City of San Fernando resident Gina Perez is hopeful about the
long-awaited conservatorship recently granted for her son Joseph Zamora,
who has been homeless and battling schizophrenia and substance use
disorder for many years. (SFVS/el Sol Photo/Maria Luisa Torres)
After years of venturing out nearly every day to find her unhoused
mentally ill son on the streets of the Northeast San Fernando Valley to
give him food and clean clothes, Gina Perez is breathing a bit easier
these days.
In August, her son Joseph Lee Zamora, 44, was
admitted into the in-patient behavioral health unit at Mission Community
Hospital in Panorama City on a temporary mental health conservatorship
due to his decades-long battle with schizophrenia and substance use
disorder.
Zamora’s dual diagnosis has contributed to erratic
behavior and a string of arrests, including for trespassing on public
property and disorderly conduct. His harrowing condition – which causes
him to hear voices and feel the urge to turn them off by self-medicating
with illegal drugs – is further complicated by “anosognosia,” which
makes a person unable to recognize they have a health problem. As a
result, he has repeatedly refused much-needed treatment and medication.
Dealing with a cycle of schizophrenic episodes and substance abuse,
Zamora preferred to live on the streets, explained Perez. She regularly
drove around looking for him at his usual spots, often following a full
day of work in the scholarship office at California State University,
Northridge.
For now, she’s relieved that her son is housed and making slow but somewhat steady progress.
“I’m
just thankful that he’s safe. He’s not harming himself and he’s not out
in the elements, especially now that the weather is starting to get
cold again,” said Perez, who lives in the City of San Fernando. “He’s
been eating – he’s gained weight, which is good – [and] he’s been taking
his medication.”
Perez said she pursued conservatorship – which was transitioned from
temporary to a full year in October through the Office of the County
Counsel – to try to save his life. Previous efforts and countless
consequences over the years have failed or only helped in the short
term, including involuntary 72-hour 5150 psychiatric holds,
court-mandated stays in drug and mental health treatment centers,
several stints in jail and even a previous full-year conservatorship in
2019.
Last year, she was hoping the new CARE (Community
Assistance, Recovery and Empowerment) Court would offer a solution
without conservatorship, but she soon realized it wouldn’t help her son.
Launched in Los Angeles County last December, CARE Court oversees
court-ordered treatment for people with schizophrenia and other
psychotic disorders, but it is 100% voluntary; people have to willingly
participate. And in Zamora’s case, “nothing with him [was] voluntary,”
said Perez.
“Right now he knows he’s taking medication to help [quiet
the] voices, and although I wouldn’t say it’s voluntary, because it’s
required for him to do so, even with a conservatorship they still truly
can’t force him to take it, so he is choosing to do it,” she added.
“While I know there’s no cure, as long as he’s taking medication he’s
not plagued by wanting to drown out the voices.”
These days,
instead of spending hours trying to track down her son on street corners
and in shopping centers across San Fernando and Sylmar – or endlessly
worrying for days or weeks at a time whenever Zamora disappeared from
the area – she gets to visit him daily. For the time being, he only
wants to see his mom, and they talk and interact a bit more with each
passing day.
“He doesn’t even want his sister to go see him [and] I
think that’s because there’s still a lot of shame that he feels,” said
Perez. “But he wants to hear about her and about other people, too.”
Helping Other Families
As
Zamora continues receiving care and awaiting a transfer to another
facility for more comprehensive treatment, Perez is completing a 13-week
course in mental health ministry offered by the Office of Life, Justice
and Peace of the Catholic Archdiocese of LA. She said she hopes to take
what she learns – combined with her personal experiences as a tireless
advocate for her son – to start a mental health ministry group at a
local parish.
“I’m taking the course to help me be better informed
on my journey with Joseph and so I can share the information with other
families,” said Perez. “I’ve been immersed in my son’s illness for a
long time, and there are probably a lot of people out there who are just
starting out.”
Because there is so much shame and stigma
associated with mental illness, Perez said she believes there are many
others like herself – who have a loved one coping with mental illness –
who might be reluctant to seek help or who simply don’t know where to
turn for answers.
“I want to offer them a place to be among other
families facing the same challenges,” she added, noting that some people
might be more open to participating in a faith-based setting. “They
might be able to trust somebody from their church versus an outside
organization.”
Hope for the Future
Perez is
hopeful her son will continue improving. So far, he appears much calmer
than he was during his last hospitalization when he was “clamoring to
get out,” she recounted, noting that the next treatment facility will
provide more services in a less restrictive setting to aid his recovery.
“The
judge said, ‘He’s 44 – he has a whole life ahead of him. I don’t want
him to be placed in a facility where he can’t learn to thrive,’” said
Perez, who wholeheartedly agrees with the judge.
“There’s a lot of
work that he has ahead of him to become functional in society again,”
continued Perez. She said when Zamora’s one-year conservatorship ends,
the court can choose to renew it, opt for a lesser level of care or
decide he is ready to be mainstreamed. “I keep on reminding him that
it’s going to be up to him to want to do the work in order to take it to
the next level.”
A cute, miniature cow is creating a buzz in Oakwood Creative Care in Mesa, Arizona, for cheering and helping elderly people with memory problems.
Dolly Star visits the adult day center weekly to bring joy and a unique kind of therapeutic company to its community members who have been diagnosed with neurological disorders like dementia, Alzheimer’s disease, Parkinson’s disease, and schizophrenia.
Their delightful encounters with Dolly are helping these elderly residents to develop new memories and recall old ones. The miniature cow responds with happy licks to affectionate pats and strokes. As a reward, the residents give the adorable cow marshmallows, which they learned is Dolly’s favorite treat.
A cute, miniature cow is creating a buzz in Oakwood Creative Care in Mesa, Arizona, for cheering and helping elderly people with memory problems.
Dolly Star visits the adult day center weekly to bring joy and a
unique kind of therapeutic company to its community members who have
been diagnosed with neurological disorders like dementia, Alzheimer’s disease, Parkinson’s disease, and schizophrenia.
Photo: YouTube/ABC15 Arizona
Their
delightful encounters with Dolly are helping these elderly residents to
develop new memories and recall old ones. The miniature cow responds
with happy licks to affectionate pats and strokes. As a reward, the
residents give the adorable cow marshmallows, which they learned is
Dolly’s favorite treat.
Photo: YouTube/ABC15 Arizona
According to Karin Boyle, Dolly’s owner and founder of the Dolly Star Foundation,
she was inspired by her father to make bovine therapy a mission. Her
father, a farmer, had been admitted to a memory care facility, and it
was the companionship of his cattle that later helped his condition to
improve.
Yes, in the amazing world of animal-assisted therapy,
dogs are the leading figure. However, more animals are following suit,
like horses, dolphins, cats, goats, birds, and pigs. And, today, cow
therapy is among those that are gaining global popularity.
In the Netherlands, this new wellness trend is called “koe knuffelen” or “cow hugging.” In India, inmates are encouraged to undergo a cow therapy program, since the authorities believe that these sacred animals will have a positive impact on their character.
Meanwhile, in California, there’s The Gentle Barn, which is an animal rescue farm where you can embrace cows, give pigs a belly rub, or cuddle a turkey.
In upstate New York, there’s a bed-and-breakfast called Mountain Horse Farm that offers cuddling therapy with its Highlander-Angus cross-bred cows.
What is so special about cow therapy and animal therapy?
It is believed that hugging a cow or another big mammal helps in boosting the production of oxytocin,
which is known as the “bonding/love hormone.” Among the body’s many
chemical messengers, it is the oxytocin that is primarily considered to
be the “substance” of happiness.
Cow therapy is still new, but Karin hopes to propagate it in Arizona
and the rest of the country, and others like her are doing the same in
other regions of the world. What is certain, according to science, is
that animal-assisted therapy has many benefits in the treatment of
mental illness that enhance a patient’s quality of life.
Anita Fisher looks towards a photo of her son at her home in Spring Valley, Aug. 16, 2022.
By Jennifer Bowman
Anita Fisher has been here before. Her son has stopped taking his medication. Again.
“Nothing
has changed,” she said. “Yes, there have been new programs out there,
but unless he voluntarily” — Anita gives a quick, doubtful chuckle —
“accepts it, that doesn’t work.”
Anita’s son was diagnosed with
schizophrenia two decades ago. What followed was a series of setbacks: A
bad conduct discharge from the U.S. Army, a prison term and months of
living on San Diego’s streets.
Anita struggled, too. As she maintained a career — and raised another
child, born 10 years after his brother — she and her husband spent
hours driving around San Diego looking for him. She’d get him into
housing, but it would never quite work out. He’d get help sometimes, but
landed in jail on multiple occasions. She would try again and again,
unsuccessfully, to convince her son he was sick and needed help.
For
years, Anita tried to convince decision makers, from medical providers
to staff in San Diego County’s public conservator office, that her son’s
mental illness was so severe that he needed help — even if it meant
treating him involuntarily.
In 2014, there was some action:
Anita’s son was placed on a conservatorship, a decision that puts some
of an individual’s most significant life choices in the hands of someone
else. He lasted about two weeks at a treatment center before being
released.
“Families are not invited to the conservatorship process,” Anita said. “And guess what? We get back the collateral damage.
“So
when they are let out of a hospital too soon, and then they’re arrested
again, it’s us having to run to court hearings. Nobody shows up for
that. We are the ones that have to try to find them on the street.”
Relatives who spoke with inewsource about their loved ones’
yearslong struggles with severe mental illness shared similar stories:
Their family member was often known to law enforcement, the Psychiatric
Emergency Response Team that responds to emergency calls, and the
hospitals where they were taken while in crisis. Some cycled in and out
of shelters and other living arrangements.
They may have
voluntarily sought treatment at times, but inconsistently, and their
situation quickly deteriorated without it — and often, their loved one
was unaware of their own mental health condition.
LPS
conservatorships, named after the state’s Lanterman-Petris-Short Act,
give counties the power to mandate treatment and place a person in a
locked facility if that person has been diagnosed with a severe mental
illness specifically cited in the statute — schizophrenia, bipolar
disorder or major depression, among others.
The person must also
be deemed “gravely disabled,” meaning they’re unable to provide for
basic personal needs such as food, clothing or shelter as a result of
their disorder.
Anastasia, a San Diego mom whose adult son was
diagnosed as a teen with bipolar I with psychotic features, spent much
of the COVID-19 pandemic searching for him as he slept on benches and in
parks across the city. He frequently went months without treatment, was
held on multiple 72-hour hospital stays while in psychosis and
neglected his physical health.
Anastasia, who inewsource is
only identifying by first name, thought her son was close to being
placed on a conservatorship last year, as discussions took place while
he underwent yet another hospital evaluation.
Ultimately, it didn’t happen.
A fence near the Fashion Valley trolley station is shown on Aug. 24,
2022. Anastasia's son ran away through a nearby fence before a PERT team
arrived.
“No one cares about this kid,” she said with tears in her eyes. “He’s
26 years old. He was 25. He has a whole life ahead of him and the
potential to do something – to live a life. And (they) don’t care.”
Now,
officials have turned to potentially expanding conservatorships as part
of a solution to the state’s homeless crisis. And those who have spent
decades trying to help their loved one with a severe mental illness have
largely been in support — Gov. Gavin Newsom’s newly approved CARE Court,
which will create a separate court process that could eventually lead
to a conservatorship, is backed by the California chapter of the
National Alliance on Mental Illness, a group founded by family members.
But
some advocates have raised concerns, saying CARE Court will divert
resources from people who need housing and services — and shouldn’t be
used “as an end run around reform” to the LPS Act. In a letter to the governor
earlier this month, Disability Rights California and more than 50 other
organizations said the program “is exploitative of poor people who need
mental health care and will create a chilling effect preventing people
from seeking treatment and care.”
inewsource spent months
speaking with dozens of people who said gaps in the system and other
longstanding problems have plagued the conservatorship process, from a
shortage of resources and services, to the lack of clear data on how
well the current system is working and lax state oversight that’s left
counties to largely take on the challenges alone.
“We have the law
we need for the society we’ve got,” said Joseph De Vico, a former
employee in San Diego’s public conservator office. He now works with
families and people with severe mental illness as a consultant on LPS
issues, and previously was hired by Anastasia.
“What would we do
for the severely mentally ill if we were a better society and we
actually gave a crap about them, that’s a completely different
conversation, which I would also hope to live long enough to be part
of.”
But he’s not exactly hopeful.
“We don’t really care. We
don't prioritize the severely ill,” he said. “We're not gonna become a
different society with different priorities. So we have to accept that
we only care as much as the LPS Act reflects.”
‘Do you know where your son is?’
Anita’s
home, tucked away in a hilly Spring Valley suburb in East County, is an
homage to her family — and to a cause she found herself intimately
involved in after her son’s diagnosis.
Photos lining walls and
console tables display relatives that go back generations; another shows
her with her husband and son, grinning mid-laugh while at a taping of
“Let’s Make a Deal.” Next to it is a photo of her standing with Newsom,
when she met the governor to talk about her family’s struggles.
Family photos fill the living room of the Fisher home in Spring Valley, Aug. 16, 2022.
Down the hall, her home office stores stacks of binders involving her advocacy work.
Anita
switched career paths after her son was diagnosed, leaving the banking
industry after 30 years. She worked as director of education at NAMI San
Diego for more than 10 years, helping coordinate family support
programs before semi-retiring. She continues to serve on several boards,
including at PERT and the state’s Council on Criminal Justice and Behavioral Health.
The
people attending support groups and other programs are in crisis, Anita
said, and she hasn’t seen the number of attendees drop since her work
began.
“If you have over 300 family members going to a 12-week
course, or over 1,100, going through support groups, that means
something isn't working with this system of care,” she said. “There are
too many gaps and holes.”
Anita’s son, who inewsource agreed
not to identify by name, joined the Army after high school and became a
medical specialist assigned to the Walter Reed Army Medical Center.
Anita was proud of her son’s accomplishments, and confident his life was
headed in the right direction.
Then, during one trip home, she took notice.
Anita
said her son seemed disorganized. He also was drinking heavily. She had
to rush him to get his things packed when his leave was over. At the
end of the trip, she drove him to the airport to catch a plane back to
the Washington, D.C., area.
Her phone rang a few days later.
“Do you know where your son is?”
His sergeant informed Anita that her son never made it back to work. He was later located, inexplicably, in Pennsylvania.
What
followed was a downward spiral that ended his Army career. It was at
his military trial that Anita first heard anything about her son being
sick: “Schizophrenic form disorder,” a psychologist would say on the
stand.
He was kicked out, on a bad conduct discharge that cut off
access to any income or benefits. When he returned to San Diego, Anita
said homelife got disruptive. Conversations turned into arguments.
She
wanted him to get a job and was frustrated by his seeming inability to
move forward. She says she realizes now that she didn’t fully understand
his mental illness.
Anita’s oldest son, then in his early 20s,
couldn’t stay home. He became homeless, cycling between shelters and
jail or prison for what Anita said were largely petty theft or
drug-related crimes.
She estimates he was homeless for about eight
months — the longest he had been on the streets — when his
conservatorship process began. He had been taken to the UC San Diego
Medical Center on a 72-hour involuntary hold under what’s commonly
referred to as a 5150, in reference to a section of the state’s Welfare
and Institutions Code. Officials determined he needed to be held longer.
Though
he was being placed on a conservatorship, Anita said her son was in
agreement to stay up to six months at the Alpine Special Treatment
Center, a 128-bed locked facility.
Anita said the family visited
and encouraged him to continue seeking treatment. But two weeks into his
stay, he called his mom: He told her he was leaving after getting
assistance from patient advocates, she said.
Anita Fisher is shown at her home in Spring Valley, Aug. 16, 2022.
“The family are the ones who know from a historical place how long
someone might need,” Anita said. “And I knew it was too soon.”
Anita’s
son went missing. He emptied $5,000 from his checking account, and
within days, was back in jail. He later didn’t know what happened to the
money, Anita said.
Anita is frank about her frustrations. She
believes her son, who also is diagnosed with substance use disorder, at
times was put in jail when he should have been taken to the hospital
instead — and she believes it’s in part because he’s Black.
Statistics from the American Psychiatric Association
report that only one in three African Americans who need mental health
care services receives it, and that Black people with mental health
conditions — particularly schizophrenia, bipolar disorders, and other
psychoses — are more likely to be incarcerated than people of other
races.
Anita also blames patient advocates for her son’s
short-lived conservatorship: They fought to get him out of a hospital
where he was receiving what she considers life-saving treatment, she
said, but they weren’t on hand when he was taken to jail.
A failed attempt
Anastasia
documented and organized every time it got rough, from when she called
police to the home or the multiple times her son went missing. She
attended a family support group — and continues to do so — and even
hired a consultant to pursue a conservatorship.
It wasn’t enough.
“I have done everything everyone has told me to do, and it has not made a difference,” Anastasia said.
inewsource
agreed to not identify Anastasia by her full name, or her son, as he
continues his recovery. Her son now is living at home and continues to
participate in an assertive community treatment program, which offers
case management, housing assistance and other services for people who
have been homeless and have been diagnosed with severe mental illness.
A parking lot at Fashion Valley is shown from the Fashion Valley trolley
station, Aug. 24, 2022. Anastasia met her son here after he had been
missing.
That’s
a far cry from early 2020, when “it was just off the rails,” Anastasia
said. Her son spent two years cycling between living on the streets and
independent living facilities. Twice, he went missing and later was
found to have been in Mexico.
Anastasia’s son refused to take his medication, her one rule for
living at home. He left and initially stayed near their Clairemont
neighborhood, sleeping in a nearby park.
She watched from a close
distance. She’d spot him at a nearby gas station during a coffee trip,
or walking along the street in psychosis, yelling. The cycle of calling
PERT, which includes licensed clinicians, paramedics and specially
trained police officers, began.
“I was naive,” Anastasia said.
Her
son had “not a dime to his name,” she said. He lost most of what he
took from his family home within days, and had no way to eat. As a teen,
he had been hospitalized during arguably less severe crises, she said.
“I just had no reason to think that this was gonna go on for any extended period of time,” she said.
Sometimes,
PERT would place her son on a 5150 — like when he stood for 36 hours on
a street corner while in psychosis, Anastasia said, convinced he was
going to be picked up by a record producer and taken to a Los Angeles
mansion to make music. Other times, clinicians weren’t available to join
officers on the call, or teams responded and decided against taking him
to the hospital.
When Anastasia found her son sleeping at an
Ocean Beach bus stop after he went missing for nearly two months, PERT
determined he didn’t meet the criteria: He told the team he was able to
feed himself with leftover meals from passersby, and he had a friend in
Point Loma who occasionally let him stay over.
A bus stop in Ocean Beach is shown on Aug. 24, 2022. Anastasia found her
son sleeping on this bench after he had been missing for about a month
and a half.
It didn’t matter that her son looked like he had lost as many as 30
pounds, Anastasia said, or that his Point Loma friend hadn’t lived there
for quite some time.
She estimates her son has more than 40 interactions with PERT or law enforcement.
“I
cried more times than I can count,” Anastasia said. “I didn’t sleep
more times than I could count. I got up and drove in the middle of the
night more times than I could count. I spent every free moment I had
outside of work, evenings and weekends, driving around looking for him.”
Late
last year, Anastasia’s son began having altercations with other tenants
in shared-housing facilities where he was living. He threatened
violence. And he later threatened violence against his mother, too.
Again,
she got PERT involved. Her son was picked up in Chula Vista and placed
on another psychiatric hold. Anastasia was told he’d be held longer,
this time on a 14-day stay known as a 5250.
Anastasia again
thought that this was it. Officials with his treatment program were in
agreement and pushing for a conservatorship.
But a psychiatrist disagreed, she said, and declined to file a gravely disabled petition for her son.
Anastasia was floored.
‘How long?’
Anita’s son lives in what’s known as an independent living association
home. She said his recovery goes through waves: At times he has
voluntarily stuck to his treatment and his medication, even
participating in NAMI and other peer-recovery programs. Several years
ago, with the help of Veterans Affairs representatives, he was able to
upgrade his bad-conduct discharge from the Army and receive disability
benefits.
But last year, he was again hospitalized for a
psychiatric crisis. And though he was on a monthly shot for his
medication, Anita said last month he recently decided to stop taking it.
“It is draining,” Anita said. “But do you ever give up on someone you love? No.”
Anita Fisher shows a recent photo of her family on her cell phone at her home in Spring Valley, Aug. 16, 2022.
After a psychiatrist did not move him forward for conservatorship,
Anastasia’s son briefly moved into another living facility, and
initially refused to go to a hospital for an infection that developed on
his foot. It got so severe that tests revealed he had sepsis and was
also suffering from malnutrition, Anastasia said. Her son spent a total
of 11 days on IV antibiotics.
Anastasia said he’s continuing to go
to treatment and is taking his medication. The ultimate goal, with the
help of his community-based program, is for her son to move into his own
housing. He recently heard he’s next on the list for placement.
Anastasia
said she’s been following CARE Court, which is expected to be
implemented in San Diego by October 2023. She wonders whether the new
program will be able to meet the urgency of situations like her son’s.
“Is it a month? Is it six months? Is it a year? Is it the rest of his life? How long does he get to do it?” Anastasia said.
“How long does he get to fail before someone intervenes?”
Law for who can receive involuntary treatment leaves families without options
By Jocelyn Wiener /
CalMatters
Mark Rippee's sisters Catherine "CJ" Hanson and Linda Privatte
Families of individuals like Mark Rippee worry if they’ll survive the night.
Rippee has schizophrenia from a motorcycle accident, which left him blind and with severe brain damage.
Some families recognize that conservatorship – in which a
court-appointed conservator manages another person’s living situation,
medical decisions and mental health treatment — is no panacea, and
should be a last resort.
In the half-century since it
was passed, much of the debate about helping people like Rippee has
centered on the Lanterman-Petris-Short law, which set strict guidelines
for involuntary treatment of people who are determined to be a danger to
themselves or others, or gravely disabled.
While
several recent bills have sought to modify the law, focusing on the term
“gravely disabled,” a shortage of placements and a lack of funding for
county programs means there would be nowhere to send many of those who
would qualify to be conserved. Earlier this year, a state budget
proposal to increase the amount of funding for public guardians by 35
percent, or $68 million, failed.
More than 5,000 people
in the state were in permanent conservatorships, and close to 2,000
were in temporary conservatorships, as of 2016-17, according to data
collected by the Department of Health Care Services. State
administrators say the data is extremely incomplete.
Most
state hospital beds are now reserved for people in the criminal justice
system. Inmates with mental illness can wait in limbo for months or
even years in county jails before a bed opens up.
Five years ago, an average of 343 inmates with mental illness were awaiting placement. Last year, the average was 819.
“The
easiest legislative fix is to expand conservatorship,” said Chris
Koper, a legislative analyst for the California State Association of
Public Administrators, Public Guardians and Public Conservators. “It
then will appear that the Legislature is trying to do something. But as
is often the case with social problems, the wound is so much deeper than
that. And the wound will require a lot of money.”
Last
year lawmakers agreed to create a narrow five-year pilot program that
makes it easier for three counties (San Francisco, Los Angeles and San
Diego) to conserve homeless individuals with serious mental illnesses or
substance abuse disorders. The program allows courts to conserve
individuals who have been placed under a 72-hour psychiatric hold at
least eight times in a year.
Disability rights advocates insist that maintaining the
standards outlined by Lanterman-Petris-Short is essential to protect
people’s civil rights. Most people with serious mental illnesses aren’t
refusing help, they say. Appropriate help just isn’t available.
As
San Francisco has assumed new authority to place people under
conservatorships, The San Francisco Chronicle found a backlog. In a
locked ward at San Francisco General Hospital, individuals who were
conserved were waiting four months for placement in Napa State Hospital,
and even longer for a residential facility.
Even
without the pilot program, depending on where you live, public
defenders, judges, public guardians and others have different
interpretations of the law.
On April 24, 2018, Rippee’s
sister, Linda Privatte, told the Solano County Board of Supervisors
that her brother had attempted suicide more than 20 times, showing up
repeatedly to beg the board for help. This spring, she received an email
from Supervisor Skip Thomson’s office on behalf of the county,
explaining that her brother could not be conserved in part because each
time he was placed on an involuntary hold, he stabilized to the point
that he legally had to be released.
“This is not a
situation that we have ignored nor that we condone,” the letter said.
“Simply the law requires stringent standards to impose conservatorships –
standards that so far we cannot meet.”
Last fall,
dozens of mental health leaders from around the state gathered in
Sacramento to talk about the future of Lanterman-Petris-Short. They
discussed how counties lack the resources to build out a continuum of
care.
Sacramento Mayor Darrell Steinberg asked his
colleagues if the debate around involuntary treatment might be reframed
to insist that people have both a right —and an obligation —to come
indoors. That would mean that, before the state could compel people to
come indoors, they would have to have safe, appropriate placements to
offer them.
“Our North Star needs to be to end this horrific situation,” he said.
For
Rippee’s sisters, Privatte and Catherine Hanson, they worry their own
health problems might someday leave no one to fight for him.
“He
is the worst-case scenario of anybody being so vulnerable on the
streets,” Hanson said. “Every winter we wonder: Is this going to be the
year that he dies?”
SPRINGFIELD, MA (WGGB/WSHM) - Two weeks ago, the kidnapping of an
11-year-old girl in Springfield prompted an amber alert, a statewide
search, and a community effort to bring the child home safely.
In a
matter of hours, both the child and the kidnapping suspect were tracked
down, but in the days following Miguel Rodriguez being charged with
kidnapping, his family raised concerns about his mental stability.
In
fact, they told Western Mass News the 24-year-old Rodriguez had been
struggling with mental illness for years and that efforts to medicate
him were unsuccessful.
"Multiple times, cops have come here, because of him," Miguel Rodriguez's sister tells us.
In
an interview with Western Mass News weeks ago, the sister of Miguel
Rodriguez says it wasn't unusual for her family to call the cops on her
brother.
Though she didn't want to show her face on camera, his
sister told us that Miguel suffered from schizophrenia and paranoia,
which resulted in hospitalizations and restraining orders against him
from his own family members.
"Last time with the hospital, before
he got let go and released, and I said, 'Please don’t release him. He is
not mentally stable'," explained Rodriguez's sister.
But she says
her brother, Miguel, was let out of the hospital and on January 15, the
day an 11-year-old Springfield girl was kidnapped while walking home,
Miguel's sister recognized the car in the amber alert and had to call
the cops on her brother once again.
"He was not medicating
himself. We tried. I want people to understand and know that my mom has
tried various times to get him Roger's Orders to control him," stated
Rodriguez's sister.
Now facing kidnapping, assault, and rape
charges, Miguel Rodriguez is being evaluated in a hospital, but his
family said their attempts to force Miguel to take anti-psychotic
medication through the courts were unsuccessful.
"In order to have
a Rogers guardianship, you need a guardianship, so the court has to
make a base determination that the individual is incompetent to manage
their affairs," Michelle Feinstein, an estate attorney for Shatz,
Schwartz and Fentin, stated.
Michele Feinstein is an estate attorney, who handles Rogers guardianship in the local courts.
She says it's an uphill battle for families to get their loved ones declared mentally incapacitated in the courts.
"We
place a great premium in our society on individual independence and
liberty, so a guardianship is effectively eroding someone’s liberty and
it’s not something that the court takes lightly," said Feinstein.
"He was an adult, had an episode, was diagnosed as schizo-affective bipolar, psychotic," local resident Kristina says.
No one knows the difficulty of getting guardianship over a loved one like Kristina.
"He doesn’t want help," continued Kristina.
According to Kristina, her brother has refused to take anti-psychotic medication for more than fifteen years.
"He's
smart, so he knows his rights. He knows that he doesn’t have to be
treated if he doesn’t want to, He wouldn’t say, you know, 'I’m going to
hurt myself or hurt anyone', but he would break into homes. [It’s been
twenty years and you still haven’t been able to get any kind of Rogers
guardianship?] You need a psychologist or a psychiatrist orders or input
in order to get Rogers guardianship and we can never get that," stated
Kristina.
Because her brother refuses to see family members when
admitted to hospitals, Kristina says it's become a repeating cycle of
dangerous behavior and hospitalization.
"They just medicate him and let him go and that’s happened probably about fifteen times," says Kristina.
Without the guardianship, Kristina says she was forced to watch her brother's condition deteriorate.
"Talking
about women, we clearly saw that he might, he could do something. [What
are your concerns for him?] My biggest concern is his safety. I’m
afraid he’s just going to sleep outside and freeze to death one night.
I’m afraid he’s going to starve to death, because he doesn’t feed
himself," said Kristina.
And those concerns only multiply when she says the only other alternative for care is behind bars.
"I
was really hoping he would go to jail just to get the help he needs.
I’m worried for others. I’ll admit I’m afraid he’ll just, you know,
break into another home. I reached out to you with the recent case
against Miguel Rodriguez, because I thought there wasn’t really help
until something bad happens and that’s not fair. It’s not fair to
society. Would he do something like that? Maybe," added Kristina.
Debbie Spruell is a caregiver for her 30-year-old son diagnosed with paranoid schizophrenia.
Allison V. Smith
/ For KERA News
By Syeda Hasan
When a child is diagnosed with a mental illness, parents can play a
crucial role in their treatment, but what happens when those children
become adults?
Debbie Spruell is caring for her adult son with schizophrenia — and the legal hurdles are tripping her up.
It's a Sunday morning in November, and Debbie Spruell is wearing a
black and white striped dress to match her fellow choir members at the
Straightway Christian Church in Burleson. As the congregation files in,
they join in song.
It's been a tough morning. Before Spruell left
home, her son Jermaine Hayley wasn't in a good state of mind, and they
had a disagreement. Spruell is a Fort Worth native and a caregiver to
30-year-old Hayley. He was diagnosed with schizophrenia about 10 years ago. Symptoms can be managed with treatment and can include hearing voices, having hallucinations and a lack of pleasure in everyday life.
"He
is never compliant with his medication once he gets out of the
hospital," Spruell said. "He goes in and out several times a year, and
when he gets out he never takes his medicine again until he goes back."
Much of the past 10 years have looked like this for Spruell. Hayley
has been committed to mental health facilities across North Texas,
usually for 90-day stints. When he's released, he comes back to
Spruell's house.
"When he first gets out of the hospital, he's
primarily doing pretty good," she said, "but after that, as he starts to
decline, he's not able to take care of himself or fix himself anything
to eat."
Spruell works full-time to support the two of them — but
she's getting older, and it's getting harder. At times, she says Hayley
has torn things up around the house. Spruell has tried to get him into
some group homes, but he never wants to stay. When she's home, Spruell
spends a lot of time alone, reading or watching crime dramas on TV.
"I
have to stay locked in my room most of the time depending on how he
is," she said. "If he is having a pretty good day, then I'm able to come
out, straighten up. But if he is not, then most of the time, I go and
get he and I something to eat, and I stay back in my room and try to
stay out of his way."
Debbie Spruell says singing in the church choir brings her comfort from the challenges of her life
at home. Credit Allison V. Smith / For KERA News
Despite
being his caregiver, Spruell can't force Hayley to take his medication
or make any concrete decisions about his care. That's because he's a
legal adult with his own rights.
"Debbie has a problem that's
sadly typical to Texas law, which is that she's falling in this gap
within the laws," says Matthew Bourque, an attorney with the Johnson
Firm in Dallas.
He said Texas offers some legal remedies for people like Spruell and Hayley. Spruell could seek a medical power of attorney, but Hayley could revoke the agreement.
There's the option to seek a guardianship,
a more permanent legal tool which could allow Spruell to decide where
Hayley lives, who he sees and what type of treatment he receives. That
would also mean stripping Hayley of basic rights, which is why the state's guide to adult guardianship says
it should be the last and "best available choice." It can also be
expensive, and applications have to be filed with a court.
"In
addition to the financial toll, the time toll, there's often a deep and
harmful emotional toll on all the parties involved," Bourque said.
Four years ago, state lawmakers introduced a new tool called a supported decision-making agreement.
It's meant to be a less extreme alternative, allowing adults to appoint
someone to make certain choices for them, without going through the
courts. But even if Hayley and Spruell signed off on an agreement, the
concept is still pretty new.
"So when you hand one of those over
to an institution like a hospital or a bank, they're probably going to
look at it quizzically and not really know what to do with it," Bourque
said.
For now, Spruell isn't certain of her next steps.
"Getting support from friends, family, loved ones, church members is very important," she said.
.png)
