and nurses. They’re actors.”
Notorious for playing practical jokes on people, he was not joking now. He was serious, and he believed what he was saying. We were dumbfounded.
One evening during Scotty’s confinement at Woodburn, I took Sarah to dinner to alleviate her fears about Scotty’s mental condition and reassure her he would get well. After dinner, we stopped by Woodburn to visit Scotty. As we entered the hospital, Sarah’s father was just leaving.
“Come back home, Sarah,” he said, shaking his head from side to side. “This situation is hopeless.”
Sarah and I went to Scotty’s room. Along the way, we encountered many mentally ill patients. Their conditions were severe, and the overall effect was upsetting and frightening to Sarah. I was frightened, too, but hid my fears. Some of these poor people were just sitting or standing in the hallway with a blank stare. Others were carrying on conversations with people apparently only they could see. The patients who really scared Sarah were the ones who followed us, ranting and raving incoherently. Scotty at least recognized us, knew his name and where he was, and could talk.
After giving us a hug, Scotty placed his forefinger to his lips, leaned toward us, and whispered, “I’m unable to speak freely. Everything I say is being recorded by the Secret Service. This place is full of agents, some of them good guys, others not so good, so be careful what you say,” he cautioned us.
Completely losing her composure at this point, Sarah ran out of the hospital crying.
“What the heck is wrong with her?” Scotty asked.
“Oh, she’s just upset because you’re in the hospital” I assured him. “I’ll go check on her and come back another time.”
Our visit was brief. Following Sarah to the car, I struggled to maintain my composure. I drove her home and pulled into a nearby shopping center, where I had my own private meltdown.
Throughout his stay at Woodburn, Scotty called frequently to share his psychotic thoughts. Unfortunately, most calls came during the night with no regard for the hour. It never occurred to him that I had to get to the office early the next morning and might be sleeping. I repeatedly asked him to call during the day, and he always agreed to do so. Nevertheless, the late night calls continued. He was awake with his racing, delusional thoughts and assumed everybody else was awake, too.
During one such call, he lowered his voice to a whisper and asked, “Can you keep a secret?”
“Yes,” I assured him.
“I’m in the Witness Protection Program,” he continued in a whispered tone. “You must keep this confidential, Mom. It’s not clear whom I can trust. This place is not only full of Secret Service agents, but the FBI also has a strong presence.”
Another late night call came from a fellow patient at Woodburn.
“This is the White House calling,” he said. “Please remain on the line for an important call from the President.”
Scotty got on the line and proudly announced, “Mom, you’re talking to the president of the United States. Can you believe your son is the president? Now listen to me carefully,” he said. “I’m in the middle of a very important cabinet meeting. We’re hungry. I need you to deliver enough pizzas to feed us. We’re working hard to solve the problems in this country.”
I always agreed to purchase and deliver pizza to appease Scotty. He was always so serious. Other family members received these same pizza delivery requests. By this time, we were all beyond being dumbfounded. He was so ill. The prospect that he might never recover haunted us all.
But recover he did after a month of treatment. Initial progress was slow, but after the first ten days of treatment with forced medications, we began to see encouraging signs of improvement. The Woodburn staff was wonderful. Scotty received extensive counseling on how to cope with and manage bipolar disorder and recognize signs of recurrence. His wonderful doctor continued with outpatient treatment and remained Scotty’s longtime psychiatrist.
Our elation about his recovery and release, however, was soon diminished. Sarah moved back home with her parents. She subsequently filed for divorce after only ten months of marriage. They had no children. Her parents could not cope with the stigma of a mentally ill son-in-law and had encouraged Sarah to file for divorce.
Scotty continued to live in the Centreville house he’d shared with Sarah during their short marriage. Devastated by her abrupt departure and their subsequent divorce, he still made a concerted effort to pick up the pieces and move on. He saw his doctor regularly and took his medication.
The drug prescribed to treat Scotty’s bipolar disorder was lithium. NAMI defines it as “a drug used in the treatment of acute mania and as a maintenance medication to help reduce the duration, intensity, and frequency of manic episodes. There is, however, a narrow margin in the effectiveness of this drug. Toxicity occurs with too high a dosage, and too low a dosage results in no effect in the treatment of this illness. Because it is important to maintain the therapeutic level of lithium in the blood within a certain range, lithium levels must be monitored with blood tests.”
We all tried to remain optimistic that Scotty’s awful illness was a one-time occurrence, and that lithium would prevent it from happening again. We were so wrong.
The so-called “one-time occurrence” marked the beginning of our family’s nightmare. Scotty was wired and out of control. The deadly earthquake that had struck without warning continued to shake our world apart and even worse, more quakes, aftershocks, and tremors were on the way.
CHAPTER 3. GOOD TIMES, BAD TIMES, SAD TIMES
Coping with the stigma of mental illness and the loss of Sarah, Scotty struggled throughout the rest of 1994. It was a difficult time for him and the family. We witnessed his struggle firsthand. Once considered the life of every party (even if there was no party), Scotty looked like a man shouldering the weight of the world.
Scotty and I got together frequently. I was widowed. He was divorced. We kept each other company. We discussed his illness. At times, embarrassed about it, Scotty wanted to put it behind him and pretend it never happened. Other times, he wanted to talk. “Why me?” was a question that lived inside him.
“We’ll never know the answer to that question,” I said. “Apparently you inherited this gene. Your mother suffered from severe depression. Although never diagnosed with bipolar disorder, perhaps her condition was never correctly diagnosed.”
I told him that some people with this gene develop bipolar disorder, while others do not. “You developed bipolar, while your three siblings, thus far, have been spared. I’ve read that stressful events such as the death of a loved one may trigger the first episode. Perhaps in your case, it was the death of your Dad, maybe adjusting to marriage, both of which were major changes in your life. We’ll just never know.”
I asked him not to dwell on the “why me?” but, instead, focus on managing the misfortune he’d been dealt. “You’re a very strong person Scotty,” I assured him over and over. “If anybody can deal with bipolar disorder, it’s you.”
We had many heart-to-heart talks. Each time I reminded him that his father, for whom he had the utmost respect, would tell him the same thing were he alive.
After one such heart-to-heart talk, I received an oversized delivery of gorgeous fresh flowers at my office. The card read: “You’re successful, smart, loving, good-humored, and pretty. I’ve always loved you, but guess I had to grow up to realize how much I admire you, too.” It was signed, “With love from your son, Scott,” followed by his customary “happy face” drawing.
I was touched that day by his thoughtfulness. He always had such a nice way with words, and over the years, I accumulated quite a stash of Scotty cards and notes.
One of his New Year’s resolutions at the beginning of 1995 was to “get over it,” as he put it, and that he did. That year was a happy one for all of us as we enjoyed the return of the warm, gentle, kindhearted Scotty with his unique outgoing personality and sense of humor. It was great to have him back, and I was so proud of him.
By early 1996, Scotty was not only enjoying a very active social life again, but was also doing well in his professional CPA life. Life was good.
This “good life,” however, was short lived. Several months later, yet another problem plagued Scotty. Concerns about the side effects of lithium took center stage. Like most medications, lithium produces its share of side effects, and, for some, the drug is not tolerable. Scotty’s cross to bear included weight gain and hand tremors, and he was concerned about the possible damage lithium could do to his kidneys.
Many people can’t deal with lithium’s side effects and stop taking it. We feared Scotty would do the same.
“Just look at me! I look like a fat slob! I hate looking like this.”
“Scotty,” I told him every time this subject came up, “the weight gain and hand tremors, although difficult to cope with, are a small price to pay to control your illness. I wish you didn’t have to deal with them, but you must.”
“Easy for you to say,” he said. “How would you feel about a 20-pound weight gain and shaking hands?”
My response was always the same. “I’d prefer them to mania.”
Scotty was right. It was easy for me to say. I hated that he had to deal with the horrible side effects of a medication he’d have to take for the rest of his life, but not taking lithium was not an option. I found I had to be very careful with my lectures, always striving to show compassion, but at the same time remaining firm.
For me, good things began to happen. In September 1996, I remarried and my husband, George Pacharis, and I made our home in Fairfax, Virginia. We first met in a bereavement group, our spouses having died around the same time following lengthy illnesses. He knew about my son’s illness and was not only supportive and sympathetic, but enjoyed Scotty’s outgoing personality and spending time with him. We all got together as often as we possibly could.
Good things began to happen in Scotty’s life as well. He had a new girlfriend. I hadn’t seen him this happy in a long time. I was so grateful. For two years, the bipolar nightmare began to fade. Life approached normality and good things happened, things like sports and outdoor recreation.
Scotty loved football. Growing up in the metropolitan Washington, DC, area, he ardently followed the Washington Redskins. Through a business connection, he picked up tickets for the 1996 season. Glory days! For Scotty, it was never important if the team won or lost. The magic of just being there took center stage. The 1996 season was the Redskins’ last season to play at RFK Stadium, and, to Scotty, being there meant being a part of history itself.
Looking for something to do one Saturday afternoon after football season ended, Scotty attended a boat show with a friend. On a whim, he purchased an 18-foot Magnum speedboat. Classic Scotty. He had no plans to buy a boat; it just struck his fancy as a good idea at the time. Throughout the summer, every weekend became a boating weekend. He loved the water, the outdoors, and the exhilaration of driving the boat at top speed, and he learned a few things along the way, too.
A bit sheepish, he confided in us about the first time he trailered the boat to nearby Lake Anna. He had neglected to secure the boat cushions and watched in horror as they sailed out of the boat on Interstate 95. Fortunately, he pulled over on the shoulder and gathered them without incident.
In early 1998, Scotty began to show signs of restlessness, discontent, and boredom. After eight years as a public accountant, he complained that the profession had grown monotonous. It was no longer challenging. It was time for him to move on.
He had dreamed of owning his own company since childhood, and his dream became a reality in the winter of 1998. He started a company, Prosperity Technical Services Inc. (PTSI), a search firm recruiting information technology people for technical positions in the DC metropolitan area. Starting with one employee, he worked out of a small office in Merrifield, Virginia.
Scotty liked being his own boss. His outgoing personality and love of sales that had served him so well during his bike shop days continued to be a great asset. Working long days, weekends, and holidays, Scotty soon became an entrepreneurial success. He never met a stranger and thrived on cold call sales, something most people shy away from. PTSI became so successful within the first year that it was necessary to hire additional employees. With this increase in staff, the company outgrew its space in Merrifield, and Scotty moved the office to a larger location in nearby Fairfax.
Even with his workaholic schedule, Scotty made time for his new love. On December 11, 1999, surprising us all, he became engaged to Sarah Jordan, whom he had dated for four and a half years. It was a mere coincidence that his first wife and soon-to-be new wife shared the same first name.
The new Sarah and Scotty met in March 1995 at a restaurant in Springfield. Sarah was there with friends, as was Scotty. She was completing an internship for her final three credits at Virginia Tech and working part-time as a waitress.
Their engagement was unique. On a White House tour, while in the Blue Room, Scotty persuaded the Secret Service agents to let him and Sarah stand inside the roped-off area next to the Christmas tree and fireplace. On his knees, he proposed and gave Sarah a beautiful, expensive engagement ring. The Secret Service and 50 or so other people in the tour group looked on and applauded.
By this time, George and I had retired. We lived in Florida during the winter and in Maryland during the summer months.
When Scotty called me in Florida to tell me the news, he volunteered that he’d gotten the idea for a “White House Engagement” during one of his recent White House tours. He thought it was unique, a story he would some day tell his grandchildren.
“June 17, 2000. Save the date for the wedding of the century,” he told me.
Recalling his obsession with the White House and president during his previous breakdown, it troubled me that he was taking White House tours and had chosen this location to propose to Sarah. I could have dismissed these concerns as over-reaction on my part had I not received an alarming letter from Scotty the following day.
This three-page letter, handwritten by Scotty on stationary from the Phoenix Hotel in Washington, DC, summarized his religious thoughts on a portion of the Ten Commandments and unjust slavery in this country. He quoted Bible verses from the New Testament and listed several prayers he suggested I say daily.
Reading his letter, I cringed. Still, I managed to convince myself that this somewhat neurotic religious frenzy was a false alarm. It was not.
My concerns about the White House also proved valid. Our excitement about the upcoming wedding died. This time, we knew what was happening. Scotty was sick again. His hypomanic phase quickly intensified into full-blown mania in January 2000, six years after his first episode.
CHAPTER 4. PLEASE, NOT AGAIN
“Oh, please, may this not be happening again,” I thought. But I knew it was.
We all knew.
Removing his shirt at the office, walking around bare-chested, spreading toilet tissue all over the yard, and egging the house where Sarah lived with roommates. Dumping several hundred dollars’ worth of coins all over his church parking lot and writing a $10,000 check to his church — all of these were telltale signs of mania.
“Use the $10,000 check to develop a youth center,” he told his minister.
Generous charitable contributions were not unusual for Scotty. He was generous. His philosophy on charitable giving was “give till it hurts. Then, give just a little bit more.” But a $10,000 check to develop a youth center… definitely not the norm.
Scotty, aware that his family was worried, drove himself to the Woodburn Center for Community Mental Health to convince us he was not manic, a futile attempt. He left before the staff could evaluate him. Scotty knew the doctor would recommend he admit himself for treatment. He was in denial and not about to admit himself.
Scotty, being an adult, had to give his consent for us to admit him for treatment. Without his consent, we were helpless to help him. Virginia law is explicit, very specific. The law requires that someone with a severe mental illness must be an “imminent danger to self or others” before that person can be involuntarily committed for treatment. This legal provision would come back to haunt us all.
Scotty had not yet fallen into the ”imminent danger” category, and in the interim, we were helpless. We had no choice but to sit and watch him deteriorate mentally until he became suicidal or homicidal. Only then could we arrange a hearing and have him involuntarily treated.
And sit by helplessly we did as Scotty unraveled.
“I’m purchasing 45 acres in Berryville, Virginia,” he announced out of the blue one day. “I’ll donate this land to the United Methodist Church, named in honor of Jesus Christ, my personal cure for manic depression. A manic episode is a wake-up call from God. I’m not crazy, God is leading me. I’m manic for God! I’ve purchased 100,000 Bibles,” he told us. “Every young person who logs onto my new website at church gets a free Bible.”
Still trying to convince his family he was okay, perhaps himself as well, he let his brother, Buddy, drive him to Georgetown University Hospital in Washington, DC, for evaluation. Again though, he left the hospital before the staff could evaluate him, knowing full well the doctor would urge him to admit himself.
Full-blown manic but in complete denial, Scotty insisted that he and Sarah proceed with their dinner plans that evening to celebrate her mother’s birthday at a local restaurant.
“Meet me at the restaurant with your parents,” he instructed Sarah.
Concerned about Scotty’s manic condition, his brother, Chris, who lived in Centreville near Scotty, accompanied Sarah to the restaurant. They found him lying on the sidewalk outside the restaurant, smoking a cigar on an extremely cold winter night in January. He was dressed in a business suit with no topcoat.
“Scotty,” Chris yelled, “what the heck are you doing?”
“What does it look like I’m doing?” he responded, calm and cool. “I’m enjoying a smoke and relaxing on the sidewalk.”
“Sarah,” Chris whispered, “I think you should go in alone and have dinner with your parents. They shouldn’t see Scotty in this condition. I’ll keep him occupied out here.”
Sarah went in alone. Over dinner, she told her parents — they had arrived before Scotty was lying on the sidewalk — that Scotty was bipolar and having a manic episode. Neither parent was familiar with bipolar disorder or manic episodes, nor had Sarah ever witnessed a manic episode, and she did her best to downplay Scotty’s condition, not wanting to worry her parents about their future son-in-law’s mental stability.
After dinner, Sarah took Scotty home with her. She shared a townhouse with two roommates. The four spent the night talking, but all was not well.
Chris received an alarming phone call from Sarah early the next morning.
“Chris! Scotty never went to sleep last night. He was up all night. I hid his car keys so he couldn’t drive. He got mad and left on foot. It’s 29 degrees outside, and he’s walking to the office with no coat. I don’t know what to do!”
“I’ll see if I can track him down, Sarah,” he told her. “Try not to worry. I’ll call you when I find him.”
En route to his office, Scotty encountered a homeless man on the street. Without hesitation, he offered the man a job at his company. He gave the man his personal Visa credit card.
“Go get something to eat and buy yourself some new clothes before you report for work,” he told him.
Scotty, with his big heart, was always generous to those less fortunate. He often purchased food for them and gave them cash, but he had never given strangers his Visa card. It was something the normal Scotty would never do.
A brisk, two-hour walk later, Scotty telephoned Sarah from his office. Somehow, she convinced him to go to the hospital. Chris picked him up and drove him to Sibley Hospital in Washington, DC, but once again, Scotty left before the staff could evaluate him and took a taxi back to his office.
Joe, one of Scotty’s first employees at PTSI and a good friend, was also concerned about his boss’s psychotic condition. He persuaded Scotty to return to Sibley Hospital. This time — to our surprise and relief — Scotty voluntarily admitted himself.
Joe, though unaware his boss was bipolar, recognized his recent behavior was not normal. Scotty was spending a lot of time at the bike shop across the street and less time in the office.
“I’m thinking about buying that shop,” he confided to Joe. “It brings back memories of my high school bike shop days.”
Religion had also become a big part of Scotty’s life, and he spoke often of entering the seminary. Joe drove Scotty to a seminary in Washington, DC, for enrollment purposes. The staff quickly recognized that Scotty was ill and took extra time to visit with him.
Joe knew about the federal agents and Scotty’s many trips to the White House. He knew about Scotty’s $10,000 contribution to the Ronald McDonald House on behalf of Hillary Clinton. This contribution more or less confirmed Joe’s suspicions that his boss was not well, especially since Scotty had never spoken highly of Mrs. Clinton.
As Scotty settled into hospital life at Sibley, boredom and discontent became his roommates in short order. He began burning up the phone lines to family and friends. My first call came on January 13. He jumped from one subject to another, as he always did when manic. I just listened.
“Mom, I’m a patient at Sibley Hospital,” he announced with pride. “You know, the miracle hospital. I’ve been trying to get into this place for a long time. Well, here I am. Don’t tell anyone, but God has commissioned me to write another chapter for the Bible. Can you believe that after 2000 years, he selected me for this important project? I get goose bumps just thinking about the privilege he has bestowed upon me.”
“Talked with your old law firm today,” he said, abruptly changing the subject. “I’m filing enough class action lawsuits to keep them busy for the next 20 years.”
“Don’t tell Sarah this, but I can’t marry her. I’m a Prophet of God and not allowed to marry,” switching from class action lawsuits to being a Prophet of God.
Convinced, as he was beyond any doubt, that God had anointed him a prophet, I still felt the need to respond, “Scotty, you’re manic again. You’re very, very sick. Please believe me when I tell you that you’re not a Prophet of God. I’m so glad you’re at Sibley and getting the treatment you need to get well.”
Soon after this conversation, Scotty attempted to leave the hospital and for some reason became very violent. The hospital staff, amazed by his strength and resistance, was forced to restrain and sedate him.
Even more determined to leave the next day, he packed his bag, wrote a note to the hospital administrator, delivered the note to the nurses’ station, and requested that it be placed in his file.
The note said, “I, Scott Baker, am being held against my will.”
The nurse on duty accepted the note.
“Return to your room,” she instructed him, “or go to solitary confinement.”
Returning to his room was not part of his plan that day. Instead, he made another attempt to leave, and this time the staff called security for backup. During the scuffle, Scotty hit one of the security guards, was placed in a four-point restraint, and was removed to solitary confinement.
Because he had assaulted the guard, he now fell into the category of “imminent danger to others.” His doctor requested a meeting with family members to discuss treatment options. Buddy met with the doctor, who proposed three options:
Scotty could agree to take his medications and be treated at Sibley.
The doctor could have him committed to another hospital.
Scotty’s family could have him committed to another facility.
Buddy requested that the doctor continue treatment at Sibley.
The following day, Scotty’s older sisters, Kathy and Tricia, who lived in the Norfolk, Virginia, area, drove from their homes to visit him. Upon entering the psychiatric ward, they saw Scotty at the nurses’ station, where he was yelling at the nurse demanding she contact his doctor. He saw his sisters and said “hi” as though they were hospital workers, not his sisters who had just driven four hours to visit him.
Having been placed in a four-point restraint the previous night, he was still furious.
“This frickin’ place wouldn’t even let me up to use the bathroom. I had to pee in my bed,” he complained to his sisters.
Humiliated, he was determined to leave.
Pacing back and forth to the nurses’ station, Scotty yelled, “Either contact my doctor or let me out of this place!”
Pacing furiously, he saw the locked security door of the psychiatric ward open to let someone enter. As his sisters looked on in disbelief, he seized the moment and darted out the door, hit the elevator, and bolted.
Neither sister could believe what Scotty had just done. They had actually witnessed their brother’s escape. They dashed down seven flights of stairs to the street. He was nowhere to be seen, not in the lobby, nor on the street. Rushing back to the seventh floor, they expected the staff to help them in the search for their mentally ill brother. To their dismay, the hospital staff simply expressed regret.
“Sorry, it’s unfortunate, it happens sometimes. We have other patients, our staff is limited, and we can’t help you search for your brother.”
Scotty resurfaced at his office later in the day wearing a woman’s wig. He bragged to anyone who would listen about his escape from Sibley Hospital.
His next stop was Sarah’s house. Her roommates, having recently spent time with Scotty, knew only too well that he was very ill, and although they cared deeply for him, his presence made them uncomfortable. As a courtesy to them, Sarah asked Scotty to leave.
Not the least bit offended, Scotty left. Dressed in a business suit, with his Bible in hand, he headed for the White House.
“I’m Scott Baker,” he informed the Secret Service. “I’m here for a very important meeting with President Clinton. I have information he needs to solve the poverty problems in this country.”
“The president is not available to meet with you,” the agent responded and instructed Scotty to leave the White House grounds. Fortunately, he did not press the issue and complied with the agent’s instructions.
Back in his car, he returned to Sibley Hospital, where he saw a police officer directing traffic. Scotty convinced the officer to go with him to the psychiatric ward, where he demanded the arrest of the entire staff. The officer tried to get Scotty to commit himself but was unsuccessful.
Scotty returned to his car, where in his bipolar world, he saw the black van that had been following him since he left the White House. He was convinced the van was following him because he was to become the next president of the United States with Hillary Clinton as his vice president. The van followed him to his office, parked outside his building, and waited for him while he worked well into the night — in his mind, at least.
Around midnight, he emailed me.
“Working hard, Mom,” he said. “Just set up 40 new companies. I feel better than I’ve ever felt in my life,” his email continued. “Mania is simply the Holy Spirit. Get your Bible out and read the Book of Job, chapters nine through 16. You’ll see what I mean. While you’re at it, read the Book of Ecclesiastes, chapter five, to learn about Abraham and Sarah.”