Saturday, December 19, 1987

Erika came home from the hospital today. I was in the front yard doing
some work, heard the car drive up, and ran around just as they were
going in the back door. Erika, I shouted, running up the back steps,
pulling the door open and rushing in. Her hair was all combed, slicked
back, away from her face. Pale complexion. Face and body of a much
younger, smaller girl. I reach out with my arms to grab and hug her,
shout her name. She hesitates for a moment, then dashes up the stairs
to escape my clutches. The phone rings. It wakes me up.  Cynthia calls
from the hospital to say Erika's had a relapse. Very tearful. Sandy
goes to pick her up while I go shopping. Cynthia is home for a shower,
rest, something to eat. Erika's father calls from the hospital to say
she has gotten better again. We go back.

Thank you very much, and good night, Erika just said to the three
nurses who took her to the bathroom, changed her clothes, put her back
in bed - where she is now sleeping soundly.

Alex, Scott, and Melissa were here when Cynthia, Sandy, and I arrived.
Alex had been here for two hours. Sandy tells me the description is
not quite right. We got here, nobody was here, we went in and spent
about an hour with Erika who thrashed, talked, babbled, cursed, tried
to tear her shoulder brace off, half slapped Cynthia a couple of
times, said some funny things. Another report: Who's watching me,
Erika asks as they sit her on the toilet, and flails with her arms to
get them away. She has also been pulling the blanket over her head and
trying to hide and get away from people. That is not normal for her.
I'm 17, and why am I wearing this, she said last night, about the
loose hospital type shirt everyone has to wear. Today she's only
wearing pants. Normally she sleeps with several layers of clothes. We
will really know things are better when she asks for some layers of
clothes to wear.

A few minutes ago I took Scott to the cafeteria, and got disoriented
and lost twice on the way back. My short term memory is also failing
me.

Cynthia tells about the old Catholic nun who comes by with the little
gold box, which she rests briefly on Erika's head, while mumbling
various ritualistic things. Her father is Catholic, and raised her, by
her own wishes, as a member of that faith for several years.

We learned today that she not only ran in the race on Thursday, but
WON!

The official hospital report lists her as being in serious condition.
Originally it said fair. But making the report concrete doesn't really
influence what is going on. Cynthia has fallen back, herself, and let
this get to her. My explanation reverses that a bit.

Sunday, December 20, 1987, 7:11pm

Those perfumes are too long--get them out of my room, Erika said
yesterday.

She has rested and not thrashed at all since some time yesterday.
Sandy and I get here about 7pm. Robin and Cynthia left the house
around 5 to come here. She has been very funny today. Grow me up
bigger, mom! Otherwise, following commands. I want to get off this,
uh,... thing here, in response to Cynthia's asking if she wanted
anything. And still referring to the need to use the toilet as
throwing up, or needing someone to help take her shirt off.

Officially she has a contusion of the brain. We looked it up in Van
Nostrand's.

Mozart has mostly disappeared for me. Today I played a bit of night
music.

Spider ran away from home today--back to our old house on Wrentham
Street. The new owner's called us. Perhaps something to do with the
emotional regression and turmoil in his present household. Erika is
hearing and sort of talking about Spider. She counts two hands
scratching her back. Alex puts a hand on her leg and she admits to
three. On adding one from me, she says three or four. Five is too
many.

She asked for something to drink while sitting on the toilet today.

Cynthia gets a call. Its from Billy, in California. He called the
house earlier.

Help me get some more antenna's under my head! They should be darker.
What?  The antenna.

Anyway, Sandy tells him the story. He's puzzled about why a 20 year
old UMass student would be running in a high school race. AHA!

How many people are you talking to, Sandy asks. Zero, she says.

The eyes were open at one point. Can you see me, Cynthia asks. Not
really, Erika says.