Tim

"I told you so" were the first words that came to mind when I received that call from Officer Boyd. Of course, I would never say those words to Jamie. In fact, those were the last words Jamie wanted to hear. He was totally in love with Jordan, completely enamored and he was no doubt traumatized by the incident at Fenway. Jamie was always extra sensitive, even about the smallest, simplest things. This was not a small, simple thing. Both Jordan and Jamie were so confident everything would be fine; I was really hoping they would prove me wrong.

They didn't prove me wrong, though. Maybe if Jordan didn't have so many things on his mind, everything would have been fine. For one, he discovered he was gay this summer and that was a pretty big deal, whether he admitted it or not. Second, Jamie was leaving in a couple of days and he had grown very, very attached to him. Of course he was attached; he was madly in love with him. The only people he had ever been attached to were me and our mother. And then he had that whole business with Oxford and second-guessing himself, wondering if he should stay or go. He had a lot going on in his head.

Based on what the police and Jamie told me, this was perhaps one of Jordan's worst freak-outs of all time.

As I entered Jordan's room, I found him sitting in the corner on the floor, his knees to his chest and his head in his hands. I hadn't seen him like this in a very long time. He looked up briefly, then back down, rocking back and forth. Listening carefully, I realized he was singing. Music was his way of communicating, particularly when stressed. Because he was unable to cope, he used music as a defense mechanism.

"There's a little black spot on the sun today..." Jordan sang The Police's King of Pain. Of all the songs to sing, he chose to sing King of Pain. He really knew how to pick them. Songs often correlated to his mood.

"It's the same old thing as yesterday
There's a black hat caught in the high tree top
There's a flag pole rag and the wind won't stop
I have stood here before inside the pouring rain
With the world turning circles running 'round my brain..."

"The Police," I said, stating the obvious. It was obvious to me and Jordan, anyway. "Mom loved Sting, remember?" At one point, our mother was convinced she was going to marry Sting even though they were both already married to different people. Not only that, she didn't even know the guy although she thought she did. "We'll just get a divorce," she said. She believed her delusions so intensely, there was no telling her otherwise.

I didn't really expect much of a response from Jordan, but it was worth a try. Instead, he continued to sing, skipping several lines to sing the refrain.

"I have stood here before inside the pouring rain
With the world turning circles running 'round my brain
I guess I'm always hoping that you'll end this reign
But it's my destiny to be the king of pain."

"Could you stop singing for a minute?" I said. "I'm not angry; I just want to talk to you." Ignoring my request, he sang the refrain again; this time louder.

"I have stood here before inside the pouring rain
With the world turning circles running 'round my brain
I guess I'm always hoping that you'll end this reign
But it's my destiny to be the king of pain."

Jordan got up and paced around the room, singing louder and louder. A security guard poked his head inside, either out of curiosity or to make sure everything was okay. I nodded at him, letting him know everything was under control. For the moment, anyway.

"Jordan, stop it," I said, starting to lose my cool. Sometimes I just couldn't help it, but I kept thinking about Jamie and the look of worry and concern in his eyes. "You want to be treated like a man? Well, act like one. You're acting like a two year old. I don't know what to do. I don't know what to do, Jordan. It's not only about you anymore. It's not about me. Another person is involved, a person you love, remember? And he loves you. Jamie really loves you. It's not just about you, alright?"

"Get the fuck out," he abruptly said. "Just get out and let me die."

"I'm not going to let you die," I said after taking a deep breath. Jordan pulled at his hair, pacing around the room, singing.

"I have stood here before inside the pouring rain
With the world turning circles running 'round my brain
I guess I'm always hoping that you'll end this reign
But it's my destiny to be the king of pain."

"Jordan, come on," I said. "What are you doing, huh? Jamie's leaving in a couple of days. I know you care."

"No I don't. I don't care," he said. "I don't care about him. I hate him."

Jordan hated everyone and everything after his meltdowns. The fact was was that he really did care and his only way of coping was by pushing people away.

"No you don't," I said.

"Yes...yes, I do," he said. "I never want to see him again. Leave me alone. I hate you, too. Leave me alone. Just get out. Leave me alone and let me die."

"No," I said. "I'm not going to leave you alone to let you die."

"Get out. Just get out!" he screamed at me. In-between singing, he went after me, pushing me against the wall. Even though he had gone after me before, he actually scared me this time. He was taller and bigger than I was and completely unhinged at the moment.

"Calm down," I said, trying to remain calm myself. Why didn't I learn that saying those words "calm down" never worked? Jordan gripped my shirt tightly, wrapping it around his fingers. "Let go of me, Jordan. This won't solve anything. Let go." As I went to pry his fingers loose, he pushed me hard against the wall again, so hard my head knocked against it. Security guards immediately ran into the room, charging toward Jordan to physically remove him from me.

"I hate you!" he yelled at me. "Don't tie me up again," he cried, now directing his attention to the security guards. Throughout his ranting, he continued to look down and at the floor, not making any eye contact with anyone whatsoever. "Don't....get off me..." He punched and kicked like a little kid having a temper tantrum.

A nurse escorted me out of the room while the others tried to calm him down. Within seconds, as I stood outside his door, his screams and cries grew louder and more desperate.

"Let me go!" he shouted on the top of his lungs. He had been restrained in the past; twice: once when he was ten, and again when he was seventeen, but never twice the same day. 

"The doctor's ordered some Ativan," the nurse told me, walking me to another room, an empty room not far from Jordan's. "That should settle him a bit. Is there anything I can get for you?"

"No, thanks," I said, sitting down on one of the chairs. Not long after I sat down, a doctor in a white coat approached me. I had spoken to my share of doctors over the years.

"I'm Dr. Patel," he said. "You're the young man's brother?"

"Yes," I said, standing up to shake his hand.

"Are your parents around or is it just you?"

"It's just me," I said.

"He lives with you?"

"Yes," I said.

"Does he go to school?" Dr. Patel just shot me question after question. I'd say he was even slightly annoyed he had to deal with this volatile "young man."

"College," I said. "He's very smart actually. He..."

"Can you tell me if he takes any medication?" he interrupted me. He was curt and even a bit impatient like he had somewhere else to be.

"Medication? Uh...yeah..." I said. He had been on medication for as long as I could remember. He'd tried different types, from classic ADHD medication to antidepressants to mood stabilizers. ADHD medications, in particular stimulants, were the absolute worst for Jordan. They made him even angrier and aggressive. "Risperidone," I said. I hated to admit my brother was on an antipsychotic when he didn't even have schizophrenia or anything else like that, but doctors recommended it and I suppose it worked. Things could have been worse without it.

"When was the last time he had an adjustment or an increase?" Dr. Patel asked.

"I don't know," I said. "Awhile I guess. Are you going to increase it?" He saw a clinical psychiatric nurse practitioner every three to six months. He had more or less been stable for a couple of years.

"No," he said. "Not here. Medication adjustments should be done in a structured environment. We're looking at transferring him to a psychiatric unit."

Yeah, I figured.

"Here?"

"No, we don't have an appropriate unit in this hospital," Dr. Patel said. "The social worker will speak to you shortly. Any questions?"

"No, thank you," I said.

"Take care," he said and left. As I waited, Kelly texted me, then called me, then texted me again, but I wasn't in the mood to talk or text. I wished I hadn't told her what happened. As I sat there, the room next door, Jordan's room, became strangely quiet.

A middle-aged woman with a clipboard knocked on my door. I assumed she was the social worker Dr. Patel mentioned.

"Hello," the woman said. "Are you Tim?"

"Yes," I said.

"I'm Deirdre Waters," she said. "I'm one of the social workers here." Deirdre entered the room and sat down in a chair beside me. She removed the glasses from the top of her short curly hair and turned her attention to her clipboard. "You're his brother, correct?"

"Yes," I said. Everyone at Children's Hospital knew Jordan's history, but this was a new hospital, so I had to recap a lot of it; at least the past few years. Overall he had a great summer, though, and I was actually starting to feel optimistic about his future.

"You said your mother has schizophrenia?" the social worker said.

Oh no. Not more of these types of questions.

"Yes," I said. "But Jordan doesn't have schizophrenia. He's not delusional or psychotic. He takes an antipsychotic, but it's not for that. If anything, he has really bad, sometimes uncontrollable anxiety and he becomes overstimulated and overwhelmed. Once he reaches the breaking point, he doesn't know how to come back."

"Was he ever diagnosed with a developmental or intellectual disability?"

Because Jordan didn't speak until he was four, doctors thought that maybe he did have some kind of developmental disability, but it turned out he was a genius.

"No," I said. "He's actually brilliant. He skipped two grades. He has enough credits to graduate from college and he nearly scored a perfect score on the MCAT. No, he doesn't have a developmental disability."

"Has he ever been diagnosed with Autism?" she asked.

There it was; there was the word. I'd heard enough diagnoses over his lifetime. My silence prompted her to continue.

"Autism is really a broad description nowadays, used to describe a wide array of symptoms. It can range from mild to severe, with or without a developmental disability." She spoke like I didn't have a clue. "They used to call it Asperger's. Now they call it..."

"Yeah, I know," I interrupted her. "I've heard it all."

"So you would say he's on the spectrum?"

"On the spectrum," I repeated with a hint of annoyance in my voice. "I hate that phrase. It makes him sound...well, it just makes him sound less than human. Once someone is labeled, people start identifying them as a label and not as a person."

"Very good point," Deirdre said.

"I just want him to feel safe," I said. "Right now he doesn't feel safe. It doesn't matter what kind of diagnosis he has." She paused before going on.

"I think we all want him to feel safe," she said. "There's a bed available at McLean Hospital. They have a residential treatment program for people with...well...with similar issues as Jordan. It's strictly for adolescents."

"Like a group home? Is that what you mean? I'm not sending him to a group home," I said.

"It's not a group home," she said. "It's a short-term treatment program. Has he ever been to one before?"

"I don't know," I said, my mind running wild, picturing him away from home...away from me. "He's been to the hospital, but not for very long." I couldn't envision him anywhere else but home. He'd never forgive me if I sent him away.

"It won't be forever," she said as if sensing my burgeoning guilt. I wanted him to come home. "A stay can be anywhere from a month to three or six months. It really varies. We plan on transferring him later today."

"Today?" I said. "It can't wait until tomorrow? It's getting kind of late."

"They're expecting him today."

"Does he know?" I asked.

"No, I don't believe so. Do you want to try and talk to him? I think he's calmed down now."

"Yeah...yeah...I'll talk to him," I said, trying to think of the best way to tell him.

"I can tell you're a good brother," Deirdre said. "He's very lucky to have you." I had heard that a lot over the years, but I always wished I were better. I didn't feel like a very good brother at the moment.

The ativan definitely mellowed him out. He was back on the bed, curled up, one arm hanging off the mattress, his eyes half-closed. He wasn't even singing or humming anymore, but he wasn't asleep, either.

"Hey," I said. "Just so you know, King of Pain is stuck in my head and I can't get it out." He didn't even react to my voice. "So, Jordan, I just wanted to let you know you're going to another hospital. Don't be scared, though. It'll be alright. I'm going to go home and pack a few things. I hope you remembered to do your laundry. My clothes won't fit you." I hoped to make a joke, but he didn't laugh. No reaction at all. As he lay there, I walked up to him on the bed. He didn't move a muscle. "Jordan...hey..." I said. He didn't even flinch as I brushed his hair off the side of his face. "Your hair's gotten so crazy." He just lay there, letting me comb his messy curls with my fingers. My stomach was in knots. "Fuck, Jordan," I muttered. "Don't leave me, huh? You mean everything to me." I waited a minute or two for a possible response, but no response came. "Okay," I said, pulling my hand away. "I'm going to go now. I'll see you at the other hospital."

Usually I was able to keep it together. I was always the stable one; the only stable one in the entire family. Our mother always had serious psychiatric issues (as well as her mother); Art just ran away, and then there was Jordan. Without me, Jordan most likely would have been removed from the home. Even with me around, people tried to send him away, but I wouldn't let them. I spent most of his life fighting and advocating for him. Now I felt like the biggest hypocrite because I was doing what I always said I wouldn't do and there was no one around to tell me everything was going to be okay, that this was the right thing to do. 

As I sat in the car, tears started to fall, not something I let happen too often. I was used to doing everything alone, just about managing on my own. As I sat there in the hospital garage, I took out my phone and scrolled through my many text messages from Kelly. For the first time ever I realized I didn't have to do this alone.

A/N
So it looks like I have more than three chapters left. I hope you enjoy them!

Thanks for reading and voting!