The Suffering and Scientific Legacy of a Large Family Consumed by Schizophrenia

Books of The Times Donald Galvin was a sophomore at Colorado State when he first checked into the campus health clinic to get treated for a cat bite, offering no further explanation of what had occurred. Two years and several visits later, he arrived at the clinic with another cat bite — only this time he told a doctor what happened to the cat. “He killed a cat slowly and painfully,” the doctor recorded in his notes. “Doesn’t know why he killed the cat nor why he tormented.

Got emotionally upset as he discussed the behavior. ” The oldest of 12 siblings, Donald was the first to be told he was schizophrenic. Five of his brothers would eventually get the same diagnosis. Even the healthy children in the Galvin family were beset in a sense, forced to live with an affliction that inevitably shaped their relationships to their parents and to one another.

As the journalist Robert Kolker writes in “Hidden Valley Road,” having just one schizophrenic family member is bound to reorient the experiences of everyone else; having six made the Galvins extraordinary, not least to the medical researchers who eventually studied them. Kolker’s previous book, “Lost Girls,” traced the lives of five murdered women on Long Island and told a story of sex work and law enforcement during a time of technological change. His new book is a comparable feat of empathy and narrative journalism, as he coaxes out the struggles of the Galvin family, showing how they embodied the roiling debates over the science of schizophrenia — not just its causes, “but what it actually is. ” [ “Hidden Valley Road” is one of our most anticipated titles of April.

See the full list. ] The Galvin children were all born between 1945 and 1965, during the two decades of the baby boom. It was a time when the psychoanalytic approach to mental illness, with its theory of the cold and domineering “schizophrenogenic mother,” reigned supreme. What began as a more holistic rejoinder to the crude biological reductionism of the early 20th century soon hardened into its own orthodoxy.

According to its proponents, mental illness was a disease of nurture, not nature; as one psychiatrist put it, the schizophrenic patient “is always one who is reared by a woman who suffers from a perversion of the maternal instinct. ” Mimi, the mother of the Galvin children, felt like doctors were always judging her, and she tended to react by doubling down on her own coping mechanisms. Kolker’s depiction of her is humane yet unsparing.