Detour from Normal (15 page)

Just before I left, a nurse handed me a sticky note with her name and the unit telephone number on it. I called her before I left the parking lot. She told me that Ken had been put on Seroquel and Restoril and was being given Ativan as needed. When I asked how he'd hurt himself, she told me that he had tried to walk through a wall.

I was terrified by the changes I saw in Ken. When I got home, I researched the drugs he'd been given and was horrified to learn that Seroquel was an antipsychotic medication; we had been told that he was getting help with his sleep deprivation. Ken had been hypomanic prior to admission, but now he was clearly altered cognitively: he had lost touch with reality. Many of the adverse side effects listed on the drug websites were evident in him.

I researched my rights and found an online attorney who informed me that the facility had no right to keep Ken and was, in fact, guilty of kidnapping. The attorney advised me on how to get Ken out of the facility. He also recommended that I program the local police number into my cell phone and have them assist me if Pinecrest refused to let Ken go.

Chapter 13

UTOPIA: FOUNDATION

That night I dreamed again of Utopia—or of things before Utopia. Much had to happen before Utopia could exist. I wondered about myself,
How specifically am I different than I was before?
I knew that there were things about me that I couldn't yet quantify, but I could tell that my emotions were different, so I started taking inventory. There are essentially six different core emotions: peaceful, powerful, joyful, sad, mad, and scared. There are, of course, infinite variations and combinations of those emotions that comprise all human emotion as we know it, but I thought it simplest to start with the basics. I no longer was sad, mad, or scared or had anything associated with those negative emotions. That may not seem like much, but it was half of all emotions. Negative emotions are the source of many of the evils of mankind, such as war and murder, and they are the source of many if not all dysfunctions. They are also the reason that we have to build walls around our homes, our workplaces, and our countries to protect ourselves. Besides being the source of physical barriers, they are also the source of societal barriers that separate instead of unite us as a human family. They are the singlehanded impetus behind the design and manufacture of all machines of human destruction, all the bullets and bombs of the world.

So there I was without negative emotions, experiencing life anew with only the brightest of human emotions. I was changed by the simple fact that what had once held me back was gone. I was filled with passion, energy, and a desire to help mankind finally achieve what it was destined to: ending war, poverty, hunger, and disease, even traveling to the stars. In short, whatever we were passionate about doing would be possible. Without negative emotions holding us back and with a desire to seek out people who share our passions instead of building walls to protect ourselves from imagined enemies, we could do anything. Anything and everything would be possible.

That was the core of Utopia: it could only be built by people who were not held back by negative emotions. Without that critical consideration, Utopia would be just another absurd social idea doomed to failure before it started. Located in a place of great beauty, Utopia would be one with nature and one with similar settlements around the world, uniquely networked to initiate and foster the most imaginative accomplishments of humankind, right from the comfort of citizens' homes.

Utopia would be the first of such places, the idea farm from which a new kind of humanity would branch out. Utopia would explore how humanity without negative emotions would interact, create, team build, raise families, educate children, and run businesses, then reach out and share those ideas with an evolving world—a world that, like it or not, was already changing.

The world was changing through no fault of my own; I was simply the vessel of change. With a touch I could turn off negative emotions, release the demons that held us back, and bring forth the passions that they held at bay. With a handshake, a smile, a kind word, I could create human life where there once was only human desert. I could do these
things in that manner or simply by the fact of my existence. It was out of my hands, and I had no choice. I would infect people whether I liked it or not. Building a prototype, a Utopia, while not necessary for the change to happen, would give us an opportunity to prepare for how we would interact and make the most of it.

I awoke and rubbed my eyes. I felt an odd rush, goose bumps rippling over my body. Was it really true or just a dream? Could I really turn off negative emotions in others? Could we really stop wars? My sleep was finished, and my mind spun wildly the rest of the night as I lay quietly in my bed imagining all the possibilities of a world without negative emotions.

Chapter 14

A NEW CARLOS

I felt rejuvenated as the sun rose on May 21. Perhaps the Seroquel that had clouded my mind and confused me had been flushed from my brain. I made a mental note to refuse all medications from then on that I didn't believe were necessary. My mind was crisp and clear, and I had boundless energy despite only having had a few hours of sleep. Not only did I have a grand vision for humanity, but I felt absolutely fantastic. Everywhere I looked I saw opportunity: for an unhappy staff member to have a happier job doing something he was passionate about, for a schizophrenic to have a normal life—even better than normal. There were new things about me that were still fuzzy around the edges, senses or abilities that I could almost grasp or which were perhaps inappropriate for this wretched place. I decided to set those aside for now, having enough on my plate already.

Right on cue Carlos entered our room, but he wasn't shuffling; there seemed to be an uncharacteristic easiness to his gait. On our way to the cafeteria, I repeated the same joke about huevos rancheros and he grinned as always, but his eyes were no longer thin slits and were filled with a new sparkle. We crowded through the small door and made our way into the food line.

Carlos cut in line, grabbed an apple, and headed off to pace. I remembered my milk and utensils, and finally—huevos rancheros. Not believing my eyes, I laughed aloud. How outrageous. The food worker filled my plate, I hastily made my way to Ray's table and set it down, and then I searched for Carlos. "Carlos, buddy, I finally got you some huevos rancheros!" I yelled. He grinned, an extra large grin. I motioned to him to join us. He did so and took a seat. I pushed the tray to him and said, "Have at it." Then, after amazing myself yet again by automatically remembering my milk and utensils, I filled another tray and joined my friends to eat.

Carlos was already finished by the time I returned. "Carlos, you really shoveled that in. Do you want more?" He nodded yes, so I gave him my plate and went back for more. We all had a splendid time with our huevos rancheros. I smiled and shook my head in disbelief throughout the meal. After all the joking about huevos rancheros, it seemed inconceivable that we were actually eating them.

As we ate, Carlos's subtle changes continued. His mouth relaxed and his characteristic grin vanished. Despite an abundance of clues to a miracle unfolding, I hadn't managed to connect the dots: Carlos was rejoining the real world. When I finally did notice, I grew concerned. "Carlos, are you OK?" I asked. He stared at me for a few moments, nodded, and then smiled—a real smile. When he finally finished his meal, he leisurely pushed his chair away from the table, stood, then looking directly at me, he offered me his hand and said, "God bless you." I hastily swallowed my food and stood to return his handshake. It may seem trivial, but Carlos had said only one thing to me the entire time I'd known him: his name. I was overwhelmed by emotion. I grasped his hand firmly and followed his lead as he shook my hand with conviction.

Afterward I sat down with Ray and finished my meal, all the time wondering if he would improve as well. A small voice in my head said,
Everything happens in its own time, Ken.
It didn't seem odd at all to hear that voice. I was delighted to hear it because it meant that Ray still had an opportunity for a better life. After breakfast I never saw Carlos again, but our parting moment couldn't have been more perfect. I was confident that he'd continue to progress.

That day was my final day at Pinecrest—with Carlos, Ray, my small gaggle of odd acquaintances, and the staff I had gotten to know, if only by name. After Beth had seen me bloodied, confused, and barely able to function, she had rightly concluded that Pinecrest was not the place for me. Had I continued my stay and adhered to the doctor's treatment plan, it was probable that within a few days I would have effectively been a vegetable. Beth exhausted every potential lead to gain my release. It wasn't long before she'd succeeded in obtaining all that was needed aside from one thing: Dr. Alverez's signature.

It was for that reason that Beth and I found ourselves sitting across a table from him in a small group room at Pinecrest. It was torture watching Beth and him squabble for over half an hour. Beth wasn't buying his argument that it was better for me to be drugged into a stupor and abandoned in my room at Pinecrest than to be home with my family. I questioned his qualifications to make that kind of decision. That proved to be satisfyingly irritating but did little to resolve the conflict. The disagreement continued until everyone was exhausted. Then Beth did the only thing left to do: she slid the properly completed paperwork across the table and handed Dr. Alverez a pen.

"I'm taking him home. Period," she stated unequivocally.

The conversation was finished. Doctor Alverez sighed heavily. He reluctantly took the pen from her and signed the papers.

"You're making a mistake" was the last thing he said.

Chapter 15

NINE HOURS AND A URINE TEST

We arrived home at 4:00 p.m. on May 21. More than anything I was looking forward to the luxury of sleeping in a comfortable bed that night. There was one peculiar thing about being home: my dogs. They behaved very oddly toward me. The smallest one, Kobee, was a rescue dog. She was a tan-colored terrier mix who'd been abused by her first owner. It had taken years of love to gain her trust, and, sadly, there were still times when she'd scamper from us, her tail tucked between her legs. That day she was uncharacteristically accepting and frisky. Anna, a black-and-white Shih Tzu, who was typically reserved and aloof, cocked her head and wagged her tail incessantly. Lastly, Washington, an almost pure-white Labrador retriever, seemed even more alert and attentive than ever. We had raised Washington to be a guide dog, but after a year of training, he failed his first medical exam due to pinpoint cataracts. You couldn't have the blind leading the blind, so we quickly adopted him and crossed our fingers that his vision wouldn't go completely.

All three of my dogs followed me eagerly and persistently after I returned, maintaining an unusually tight pack around me. When I'd pause, they'd sit and observe me curiously, turning their heads this way and that. There was an absolute calmness about them that I'd never
witnessed before. Then it dawned on me: In my new mental state, I was living in the moment just as they did. For the first time, I must have seemed more doglike than human.