________________________
HER MOTHER'S STORY:

Flying to Becky

We talked to Becky on the phone every Sunday night, but because I was so worried, I began to call more often. She was always exuberant, full of all that she was doing and anxious to tell about it. When she began telling of "a guy who wants to put me through college for ironing his shirts" and that "these guys tell me I can't afford to keep up a Porsche, but I know I can," I knew that we definitely needed help. She sounded as if she were on a dozen pep pills. Was it drugs? Drinking? She had never seemed given to such escapes, but what had happened to her? Had someone slipped her something?

I tried to call when I could talk to one of her friends, but I never found them at home. I had no idea that Becky had moved. Finally, after she called home on a Thursday to ask her grandmother for a loan to buy the Porsche, I got on the phone to ask her what she was thinking. She told me that she was so happy, that she could do anything, that she was the best water-skier in the country, that I should come up and watch her. I asked her how she had improved so much, and she answered that Jesus helped her, that he helped her with everything, that he made her a healer, too.

Saturday night, August 22, I finally reached Kathy, one of Becky's friends, on the phone. She, Carolyn, and Ann had been camping, but Becky had refused to go. Kathy said, "Oh, Mrs. Thayne, something is wrong with Becky." She sounded as anguished as I felt. I called Ramona and described Becky's behavior. She said that Becky sounded as if she had had a manic-depressive breakdown and definitely needed to be brought home for treatment. Within two hours, I was on the midnight flight to Seattle. Kathy said she would try to find Becky -- the girls had not seen her in days -- and meet me at the airport.



What followed was like a thriller movie script. Kathy met me at the airport. There was still no word of where Becky was. For two hours, from 1 A.M. to 3 A.M., we talked with the fraternity boys next door. They obviously liked Becky and were worried about her, but they were totally bewildered.



Just after 3 A.M., Becky did come in with him, laughing, delighted to see me, never even questioning why I was there. "Good," she said, "now you can see me water-ski and drive my Porsche." Becky returned my hug perfunctorily, needing to tell the six of us all about her shopping spree during the day. She had been all over Seattle bargaining for clothes, sports supplies, other cars, and that house. And doing all this in bare feet that were now bleeding and raw from walking barefoot on hot pavement.
...............
________________________
HER MOTHER'S STORY:

Airport and Flight

It seemed as if the doctor was with Becky for only a moment when he called me outside to say that she needed immediate hospitalization. When I pleaded with him to let me take her home, he said that he could give her a shot that would take effect in twenty minutes. At that time, she would go into a deep sleep, so we would have to be on the plane before that happened. The airport was over half an hour away, but we thought we could make it. One of the boys, Dave, said he worked at the airport and knew a shortcut. The girls at the dorm could ship our bags and clothes home.

I felt as Becky must have felt in the night, wound up for action. Fortunately, I thought to ask the doctor for a note permitting us to fly with Becky under the influence of a drug. I called the airline to ask the cost of the flight so that I could have a check all made out for the tickets I ordered. I called Mel at home and my brother, a doctor, and they said they would have a psychiatrist with them to meet us.

Then we were in the car and Dave was going up to 120 miles an hour on the freeway. Becky and I were in the back seat, and she was getting angrier and angrier at me for suggesting the flight home. She said she could cure her dad, that she would get out of the car right then and send vibes to make him well. I knew she would never be persuaded to get on that plane.

But then we were there, that is, almost there. Just outside of the airport was a traffic jam, monumental in the rubble of renovations. Dave had to stop. I said, "Becky, remember how you love to beat me in a race? Well, I'll race you to our gate -- C5." She was out of the car and we were both running, she still in bare feet, both of us in shorts, tearing through traffic and the crowds.

We reached gate C5. (There was no security check in 1970.) I stopped at the counter and said I was the person who had called. Our tickets were made out, I handed the attendant my check, and we flew to the sliding glass door that was just being closed. We must have looked as desperate as I felt, because someone opened the door and we ran to the metal steps that were being pulled away from the plane. Again, somehow something convinced someone to let us go up the stairs. But a flight attendant met us at the top and said, "You can't come aboard in bare feet."

I handed her the note from the doctor, and she called the pilot, who came out and read -- on stationery from Overlake Memorial Hospital -- this note I saved:
_________________________________________________

23 August
11:30 A.M.

To United Air Lines --

Miss Becky Thayne has my permission to travel with her mother to Salt Lake City. I expect no untoward effects.
RDA [name changed], M.D.
_________________________________________________


The pilot waved us on. We barely made it to the front row of first class before Becky was asleep. The flight attendant and I strapped her into her seat belt, and I tried to make her comfortable with a pillow against the window. She slept soundly for just over an hour.

I talked with the understanding attendant about Becky's condition. Together we planned that when we arrived at the Salt Lake airport, she would usher everyone else off the plane first. Then, when Becky got off, she could meet the doctor without a crowd to contend with.

Suddenly, Becky was awake, thumbing through the Sunday paper she had brought, pointing to the picture she thought was of herself, saying, "Mom, all I have to do is send this to Brian, and he'll be able to convert anyone." She asked for a pen to label it and give instructions. I tried to keep her talking about it, about anything, but she spotted the trays going by for lunch and called to the attendant for one -- then another. She ate everything on her tray and mine, then from the extra tray, and asked for more.

We landed. As planned, everyone else got off, the attendant having told Becky they wanted to let her off last since she had been the last to get on.

Becky did not even question why her dad was there waiting with her uncle and a psychiatrist we all knew from our neighborhood. Off the four of them went, headed for the hospital. I was sure Becky would be pleased to get rid of me, her tormentor, who had interrupted all that she could possibly have longed for in a summer in Seattle.