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gious Ewha University." I was a practicing nurse, a real nurse, an RN. None of this
'LVN' business for me. All of these nurses here, Sandy's Mom, I know more about medi­
cine and patient care than they. As if to prove this, her busy hand holds up Sandy's
good wrist and takes her pulse. She grabs my sister's prescription slips and
decodes all the BID's and QID's and the dosage. Depakote 1500 milligram-this is
so high!
Mom nods. She moves the plate of Chopchae noodles closer to Ajumah
so she could pick better with her spoon-fork. Mom asks, Why are you here?
Because I cannot go home. My sickness goes a way back, Sandy's Mother.
This has stayed with me since I was twenty-nine. A flowery age, as they say, Sandy's
Mother, yes? Since twenty-nine and it still has not gone away. That is the thing with
this disease. Once you contract it, it just stays with you. Ajumah picks up the flat
kimchee pancake with her fingers and raises it high toward her mouth.
Recalling my general Psychology class, I ask her if she'd received the
ECT or EST, one of those things. She nods. I ask her for clarification, You had the
electric shock treatment? She nods vigorously this time. Endless times. They tried
everything.
Do you hear voices and things like that?
Ajumah turns to Mom with eagerness in her voice. Yes! I hear voices.
Does the voice tell you what to do?
Yes, it commands things for me to do . . .1 can't go home because I get mad and
start breaking things.
Mom wants to know where her husband is in all this. Still in Paraguay,
she says, where they used to live together for ten years. He'd cheated on me with
this woman for five years. He still lives with her, taking care of her children. And I here,
I am full of babbles.
Mom says, So it's because of your husband.
Ajumah stares at me. Why do you frown so? Be careful lest you develop pre­
mature wrinkles, she says.
Sandy's thirtieth birthday doesn't fall neatly on a Sunday, but Mom
and I decide the immediate Sunday preceding her actual birthday will do. It
turns out Sandy wasn't bluffing. The doctor does want to talk. He says he's
switching Sandy's meds and would I sign the consent at the upcoming action­
plan meeting.
I take the Friday off and take the hour long drive to Long Beach. I take
Beverly Glen all the way down to Westwood to save time, hop on the 405 to the
710, but I'm still ten minutes late to the 8:30 meeting. Sandy's even more late.
She's not there when I rush in. The social worker points to an empty seat and
says, Sandy's making good progress. She's good about her meds and goes to
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