Living with Mr. Fahrenheit: A First Responder Family’s Fight for a Future After a Mental Health Crisis

By Lisa Beecher

Sometimes a first responder's toughest battle is in their mind.

"A disturbing but frequently riveting and illuminating read." —Kirkus Reviews

 

Lisa Beecher and her husband are first responders, deeply invested in careers and family, when he experiences a psychotic break. From a treatment failure in a psychiatric hospital, to her husband's return to work and beyond, the family is forced to operate by the rules of a culture that does not encourage and support caring for mental health in an optimal way.

 

Living with Mr. Fahrenheit throws open the door on a first responder family's psychological trauma, where secrecy and shame maintain an influential grip. Beecher lends her voice to a small but growing number of people willing to share their personal and professional experiences in a call for greater understanding, and culture change, in handling the impacts of first responder trauma.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Halding Hills Publishing
• Release date: Jan 9, 2023
• ISBN: 9798986591018

Book preview

CHAPTER ONE

UNCHARTED TERRITORY

The psychiatric hospital was never in our thoughts until one calamitous Labor Day weekend, when securing a bed there became as crucial as having air to breathe.

My husband, Jamie, and I were police officers in Portland, Maine. We knew of Jackson Brook Institute (JBI) because our jobs involved the occasional transport of a person in crisis to that facility. We were trained to handle traumatic events, but had no idea a clock had been ticking down to a psychiatric emergency within the four walls of our home.

On what should have been a day of calm repose, Jamie experienced visual and auditory hallucinations, and was paranoid about someone coming to do him harm. While neighbors and friends enjoyed the last hurrahs of summer, I was in my ninth hour of negotiating with my husband to willingly go for help. We had almost arrived at JBI and every second was another opportunity for our agreed-upon plan of voluntary admission to fall apart.

I steered his car from the main road onto the long, uphill, serpentine approach to the hospital. My stomach churned as I glanced sideways at the white knuckles of his hands clenched in his lap.

We made the last turn at the top of the hill and a large building with attractive architecture came into view. Appealing facade aside, the hospital seemed its own cliché as it loomed mysteriously in solitude and silence, devoid of any outside activity. It gave no hint of its power to snatch lives back from the brink of destruction, or of its expertise in reassembling fractured minds.

The sun was high in the sky when I parked the car in a vacant lot facing the entrance. I walked around to my husband, who was holding his door open as if he believed he had the choice to stay or leave. His jaw tightened as he eyed the building. Frowning, he turned to me and said, Let’s go home.

We can’t. They’re expecting us. We have to go in.

He was tense and seemed poised for flight. I wanted to touch him but wasn’t sure it would be welcomed, so I chose not to risk the fragile balance. I wasn’t small, at five feet seven inches tall with a medium build, but he was considerably taller and a hundred pounds heavier. His physical abilities were gym lore. I wasn’t afraid he would hurt me, but if he decided to run, tackling him was nowhere on my list of whip-smart choices.

I licked my dry lips, which only made them more parched, and searched for something to say that would convince him to walk those last few yards. You said you’d get help if we went to church first. We’ve been to church and now we’re here. We made an agreement.

In spite of his severely disordered thoughts and intense paranoia, Jamie’s hardwired intention to adhere to a standard of right and good was still intact. No raised voice, threats to call the police, or ultimatums had been necessary to get him to this point. Even so, I was under no illusion that what had worked in our talks one minute would prove effective the next.

The people at this hospital can help you, I said. By helping you think more clearly, they’ll help our whole family. Don’t you want the best for us?

His shoulders dropped and his face sagged. Weariness and dejection subdued him. His eyes welled with tears.

I gentled my tone. You know you need help, don’t you?

He sighed and closed the car door. If you say so, then it must be true.

I had heard that refrain many times since our day began at 3:00 a.m. I took his hand. Let’s go inside. I’m right here beside you.

We crossed the road, and as we neared the hospital’s portico, Jamie stopped. He yanked his hand from mine and took a step back. Suspicion clouded his face. Hold on. Do you think they have weights here? I can’t miss my workouts. He turned to me with razor-sharp attention, waiting for my answer.

I was all but certain patients would not be provided heavy pieces of steel that could be used as weapons. That my husband’s keen police sense hadn’t elbowed through the mess inside his head to remind him of it was more evidence of his skewed thinking.

I hated lying, but couldn’t let the truth be the reason he didn’t walk through those doors. Not after nine hours of effort. I was concerned that lying might backfire, either by creating problems for the people inside once Jamie discovered there were no weights, or by fostering distrust if he came to believe he could not always count on me for the truth. The decision was made by an overpowering urge to get him inside before all my efforts came to nothing.

I’m sure they have weights, I said. They’d want their patients to stay as healthy as possible.

OK. I’ll go in, but I can’t miss my workouts. It sounded like a warning. One that came with consequences.

I know how important your workouts are to you. I’ll tell them when we get inside.

Jamie seemed satisfied I would hold the staff accountable. He strode across the walkway with me in tow.

As we reached the entrance, the door opened from inside. A middle-aged woman wearing a business suit stood back to allow us entry into a large admitting area. A few yards to the right were a man and a woman, both wearing blue medical scrubs. The three must have watched our parking lot choreography through the windows. A performance they’d seen many times, no doubt.

I gave our names and shook hands with Carol, the woman wearing the suit, who appeared to be in charge. She introduced Bob and Jen in the blue scrubs. They smiled and nodded but kept their distance.

Jamie remained at the entrance, silent, with his back against the closed door. The glower on his face was a force field, warning strangers not to come closer.

The pleasant reception area had neither music nor vibrant colors to rouse the senses, and no medicinal, food, or cleaning product odors. Every wall in the room sported closed doors similar in style, except for a set of heavy-duty doors with an upgraded locking mechanism several feet behind Bob and Jen.

Carol picked up a folder from a desk and pulled out authorization forms for treatment and release of information. She explained that Jamie would be the primary signer.

I turned to look at him, and he slowly moved forward to stand beside me. Do you want to read these? I asked.

No, you read them.

I separated and scanned the forms, mindful of the seconds that ticked by and Jamie’s unfettered proximity to the exit. I saw nothing to question and showed him where to sign. With his left-handed autograph, he voluntarily admitted himself as a patient.

I handed the papers to Carol, and asked Jamie which clothes and personal items he wanted me to bring back. I hurried the conversation, hoping he wouldn’t remember to ask about weight-training equipment.

As if on cue, Bob, tall and thin with dark hair and a mustache, said, Jamie, are you hungry? We have good food here. I can take you to the dining room.

Jamie loved food, preferably on a regular schedule, and we had not eaten breakfast or lunch. He hesitated, glare still in place, taking stock of Bob’s mild bearing.

You should go eat, I said, barely holding in check the impulse to physically steer my husband toward Bob and that locked door.

Bob walked to the doors and triggered the mechanism. Let’s get you some lunch. It’s all-you-can-eat. Jamie followed without a backward glance at me. Jen brought up the rear, and the doors clanged shut behind them.

I let out the breath I hadn’t realized I was holding and turned to Carol. He signed himself in. What happens if he wants to leave?

He’d be blue papered, she said, referring to Maine’s civil involuntary commitment procedure. All first responders were familiar with the term, if not every detail of the process.

Carol gestured toward the chairs beside the desk. Come, have a seat and we’ll complete the intake forms. I sat down, flooded with relief at the transfer of responsibility for my husband to these mental health professionals.

My respite was short-lived. Trepidation surged as I faced the vast, dark unknown in front of me. My husband was experiencing psychosis and I didn’t know why. I was in unfamiliar territory with no compass to guide me. I sat on the edge of my seat, hands with palms together held tightly between my knees. For the better part of an hour, I answered Carol’s questions while she filled in the blank spaces on the admittance forms.

We aren’t at full capacity so Jamie will have a room to himself for now, she said. He’ll be examined by a doctor on Tuesday. Do you have any questions?

My breath caught in my chest. This is Sunday. Why does he have to wait until Tuesday to see a doctor?

She looked away, breezing past my question. They have the holiday weekend off.

Had I heard correctly? No psychiatrist coverage over the long weekend? In an acute care psychiatric facility? I had taken for granted that efforts to determine Jamie’s problems and a course of treatment would begin immediately.

How would Jamie react to a three-day wait to be examined?

Are you operating with a skeleton crew? I asked.

Carol’s eyes narrowed. She sat back in her chair, folding her hands in her lap. Why do you ask?

You know my husband is a police officer, but there are other aspects about him you should be aware of.

Carol’s protracted, Oh? suggested the completed admission forms had been designed to unearth every piece of relevant information.

Her manner was off-putting, and I nearly disengaged from the conversation. She collected the papers, tapped the edges on the desk to collate the pile, and reached for the folder as though we were done. I forced myself to continue. He’s been lifting heavy weights for twenty years and is very strong. I know he wouldn’t want to hurt anyone, but he’s not thinking clearly.

Carol tipped her head and pursed her lips as if considering whether that detail was important enough to merit a footnote.

Irritation washed over me. This was her turf. They were the experts. But who knew a person better than their immediate family? I didn’t want to expend what little energy I had left convincing her to heed my words. Still, I believed my concern for the safety of everyone there—and for Jamie himself—was not misplaced.

Conceding that my frazzled state may have left me overly sensitive, I summoned my reserves, pulled back some annoyance, and tried again. I turned to more directly face her, and with a herculean effort to remain courteous said, Your staff may benefit from knowing he has a brown belt in karate and is a devoted student of jujitsu. He spends several hours a week studying martial arts. By ‘studying,’ I mean engaging in and becoming proficient in.

Carol’s eyes widened and her lips parted. She bent forward over the forms, adding a note.

I waited until her pen lifted from the paper.

He’s also a member of Portland Police Department’s Special Reaction Team. She gave me a blank look. That’s the department’s special weapons and tactics unit—their SWAT team. Jamie is highly trained to maneuver through exceptional circumstances and come out the winner.

Carol stared at me, then looked away blinking a few times. She searched the forms, making a more earnest effort to capture my concerns. When she had finished writing, she slowly turned her face toward me, raising her eyebrows.

I made strong eye contact. There’s one other consideration. He’s a United States Marine. Could she grasp the implications of him having earned the right to call himself one of the few, the proud?

Carol bit her lip. She set down her pen and said, Excuse me. I’ll be right back. The cadence of her clacking heels implied pressing business. The doors reverberated as they closed behind her.

I was left alone with my thoughts. What would Jamie do in a locked facility if he perceived danger to himself or someone else? All I could draw on were discomforting, stereotypical movie clips. A confused man taking hostages. The sound of a helicopter overhead. A tactical team dressed in black and carrying deadly weapons surrounding the building. Jamie in a straitjacket. Jamie strapped to a table, hollering for me to come help him while someone pumped his veins full of powerful drugs. I shook my head. My imagination served no good purpose and I pushed the thoughts away.

Doubt crept in. Had I set the stage for him to be treated differently from other patients by virtue of what could happen, even if nothing did? Would the staff view him as a threat and take unnecessary steps? With my husband out of sight, I was unsettled knowing other people were making all the decisions with no input from me.

I surveyed the room for a water fountain but found none. A clock on the wall showed 2:00 p.m. I felt a sharp need to bring my twelve-year-old daughter, Karen, and nine-year-old son, Eric, back under my wing, even though they were safe at a friend’s house.

The click of the doors jerked my attention back to Carol. She avoided eye contact and conversation as she sat and resumed writing. Her pen was still moving when she asked, Is there anything else you want to add?

No, that’s all. I’ll pack his suitcase and be right back to drop it off. I thanked her, picked up the patient information packet and my handbag, and left the building.

Traffic was light. Even with a quick stop at a store to buy an electric shaver, I was back at JBI in good time. I handed off the suitcase and headed back to my house to make a necessary phone call. I needed the grounding of my home to organize my thoughts before having the conversation.

I walked into my kitchen and sat at the table. It was my first opportunity in twelve hours to take a moment for myself. Stillness surrounded me except for the clock on the wall, ticking away second after miserable second.

All the emotions I’d been holding tightly in control broke their bonds. The tears came in a rush as I gave way to the terrible, covert thing that had come at night, invading our home and commandeering my husband.

My cry was cleansing. A fraction of the stress and strain that encompassed me flowed away with the tears. I prayed for strength and direction. Feeling helpless was a foreign and uncomfortable state in which to linger, so I made a quick exit.

I went to the sink, splashed cold water on my face, and dried off with a hand towel. I pulled a large drinking glass from the cupboard, filling and emptying it twice while considering whom to notify at work.

I’m ordinarily a by-the-book person, but using the proper chain of command seemed counterproductive. How many times would I be asked to repeat the story? How would the details be altered as supervisors passed them up the chain to the chief? Did all of those people need to know what had happened? It seemed prudent to talk directly with the highest-ranking supervisor in Jamie’s assigned division, Patrol.

I dialed the non-emergency dispatch number, working to neutralize the tension in my voice. I asked the dispatcher to contact Deputy Chief John Brennan, give him my phone number, and ask him to call me as soon as possible.

While waiting for the phone to ring, I deliberated on how much to reveal. The instinct to protect my family by minimizing the details was strong. My husband’s job might be in jeopardy and the prospect of losing half our income was dreadful. I couldn’t think of all the entanglements and consequences our situation carried, and hoped to make no missteps that might work against us later.

Deputy Chief Brennan was a large-framed man whose rosy countenance expressed intelligence and humor. He had always been supportive of Jamie’s and my careers. Brennan had never received an off-duty call from me in my eighteen years on the police force. His greeting was all wrapped up in curiosity. Hey, kid. What’s up?

Without holding back, I explained that Jamie had been admitted to JBI, detailing the events that led us there.

I’m sorry this has happened, Brennan said. So Jamie’s been admitted for preliminary treatment?

Yes. He signed himself in and they said they’d blue paper him if he tries to leave. There’s no doctor to examine him until Tuesday, given the long holiday weekend, so we’re in a holding pattern until then.

I’ll notify the chief, he said. We’ll keep this on a need-to-know basis. Wait by the phone, and either he or I will call you back.

I thanked him and hung up. The next call came within minutes. It was the chief.

Michael J. Chitwood had been Portland PD’s chief of police for seven years, although he’d been in law enforcement much longer. He was tall and notably lean, with curly gray hair and dark eyebrows. His mouth formed a half-smile some might call a grimace, and his shrewd eyes were quick to recognize and stare down BS, should a person unwisely offer some.

Every weekday morning, energy propelled him through the detectives’ noisy open work area and past my desk, on his way to the detective lieutenant’s office. A Philadelphia accent was discernible in his signature, Hello, everybody.

Chitwood had always been supportive of my endeavors. Two years earlier, he had called me to his office. Why aren’t you taking the promotional exams?

When I joined the department, I had every intention of climbing the ladder, I said. Then I had children. A promotion would send me to the bottom of the sergeant seniority list. I’d be working evenings, overnights, and weekends. I wouldn’t be there when my kids are sick in the middle of the night or wake up from a bad dream. I know other people have made it work, but I’d miss out on too much. Working days in the detective bureau and having weekends off is best for my family.

Chitwood listened.

I don’t believe I would do justice to either my job or my kids if I took a promotion. Besides, a year after I retire, people would say ‘Lisa who?’ I only have this one chance to raise my children.

I respect that, Chitwood had said.

We now spoke about my kids under considerably different circumstances. Tell me what happened, he said. After I walked him through the events, he asked, Did they give any indication of a diagnosis, or any information at all?

No. The woman who handled the admission said he wouldn’t see a doctor until Tuesday.

"Is there any possible way he could be released before a doctor examines him?"

She said he’d be blue papered if he decides to leave.

I’ll have Human Resources contact you about medical leave paperwork. Brennan and I will keep this confidential, and we’ll take care of booking off both of you using sick leave.

That presented a problem.

Jamie has hundreds of hours of sick time saved up, but I only have a few days. I use mine for me, and for my kids when they’re sick, so it’s difficult to accumulate much of a balance. I don’t have any vacation time, either. I just took three weeks off, like I do every August. And I can’t take an unpaid leave. I need my paycheck.

You can’t handle this situation and work too, Chitwood said. You need time off, especially to take care of your kids. I’ll arrange for you to continue receiving your paycheck every week.

I didn’t know how he would execute that plan, but had complete trust he would. Thank you, I said, hoping he discerned my extreme gratitude. How much time may I have off?

Take as much as you need. Keep Brennan informed with updates and he’ll pass the information along to me. Chitwood’s voice took on a fierce edge. Just take care of those kids.

I picked up Karen and Eric from our friends’ house. On the way home, I explained that their dad would be staying in the hospital a few days so doctors could determine why his brain wasn’t working correctly.

Karen was quiet, but Eric said, They can fix him, can’t they?

They’re working hard to do that. A doctor will examine him on Tuesday. We won’t know anything for a few days.

With no choice but to wait for information, I tried to settle myself. Instead, an ache began to build in my heart. Karen had recently entered adolescence. Eric’s tenth birthday was only three weeks away. The new school year was set to start in just three days. Could there have been a worse time in their lives for this to happen?

I saw the impact of childhood trauma every day at work. To believe my kids would experience no long-lasting ill effects from what had happened in our home early that morning would be short-sighted.

Cheerfulness was way beyond reach, but a twinge of expectancy found its way through the muck. Surely we had seen the worst and were now on a path to recovery and restoration. I soothed myself with the assumption there was only one way this could go.

But buried beneath my own distress was the first and most fundamental lesson I’d learned when I became a detective—never assume.

CHAPTER TWO

ON THE BACK BURNER

The next morning, the Monday of Labor Day weekend, I showered, dressed, and stepped outside to collect the newspaper. I had parked Jamie’s car nose-first in our driveway, a departure from his habit of backing in. Unease at how out of place the car appeared filled all my empty spaces.

Shortly after noon, I dropped off Karen and Eric at my sister’s house and drove to JBI. I was anxious to see Jamie and learn how he had fared the past twenty-four hours, sick and sharing space with unfamiliar people behind locked doors. I needed to see that he was being well cared for.

I checked in at the front desk and a staff member led me through the heavy doors. At