Background
N has been struggling for months, almost a year now. What started out to be some disorganized thinking and mood swings, accompanied by a desire to help his friends who were struggling, turned into a terrible case of self-harming, disassociating, self-isolating, depression and anxiety.
N has been increasingly moody over the last year. He sat us down at some point last fall and said that he was having trouble separating himself emotionally from what his friends were going through. His friends were dealing with abuse, drugs, moves, school stress, and the home-grown-self-inflated worries of any teenager seeking more attention. N is empathetic and responsive and did his best to be available and step in as much as he could, which was taxing him due to his unclear boundaries and inability to separate himself.
What we were seeing externally was a regular teenager who was starting to experience these challenging relationships, a kid who was in his own way, seeking attention. We talked constantly about what was going on with him and what we should be doing differently- wanting to remain supportive but feeling increasingly frustrated at what looked like a very dramatic cry for attention from a kid who did not have hardship in his life. It was very aggravating and our level of sympathy had to be expanded from what it was. Sometimes we got mad, sometimes we spoke eloquently. N spent less time talking and more time getting frustrated and mad at us. He'd talk a little, but basically felt resigned that we did not understand and weren't going to listen, no matter how much we attempted to both. We were reaching, but he wasn't reaching back.
He drew with Sharpie all over his walls, dark images and lyrics that demonstrated the storm that was going on inside him. He draw all over his arms and clothing, he doodled on his homework, turned in work written in red-ink with dark figures covering the sides of the pages. His work was not getting turned in on time, if at all. He was cutting himself, small cases which we'd get upset about but we still felt that he was being dramatic. What did this kid have to be upset about? He comes from an intact home with solidly good communication, supportive of his interests, no fighting, no secrets, no traumas. What was going on here? Looking back is always helpful but when you're the gradual build-up of it all, it doesn't seem as clear and obvious as it does now.
In January I got a call from his school counselor. She sounded alarmed, and said that he'd cut himself at school so deeply I might need to take him to get stitches. It was not something she felt comfortable dealing with at school, I needed to pick him up. I went to get him and I was riddled with anger and fear, and helplessness. How do I now help my kid who is taking this further than I ever imagined it'd go? He'd gone to see a therapist a few times at his request, and in that it was only 3 appointments, nothing helpful was happening yet. In order to get him back into school we needed to make another appointment with the therapist, and he had to serve 2-days of in-school-suspension because he'd brought a 'weapon' to school. The principal, school psychologist and school counselor met and decided that taking him away from his social structure wasn't in his best interest, so they opted to allow ISS in lieu of a home-suspension. We appreciated that their point of view was to help and not punish.
N spent several months checking out books and websites on mental health disorders. He believed that he was bipolar and told his friends this. He checked out a college level book on psychiatric disorders and started telling us afterward that he had "obsessive compulsive behaviors" and was "hearing voices". We did not see any signs of either of these things (and still do not), so we chalked it up again to him being dramatic, finding things that resonated for how he felt and then using it to build up stories to his friends about how 'dark' and troubled he was.
We tried to get him into see his therapist for the next two months. The appointment we had in place got canceled when she got the flu. The second appointment was canceled when we arrived, but she'd just left because she was still quite sick. We rescheduled for a third time.
March 14
We'd learned to gauge how N was doing based on how he interacted with everyone. If he was really isolating and cranky, we could anticipate more drawing on himself, more irritability, moodiness, less patience, less eating and more sleeping. I wouldn't say we were super aware of all this but we were starting to pick it up. On the evening of March 14th he came downstairs and joked around with his sister for a minute, and with his dad. E was about to get into the bathtub so I went in to help her get settled, and when I came out, N was in the kitchen with his dad, talking about how excited he was for what had been prepared for dinner. He went back upstairs.
While R started dishing up dinner he yelled up to N to come down. Very common, N didn't hear him and so didnt' respond. I began dishing up my food and heard E yell for me from the bathroom, so as I walked in there, R tapped the ceiling of the kitchen (which N can hear in his room), so that he'd come down for dinner.
While I was in the bathroom and E was showing me how long she could hold her breath, I heard R talking to N with a raised voice. It sounded like they were joking around about something but instead of the normal rhythm of laughing and then settling, it was getting louder and more anxious sounding. In slow motion I walked out of the bathroom and saw R, staring up stairs and sort of leaning over, as if he couldn't stand up, and yelling, "What did you do N? What did you do?!" I looked up onto the landing where N stood holding his arm outstretched, drips of blood falling onto the floor while he mumbled incoherently about how the voices had won this time, he couldn't help himself. He was white as a sheet and looked like he was about to faint.
I remember thinking, "Oh fuck. He fucking cut himself AGAIN." In the seconds that stretched to hours for him to just make it down the stairs, I felt all the ranges of feelings from helpless and sad to full of rage, to disconnected emotionally all together so that I could deal with whatever was about to happen.
N walked past me to his dad who continued to yell the same things over and over, only adding in now, "We have to call 9-1-1," with the anxious and worried questions he was throwing at N. He put a towel over N's arm but all I could see was the little rivulets of blood, not even that much blood. I couldn't actually see where the cuts were or understand why R was yelling and why N was so shocky. After R put the towel over it, my brain comprehended what I saw, and it simultaneously lifted me out of my body, and shoved me right back in, hard. N had cut a 6" long laceration down his forearm that was so deep, it had separated to 3" wide, and the muscles of his arm were bulging out. The actual muscle - I watched them move as he flexed his hand. Raw, exposed, purple, perfused with blood, beautiful, the inside of my precious baby's body revealed for us, who should have never, ever seen it in this way.
E called me back into the bathroom, she had no idea what was happening. I answered her question, came out, picked up the phone and dialed 911. "I am calling to report a suicide attempt, my son has cut his arm very deeply and we need EMS." I handed the phone to R, who spoke to the dispatcher while wrapping N's arm. I said, very calmly, "N, you're in shock. I need you to stay awake. R, he might faint so get him on the couch." I started gathering up things for N so we were ready to take him to the hospital. I moved like a robot. I didn't speak anymore than I needed. I didn't freak out. N said he felt nauseated, I got him a bowl. I said, "This is really deep. You might need surgery to fix it." N was very calm and nodded. He was willing to do whatever we asked of him. R asked him questions, "Why? What happened? We just saw you five minutes ago and you were fine??" He was so confused and hurt and scared. I felt nothing; I was a robot, going through the motions, making sure everyone was tended.
It took me a few phone calls to find someone to take E for the night, but it worked out that she could go to a nearby friend's. I went into the bathroom, having already packed her stuff and announced in a cheerful tone that she'd get to have a sleep over with her friend tonight. She cheered, very happy and oblivious to what was going on in the living room. While she dressed herself I went to the livign room and told N that his baby sister was about to come out and that he needed to hold it together for her, that she was not going to see how bad this was. He nodded solemnly and tried to look more normal; he was still very, very pale.
E came out of the bathroom and I grabbed her bag and shoes right as our friend J came to get her. At hte same time, two fire trucks, and two aid cars pulled up. Lights on and the street filled with EMS, E asked what was going on. I explained that N had cut his arm pretty bad and they were here to help us get N to the hospital. She was nonplussed and took off quickly with J.
EMS was asking N lots of questions, none of which I remember, and then we packed him off to the hospital. I rode in the front seat of the ambulance while the paramedic rode in back with N talking and joking with him. They told me we'd have to go to the locked part of the ER due to the nature of his injuries. I didn't even know this existed. We rode in relative silence. I squeezed my phone and thought about about what would happen, how we'd help him, questioned everything I thought I knew, and worried for R who was driving behind us, alone after all that.
When we arrived at the hospital everyone was very nice. They wheeled N to his room, which lacked anything sharp and featured a camera that allowed the security folks to ensure his safety at all times. The nurse didn't ask questions, just cared for N. Shortly after, a PA came to do N's repair. He said, "We just need to stitch this." I said, "Really? just stitches?" The PA looked at me like I was loopy, like, what did I expect besides stitches?? I didn't know what I expected, but my child's arm muscles were bulging out so stitches just seemed like an underwhelming response to that kind of injury. He carefully stitched N's arm while we waited for the social worker to come see us so we could get home and figure out what the hell to do from here.
Laurie, our first social worker, walked in and mentioned who she was and what her role was, and asked if R and I would step out so she could talk privately with N. We were fine with that and went to the small cafe where we tried to eat, stared at each other a lot, cried, and stared some more. After about 30 minutes Laurie came to find us and took us to a private room where we could counsel together about what she'd discovered and what we needed to do next.
"Has N ever asked about going to a facility?" Yes, we said, he had, and we'd blown it off. He had a friend who had major mental health issues who had sold the idea to N that these were fun, great places to go. All we knew about mental health facilities was that he'd be drooling on his puzzle in the 'sun room' after he convinced the doctors that he was very sick, with all the knowledge and terminology he'd picked up about mental health. We had always told him no.
"He's asking to go, and where we are right now is that given the serious nature of his injury, I'm going to support him in that. Where are you guys with that?" She handled us so beautifully, letting us arrive at our own knowing rather than removing the right (we didn't have anyway) to say no. In WA state, kids over age 13 can self-admit for mental and sexual health care, so we didn't have a say. In fact, as soon as he put that blade to his arm, we lost any say. However, Laurie was great about getting us all on the same page while at the same time respecting what the law had to say about our situation. I am familiar with the laws so I knew what was going on, but i was just very impressed with her warmth and kindness at the same time. R and Laurie talked a bit about what that might look like, while I paced. I could only walk back and forth, no words would come. I didn't know how to feel, or what to think, while they chatted about this monumental moment. I threw my glasses down and yelled, "You're talking about taking my kid to another city, and you can't even tell me for how long. You're talking about taking my kid. Can we please stop talking about this like we're making a grocery list?!" I yelled, and I burst into tears. How did we go from making dinner to this in just a few short hours?? What was going to happen to my child? Would we even know? What if he went somewhere and was abused? What if he was scared or didn't want to be there anymore? What rights, if any, did we have?? I was terrified.
"I will go find out what our options are for a location. We're looking at either KMH (in our county), Fairfax (1.5 hours away), or Seattle Children's Hospital (another 1.5 hrs away). There aren't many beds for adolescents so we'll just have to see what's available. Let me do some digging and we'll get together again and strategize." Even though she already knew he'd have to go to facility, and knew we couldn't even stop that train, she handled it in such a way to keep us involved and connected, and to let us think that no 'decisions had been made' even though they absolutely had. She was brilliant. I cried some more. My baby didn't want to come home. He wanted to go somewhere else, possibly far away, for some unknown length of time. It was in motion now, I couldn't stop it. I went back into the room, sat next to his gurney, lay on his bony chest and cried very hard, while he stroked my back.
We said to N, "If this is what you need, we support you. We've got your back. We'll do this together." We sat and waited for her to come back and she said, "It's looking like Fairfax is the only one with a bed right now. We're getting the ball rolling. I went off shift a bit ago but I'll make sure this is in process before I go." I wanted to hug her because she was kind and understanding and thorough, and we were adrift and lost.
While R started dishing up dinner he yelled up to N to come down. Very common, N didn't hear him and so didnt' respond. I began dishing up my food and heard E yell for me from the bathroom, so as I walked in there, R tapped the ceiling of the kitchen (which N can hear in his room), so that he'd come down for dinner.
While I was in the bathroom and E was showing me how long she could hold her breath, I heard R talking to N with a raised voice. It sounded like they were joking around about something but instead of the normal rhythm of laughing and then settling, it was getting louder and more anxious sounding. In slow motion I walked out of the bathroom and saw R, staring up stairs and sort of leaning over, as if he couldn't stand up, and yelling, "What did you do N? What did you do?!" I looked up onto the landing where N stood holding his arm outstretched, drips of blood falling onto the floor while he mumbled incoherently about how the voices had won this time, he couldn't help himself. He was white as a sheet and looked like he was about to faint.
I remember thinking, "Oh fuck. He fucking cut himself AGAIN." In the seconds that stretched to hours for him to just make it down the stairs, I felt all the ranges of feelings from helpless and sad to full of rage, to disconnected emotionally all together so that I could deal with whatever was about to happen.
N walked past me to his dad who continued to yell the same things over and over, only adding in now, "We have to call 9-1-1," with the anxious and worried questions he was throwing at N. He put a towel over N's arm but all I could see was the little rivulets of blood, not even that much blood. I couldn't actually see where the cuts were or understand why R was yelling and why N was so shocky. After R put the towel over it, my brain comprehended what I saw, and it simultaneously lifted me out of my body, and shoved me right back in, hard. N had cut a 6" long laceration down his forearm that was so deep, it had separated to 3" wide, and the muscles of his arm were bulging out. The actual muscle - I watched them move as he flexed his hand. Raw, exposed, purple, perfused with blood, beautiful, the inside of my precious baby's body revealed for us, who should have never, ever seen it in this way.
E called me back into the bathroom, she had no idea what was happening. I answered her question, came out, picked up the phone and dialed 911. "I am calling to report a suicide attempt, my son has cut his arm very deeply and we need EMS." I handed the phone to R, who spoke to the dispatcher while wrapping N's arm. I said, very calmly, "N, you're in shock. I need you to stay awake. R, he might faint so get him on the couch." I started gathering up things for N so we were ready to take him to the hospital. I moved like a robot. I didn't speak anymore than I needed. I didn't freak out. N said he felt nauseated, I got him a bowl. I said, "This is really deep. You might need surgery to fix it." N was very calm and nodded. He was willing to do whatever we asked of him. R asked him questions, "Why? What happened? We just saw you five minutes ago and you were fine??" He was so confused and hurt and scared. I felt nothing; I was a robot, going through the motions, making sure everyone was tended.
It took me a few phone calls to find someone to take E for the night, but it worked out that she could go to a nearby friend's. I went into the bathroom, having already packed her stuff and announced in a cheerful tone that she'd get to have a sleep over with her friend tonight. She cheered, very happy and oblivious to what was going on in the living room. While she dressed herself I went to the livign room and told N that his baby sister was about to come out and that he needed to hold it together for her, that she was not going to see how bad this was. He nodded solemnly and tried to look more normal; he was still very, very pale.
E came out of the bathroom and I grabbed her bag and shoes right as our friend J came to get her. At hte same time, two fire trucks, and two aid cars pulled up. Lights on and the street filled with EMS, E asked what was going on. I explained that N had cut his arm pretty bad and they were here to help us get N to the hospital. She was nonplussed and took off quickly with J.
EMS was asking N lots of questions, none of which I remember, and then we packed him off to the hospital. I rode in the front seat of the ambulance while the paramedic rode in back with N talking and joking with him. They told me we'd have to go to the locked part of the ER due to the nature of his injuries. I didn't even know this existed. We rode in relative silence. I squeezed my phone and thought about about what would happen, how we'd help him, questioned everything I thought I knew, and worried for R who was driving behind us, alone after all that.
When we arrived at the hospital everyone was very nice. They wheeled N to his room, which lacked anything sharp and featured a camera that allowed the security folks to ensure his safety at all times. The nurse didn't ask questions, just cared for N. Shortly after, a PA came to do N's repair. He said, "We just need to stitch this." I said, "Really? just stitches?" The PA looked at me like I was loopy, like, what did I expect besides stitches?? I didn't know what I expected, but my child's arm muscles were bulging out so stitches just seemed like an underwhelming response to that kind of injury. He carefully stitched N's arm while we waited for the social worker to come see us so we could get home and figure out what the hell to do from here.
Laurie, our first social worker, walked in and mentioned who she was and what her role was, and asked if R and I would step out so she could talk privately with N. We were fine with that and went to the small cafe where we tried to eat, stared at each other a lot, cried, and stared some more. After about 30 minutes Laurie came to find us and took us to a private room where we could counsel together about what she'd discovered and what we needed to do next.
"Has N ever asked about going to a facility?" Yes, we said, he had, and we'd blown it off. He had a friend who had major mental health issues who had sold the idea to N that these were fun, great places to go. All we knew about mental health facilities was that he'd be drooling on his puzzle in the 'sun room' after he convinced the doctors that he was very sick, with all the knowledge and terminology he'd picked up about mental health. We had always told him no.
"He's asking to go, and where we are right now is that given the serious nature of his injury, I'm going to support him in that. Where are you guys with that?" She handled us so beautifully, letting us arrive at our own knowing rather than removing the right (we didn't have anyway) to say no. In WA state, kids over age 13 can self-admit for mental and sexual health care, so we didn't have a say. In fact, as soon as he put that blade to his arm, we lost any say. However, Laurie was great about getting us all on the same page while at the same time respecting what the law had to say about our situation. I am familiar with the laws so I knew what was going on, but i was just very impressed with her warmth and kindness at the same time. R and Laurie talked a bit about what that might look like, while I paced. I could only walk back and forth, no words would come. I didn't know how to feel, or what to think, while they chatted about this monumental moment. I threw my glasses down and yelled, "You're talking about taking my kid to another city, and you can't even tell me for how long. You're talking about taking my kid. Can we please stop talking about this like we're making a grocery list?!" I yelled, and I burst into tears. How did we go from making dinner to this in just a few short hours?? What was going to happen to my child? Would we even know? What if he went somewhere and was abused? What if he was scared or didn't want to be there anymore? What rights, if any, did we have?? I was terrified.
"I will go find out what our options are for a location. We're looking at either KMH (in our county), Fairfax (1.5 hours away), or Seattle Children's Hospital (another 1.5 hrs away). There aren't many beds for adolescents so we'll just have to see what's available. Let me do some digging and we'll get together again and strategize." Even though she already knew he'd have to go to facility, and knew we couldn't even stop that train, she handled it in such a way to keep us involved and connected, and to let us think that no 'decisions had been made' even though they absolutely had. She was brilliant. I cried some more. My baby didn't want to come home. He wanted to go somewhere else, possibly far away, for some unknown length of time. It was in motion now, I couldn't stop it. I went back into the room, sat next to his gurney, lay on his bony chest and cried very hard, while he stroked my back.
We said to N, "If this is what you need, we support you. We've got your back. We'll do this together." We sat and waited for her to come back and she said, "It's looking like Fairfax is the only one with a bed right now. We're getting the ball rolling. I went off shift a bit ago but I'll make sure this is in process before I go." I wanted to hug her because she was kind and understanding and thorough, and we were adrift and lost.
March 15
We were now waiting to meet the new social worker who would help us transition to the facility. Kristi walked in shortly after her shift started. Her clipboard pressed tightly against her chest and a giant scarf around her neck, she didn't come further into the room than the front door. She introduced herself quickly and explained that N would be going to Fairfax and that once there, they'd figure out what medications he needed and get him started on those right away. She launched into how she did not know how long he'd be gone, only that we'd definitely be going.
In about 45 seconds she barreled through a bunch of information that was a lot more than we'd known was in motion. She did not pause when we became alarmed, she became condescending and acted as if we should already know this terrain. I said, "Wait a second- we didn't know that he'd been accepted to Fairfax, only that it was the most likely."
"Well. He's going to Fairfax."
"OKay.... (Deep breathing, trying to stay calm and not rip her condescending little face off).. can you tell me what the facility is like?"
N was in the very same room, and I was hoping that she could simply tell us what he might experience. We'd never gone through anything like this before and we did not know what the process was, what the experience was, the rules, nothing.
She grew very defensive and said, "If you're asking me if I've been a patient there, no, I have not."
I took another deep breath, but my reserves were now below empty and my patience was wearing extremely thin with this woman. "I am obviously not asking you such a personal question. My 13 year old is about to be taken by ambulance to a facility that neither he, nor we, know anything about. So can you tell us what we can expect to happen when we arrive?"
She machine-gunned some answers that were actually guesses at me, about how he'd see a psychiatrist within an hour of arriving who would decide what drugs N needed, that we would be required to be there to complete the intake paperwork, and I had to stop her right there because what-the-fuck?!
"Um, we haven't consented to any medications. How are they going to give my child medication after speaking to him one time within the hour of his arrival?" I was getting louder now. I could hear R speaking too, in calming tones to her, because she was growing increasingly agitated as well.
"Ma'am, I can pretty much assure you that 100% of people in a facility are medicated. It's part of hte treatment plan. If you're in a facility, you NEED medications." She looked at me like I was an idiot, a cry-baby, in denial, and over protective. I tried to wrap my mind around what she was saying. I could not.
"I know we don't have a say here because he's voluntarily admitting-"
"You're right. You don't."
At this point I just took a deep breath and said, "Can we just remember that we're all on the same team here? We're all looking out for N. I'm just trying to get some information so that he knows what to expect when he arrives, since we likely won't be there yet. I'm sensing some hostility on both sides here and I am just hoping we can take a deep breath together, and start fresh." She looked visibly offended and took a defensive step back. "I am NOT defensive."
Okay bitch. I'm now done. She finished talking, said she'd be back at 3:30am to update us on the admission process, and that N should be on his way to the facility after 8am. We expected to see her again at 3:30; she never showed her face to us again the rest of the time we were there. Not to answer questions, not to update us, not to make sure our transition was smooth, to follow up with resources- nothing.
In about 45 seconds she barreled through a bunch of information that was a lot more than we'd known was in motion. She did not pause when we became alarmed, she became condescending and acted as if we should already know this terrain. I said, "Wait a second- we didn't know that he'd been accepted to Fairfax, only that it was the most likely."
"Well. He's going to Fairfax."
"OKay.... (Deep breathing, trying to stay calm and not rip her condescending little face off).. can you tell me what the facility is like?"
N was in the very same room, and I was hoping that she could simply tell us what he might experience. We'd never gone through anything like this before and we did not know what the process was, what the experience was, the rules, nothing.
She grew very defensive and said, "If you're asking me if I've been a patient there, no, I have not."
I took another deep breath, but my reserves were now below empty and my patience was wearing extremely thin with this woman. "I am obviously not asking you such a personal question. My 13 year old is about to be taken by ambulance to a facility that neither he, nor we, know anything about. So can you tell us what we can expect to happen when we arrive?"
She machine-gunned some answers that were actually guesses at me, about how he'd see a psychiatrist within an hour of arriving who would decide what drugs N needed, that we would be required to be there to complete the intake paperwork, and I had to stop her right there because what-the-fuck?!
"Um, we haven't consented to any medications. How are they going to give my child medication after speaking to him one time within the hour of his arrival?" I was getting louder now. I could hear R speaking too, in calming tones to her, because she was growing increasingly agitated as well.
"Ma'am, I can pretty much assure you that 100% of people in a facility are medicated. It's part of hte treatment plan. If you're in a facility, you NEED medications." She looked at me like I was an idiot, a cry-baby, in denial, and over protective. I tried to wrap my mind around what she was saying. I could not.
"I know we don't have a say here because he's voluntarily admitting-"
"You're right. You don't."
At this point I just took a deep breath and said, "Can we just remember that we're all on the same team here? We're all looking out for N. I'm just trying to get some information so that he knows what to expect when he arrives, since we likely won't be there yet. I'm sensing some hostility on both sides here and I am just hoping we can take a deep breath together, and start fresh." She looked visibly offended and took a defensive step back. "I am NOT defensive."
Okay bitch. I'm now done. She finished talking, said she'd be back at 3:30am to update us on the admission process, and that N should be on his way to the facility after 8am. We expected to see her again at 3:30; she never showed her face to us again the rest of the time we were there. Not to answer questions, not to update us, not to make sure our transition was smooth, to follow up with resources- nothing.
I still had the portable bed I bring to births so that i can sleep in my Durango. I went out to the car and tried to sleep. Anxiety, emotion and over-exhaustion kept me from more than an hour of broken sleep. I woke up and texted R to let him know I was awake. It was now 4am and he hadn't heard anything from the social worker. I encouraged him to come and nap too. N was asleep and there was nothing in the room that would allow either of us to be comfortable enough to rest. We told N and his nurse where we'd be and we both climbed into the car. Another broken hour of sleep after much talking, tossing and turning.
It was 7am when we woke up. I had a feeling we should head back in. We asked if N had heard from the social worker, she'd just been in there to tell him that the ambulance would be there at 8am to get him. Suddenly it was real. My baby was going to be taken somewhere I couldn't reach him, call him, access him, and I couldn't do anything about it whatsoever. I Googled the website for Fairfax so we could find out anything at all, and there was a handbook online which was helpful. N read it so he'd have some idea on the rules. We still did not know what this transition was going to be like, all we knew was that they'd be there at 8 and I couldn't even ride with him to the hospital.
The hour went by quickly. We cut ties off of his pajama pants so he could wear his own clothes. We talked about what he wanted from home. The ambulance came and packed him up. He looked relaxed and glad to be going. They wheeled him down the hall and I cried hard into R's chest. We looked around the room to make sure we had our things, and R said, "Did we forget anything?" I said, "I think i lost my heart in here somewhere, and I can't find it."
It was 7am when we woke up. I had a feeling we should head back in. We asked if N had heard from the social worker, she'd just been in there to tell him that the ambulance would be there at 8am to get him. Suddenly it was real. My baby was going to be taken somewhere I couldn't reach him, call him, access him, and I couldn't do anything about it whatsoever. I Googled the website for Fairfax so we could find out anything at all, and there was a handbook online which was helpful. N read it so he'd have some idea on the rules. We still did not know what this transition was going to be like, all we knew was that they'd be there at 8 and I couldn't even ride with him to the hospital.
The hour went by quickly. We cut ties off of his pajama pants so he could wear his own clothes. We talked about what he wanted from home. The ambulance came and packed him up. He looked relaxed and glad to be going. They wheeled him down the hall and I cried hard into R's chest. We looked around the room to make sure we had our things, and R said, "Did we forget anything?" I said, "I think i lost my heart in here somewhere, and I can't find it."
Fairfax
We needed to go home and shower, and collect things for N to have at the hospital. We had no clue what he'd be allowed to have but we knew to avoid anything with strings or metal. N had asked for 'all black clothes' so I gave him colorful shirts and blue jeans. We showered and headed out the door. It was the first day of rain after a stretch of sun and it was that misty, grey rain that makes traffic more dangerous and slow. We had never been to Kirkland before. We thought it was over 2 hours away. When we were about 30-minutes away we called Fairfax to make sure N had arrived and to let them know we were on our way to fill out the paperwork, etc. The woman at the front desk couldn't acknowledge whether N was there or not, and asked if we had his access code. Because I'd read the handbook I knew what the 'access code' meant, but we didn't not have one yet as he had just arrived. I said, "We'll be there soon to get him admitted, can you just let him know we're almost there?" She sounded very confused, and so were we, so we just kept driving.
When we arrived we walked into a beautiful, brightly lit, friendly looking place. Groups of adult patients walked accompanied through the lobby from one area to another. They looked okay, not drugged or incapacitated. I was now extremely exhausted and anxious. We went to the front desk and said that our son had just arrived.
The social worker, Kristi, had told us that someone would be there to greet us, explain the treatment plan, tell us what medications N would be on, etc. So we arrived thinking that there was an intake process we were required to go through.
From the Fairfax side, there is no intake process on weekends; their intake staff is not on-site over the weekend and I'm not sure why, but they do not have a built in process for parents to have that connection. So when we walked up to the counter announcing ourselves, the receptionist was very confused about what we wanted, 2 hours before visiting time.
I was growing increasingly agitated and walked away. I was about to start yelling in the lobby and I knew that I might end up getting literally arrested if I couldn't stay calm. But what I was hearing was that my son was behind the locked doors, she couldn't tell me he was okay or acknowledge that he was even there, and kept suggesting I wait for visiting hours. She offered to go find out more information for us, so I paced the lobby and stared at this beautiful photo of a juniper tree that was mounted. It helped me to calm down a bit. She came back out and handed us some documents which were actually very helpful. Schedule, handbook, visiting policy. I was standing next to her and she said, "Ma'am, have a seat." I said, "No." She was so gentle and kind, she suggested it again and I said, "I do not want to sit down." She explained that we should wait another hour for visiting, see our son and that he's okay, and then she would arrange for a staff person to see us directly after. I started to speak again, very angry now, and she said, "Oh ma'am... you are so very tired, and you've been through so much..." I started to cry, sat down, and said, "We really have!" and then I was able to listen to all the information she'd gathered for us.
We went out to the car for the hour we had before visiting hour, and R rested while I could not. We hurried back in to a long line of people waiting to check in. There was no "how to" do visiting hours posted- we had to just follow the crowd. Eventually a nurse came out and asked for parents waiting to visit West 1. No one told us were N was so we looked at our nametags, and there it was- West 1. She took down his name and several others, and disappeared.
My anxiety level was incredibly high. I was tear-stained, without sleep, and still weeping. I was pacing, angry and frustrated and confused by this whole room of a few dozen people who seemed happy to be here. What the fuck were they so happy about?! Where is my kid?!?!?!
After a few minutes she gathered up all the West 1 folks and we walked to the cafeteria together. That was informative, we could see behind the locked doors of the lobby to 'behind the scenes'. It was still beautiful, consistent, there was no icky feelings of bad treatment or overly messed up people about to burst through a door and hurt themselves or someone. All the stereotypes we'd had going in dissipated as we walked toward the cafeteria. We each took a table and waited for our loved ones to arrive.
Kids started walking in in various states of drugged, at least to me. I sat at the table drumming my fingers, knees shaking, while I waited for my kid to walk in. Because of what the social worker had said, I prepared myself that he might be very out of it, might be very stoned, that he might not even know what he'd been given. I had to keep it together regardless. We waited. No kid.
R finally suggested that we ask the nurse about it and I said, "You have to. I'll make a scene. I've got nothing left." He walked over and had a very animated discussion with her before calling me over. "He's not coming here."
I about lost my marbles, but I did not. I calmly asked, "Where is my son." It wasn't even a question, really. She said she was so sorry, she didn't realize he was a new admit so he doesn't have cafeteria privileges yet. I was losing faith that anyone here knew what the hell was going on and getting ever more angry. She asked someone to walk us to the lobby and joined us there a moment later. I explained what a nightmare it had been from the moment that social worker 'prepared us' for what we could expect, to the ridiculous snafus upon arriving. She was very sincere and kind, and apologized profusely. We tearfully asked about the drugs and what we could expect and she looked aghast - "We would never give your son medication without your knowledge, unless he was being at risk to himself and others and we needed to sedate for that purpose. Otherwise, you'd know everything and be okay with it. That should never happen!" She was shocked htat we expected that, and we were so hugely relieved, and now bitterly angry at the stress and fear the social worker had caused us.
Mari (the nurse) walked us through the locked door and there was N, striding toward us the way he does. He seemed grumpy that we were harshing his awesome deal; finally he would have the audience he needed to convince them how sick and damaged he was! What were we doing there?
We sat there for the 30 minutes we had left and asked him how he was, if he was okay staying here, was there anything he needed, when we'd be back to visit. Then we left.
When we arrived we walked into a beautiful, brightly lit, friendly looking place. Groups of adult patients walked accompanied through the lobby from one area to another. They looked okay, not drugged or incapacitated. I was now extremely exhausted and anxious. We went to the front desk and said that our son had just arrived.
The social worker, Kristi, had told us that someone would be there to greet us, explain the treatment plan, tell us what medications N would be on, etc. So we arrived thinking that there was an intake process we were required to go through.
From the Fairfax side, there is no intake process on weekends; their intake staff is not on-site over the weekend and I'm not sure why, but they do not have a built in process for parents to have that connection. So when we walked up to the counter announcing ourselves, the receptionist was very confused about what we wanted, 2 hours before visiting time.
I was growing increasingly agitated and walked away. I was about to start yelling in the lobby and I knew that I might end up getting literally arrested if I couldn't stay calm. But what I was hearing was that my son was behind the locked doors, she couldn't tell me he was okay or acknowledge that he was even there, and kept suggesting I wait for visiting hours. She offered to go find out more information for us, so I paced the lobby and stared at this beautiful photo of a juniper tree that was mounted. It helped me to calm down a bit. She came back out and handed us some documents which were actually very helpful. Schedule, handbook, visiting policy. I was standing next to her and she said, "Ma'am, have a seat." I said, "No." She was so gentle and kind, she suggested it again and I said, "I do not want to sit down." She explained that we should wait another hour for visiting, see our son and that he's okay, and then she would arrange for a staff person to see us directly after. I started to speak again, very angry now, and she said, "Oh ma'am... you are so very tired, and you've been through so much..." I started to cry, sat down, and said, "We really have!" and then I was able to listen to all the information she'd gathered for us.
We went out to the car for the hour we had before visiting hour, and R rested while I could not. We hurried back in to a long line of people waiting to check in. There was no "how to" do visiting hours posted- we had to just follow the crowd. Eventually a nurse came out and asked for parents waiting to visit West 1. No one told us were N was so we looked at our nametags, and there it was- West 1. She took down his name and several others, and disappeared.
My anxiety level was incredibly high. I was tear-stained, without sleep, and still weeping. I was pacing, angry and frustrated and confused by this whole room of a few dozen people who seemed happy to be here. What the fuck were they so happy about?! Where is my kid?!?!?!
After a few minutes she gathered up all the West 1 folks and we walked to the cafeteria together. That was informative, we could see behind the locked doors of the lobby to 'behind the scenes'. It was still beautiful, consistent, there was no icky feelings of bad treatment or overly messed up people about to burst through a door and hurt themselves or someone. All the stereotypes we'd had going in dissipated as we walked toward the cafeteria. We each took a table and waited for our loved ones to arrive.
Kids started walking in in various states of drugged, at least to me. I sat at the table drumming my fingers, knees shaking, while I waited for my kid to walk in. Because of what the social worker had said, I prepared myself that he might be very out of it, might be very stoned, that he might not even know what he'd been given. I had to keep it together regardless. We waited. No kid.
R finally suggested that we ask the nurse about it and I said, "You have to. I'll make a scene. I've got nothing left." He walked over and had a very animated discussion with her before calling me over. "He's not coming here."
I about lost my marbles, but I did not. I calmly asked, "Where is my son." It wasn't even a question, really. She said she was so sorry, she didn't realize he was a new admit so he doesn't have cafeteria privileges yet. I was losing faith that anyone here knew what the hell was going on and getting ever more angry. She asked someone to walk us to the lobby and joined us there a moment later. I explained what a nightmare it had been from the moment that social worker 'prepared us' for what we could expect, to the ridiculous snafus upon arriving. She was very sincere and kind, and apologized profusely. We tearfully asked about the drugs and what we could expect and she looked aghast - "We would never give your son medication without your knowledge, unless he was being at risk to himself and others and we needed to sedate for that purpose. Otherwise, you'd know everything and be okay with it. That should never happen!" She was shocked htat we expected that, and we were so hugely relieved, and now bitterly angry at the stress and fear the social worker had caused us.
Mari (the nurse) walked us through the locked door and there was N, striding toward us the way he does. He seemed grumpy that we were harshing his awesome deal; finally he would have the audience he needed to convince them how sick and damaged he was! What were we doing there?
We sat there for the 30 minutes we had left and asked him how he was, if he was okay staying here, was there anything he needed, when we'd be back to visit. Then we left.
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