By Julia Prodis Sulek San Jose Mercury News.
SAN JOSE, Calif.
One day, Tessa Gallo was a typical sixth-grader, performing in school plays, running on the track team, goofing around with her two sisters and giggling with girlfriends at sleepovers.
The next, said her mother, Teresa, "She was psychotic and mentally retarded."
In bizarre and frightening scenes, Tessa acted as frantic as a caged animal, darting out of the family car into traffic, jumping fences and hiding in neighbors' bushes.
At times she seemed catatonic, with food falling out of her mouth because she somehow couldn't swallow. She repeated the same few sentences over and over, worried about her braces, wanting to go home.
And finally, she said nothing at all. For nine months, Tessa stopped talking. Not a word.
Doctors diagnosed her with bipolar disorder, prescribed psychiatric drugs that didn't work and sent the San Jose family on a nightmarish odyssey through psych wards, group homes and isolation rooms.
Then, suddenly, more than 10 months into the Gallos' terrifying ordeal, a pair of Stanford University doctors told the family that Tessa wasn't bipolar at all. She was probably suffering from a tragically misdiagnosed condition that mimics mental illness in a way doctors are only starting to understand.
"I've seen cases like this before," Dr. Jennifer Frankovich of Lucile Packard Children's Hospital told the Gallos. "I think I can bring her back."
What Frankovich, a pediatric rheumatologist, and Dr. Kiki Chang, a child psychiatrist, concluded was that Tessa likely had an infection or other trigger that caused her immune system to mistakenly attack her brain, dramatically changing Tessa's behavior overnight.
It's a condition called PANS, pediatric acute-onset neuropsychiatric syndrome, that in some cases, if caught early enough, could be cured by commonly used antibiotics.
Without early treatment, they say, children can suffer needlessly.
It would take a mother's stubborn devotion and the conviction of two doctors willing to stake their reputation on a controversial treatment to bring Tessa back from the brink.
At the same time, they believe cases like Tessa's could help unlock the mysteries of the brain and reveal how something as common as an infection could be behind a growing number of psychological disorders.
PANS is so new and so misunderstood, that there are no reliable estimates of how many children are affected. A national PANS parent support group believes the number nationwide could be more than 150,000, or about a quarter of the children who have obsessive compulsive disorder or other tics.
But skeptics within the medical community question whether PANS even exists. At a symposium in Burlingame on Saturday, Teresa Gallo and Frankovich will try to dispel the lingering controversy that has thwarted efforts to legitimize the diagnosis, fund research and spread the word about possible treatments.
"To know how many patients are in mental institutions that have treatable diseases," Frankovich said, "we can't even wrap our head around this."
At the Gallo home in the east San Jose foothills, Teresa Gallo dumps out a shopping bag filled with half-empty bottles of Tessa's psychiatric drugs. Nothing worked. Not the Ativan or Lexipro for her anxiety. Not the Haldol to calm her and curb her aggression. Not the Ambien to help her sleep. They just made Tessa more manic. Her bright blue eyes turned dull and vacant.
Before Tessa's illness, life was good for the Gallo family: Teresa worked as a Weight Watchers leader, her husband as an engineer, their three daughters attended Catholic school. They loved to entertain in their backyard and keep up with Tessa's Girl Scouts and track meets. The household was happy and bustling.
That changed on July 8, 2011. The couple was on a vacation in New Orleans when Teresa received a call from her mother, who was watching the girls in San Jose.
"Tessa's not sleeping. She's not eating. She seems obsessed about her teeth," her mother, Kathy Downing, said. "You need to come home."
They took Tessa, who was 13, to the emergency room, where doctors asked whether Tessa had suffered something traumatic. Nothing, Teresa said. Tessa was given anti-anxiety medication and told to go home.
Day by day, Tessa's behavior grew worse. Riddled with obsessive behaviors, she wiped her hand across her face repeatedly.
The teenager who was once so concerned with her hair and hygiene wouldn't bathe. When Teresa put Tessa in the shower and shampoo in her hand, Tessa would drop her arm to her side, the shampoo running down her leg.
She cried nonstop. She started to hit her mother and family members until they were bruised. Teresa lay in bed with her all night, trying to calm her and make sure she didn't run out of the house. They were lucky to sleep two hours. Tessa barely ate. She became dehydrated. Her lips cracked and bled.
So desperate after one month, Teresa begged the staff at Valley Medical Center in San Jose to admit her daughter. They were reluctant, saying all they had was an 8-by-8 windowless room. But they could keep her briefly, monitored and safe. It took five large male attendants to restrain the flailing, angry wisp of a girl.
"Stay back, stay back!" one of them yelled as they carried the kicking and screaming child away.
Teresa crumbled to the floor. "It was the first and only time in my life I just dropped," Teresa said, "the vision of her being taken away like that and hoping it was the right decision."
Across the Bay Area, four psychiatrists diagnosed Tessa with bipolar disorder and one suggested it might be schizophrenia. There were months at psychiatric wards and tortured stops at group homes, from Concord to San Mateo to Fremont. There were long stretches at home, locked with a caregiver in the family room so Tessa wouldn't escape. They shut off the water because Tessa was drinking obsessively. She even drank liquid soap and a bottle of nail polish remover.
Friends and neighbors carpooled her sisters, Briana and Julia, to their activities and brought over dinner casseroles to help the family cope.
"When someone is basically gone, it's hard to be positive," the youngest, Briana, said. "I just wanted my sister, to see her and have her back once again."
It's been so hard, Teresa's husband doesn't like talking about it and asked that his name not be included. Every Sunday, St. John Vianney parish would say Mass in Tessa's name. And every time, Teresa would break down in tears and run outside, sit on the steps and cry.
Finally, 10 months after Tessa's first episode and six months after Teresa first sought him out, Chang's office called. The noted pediatric bipolar expert could see Tessa. Heavily sedated, she curled up on the exam room floor and drooled.
Teresa explained how her daughter had changed overnight, how nothing helped, how hopeless they felt. Chang listened closely, studied Tessa, then told them something shocking.
"This is not bipolar," Chang said. "This is an autoimmune disease, and I'm so sorry it took me this long to see you."
He made her an appointment with Frankovich, the rheumatologist with whom he was working to help diagnose and treat PANS cases. When Tessa met Frankovich for the first time, she socked her in the arm.
It was 2012 and Chang and Frankovich were preparing to open the world's first PANS clinic, but the hospital provided only enough funding to operate a half-day a week out of a room in the rheumatology department. Soon, there were 60 patients and a five-month waiting list. The two doctors, plus their mostly volunteer staff, began working nights and weekends answering desperate calls from parents and pleading with insurance companies to fund novel treatments.
Since her medical school days at the University of Nevada in the 1990s, Frankovich had a hunch that a biological trigger could be underlying some psychiatric diseases. Once during her rotation through the psych ward back then, a boy who had the flu suddenly turned psychotic.