Sparks and Butterflies

Reality is tough around here.

Reality – my husband, if he’s home, is usually asleep.  Because he’s working while we sleep.  It’s tough.  He (and we) do it anyway.

Reality – my mother’s in the hospital.  Again.  It was touch and go for a while.  Again.  I helped my dad decide on a DNR, should it come to that.  It’s tough.

Reality – my son takes mental health medication.  He’s been off his meds for 6 days due to a medical insurance/Cobra payment  company snafu of Ginormous Proportions.  “Just pay and we’ll reimburse you.”  Sure!  Let me just grab that $900 I have lying around.  Not.  And yes, that’s what my son’s meds cost per month. It’s tough.

Life is tough.  There’s not a lot that one can actually control.  That’s rough on a control freak like myself.  I’m trying to do what I can to control what’s in the realm that I can.  So I’m organizing the household, decorating, cleaning out, trying to make sure it’s a peaceful place from the crazyness.  I’m trying to learn how to do things from scratch to save money.  I make my own laundry detergent now.  I’m learning how to make bread.  Little steps one at a time.  I’m learning more about emergency preparedness.  Unfortunately, we don’t have a lot of money right now, so certain things need to wait, but it’s on the list.

Control what you can to prepare for what you can’t.  I’m trying to do that.

I was a band geek…  No, I was a Super Band Geek!  I was in color guard (parade, field show, winter guard) and band (parade, field show, concert, and drum circuit.)  Competition was had, trophies won, new songs and moves learned, and trips taken.  Judges, and medals, uniforms, and more…  It was interesting how I pulled it off.  I truly don’t know that I would have survived high school had I not had that focus and, well, forced community.  It was an important part of my life, and a lot of things surrounding it effected the person I became today.  My family life wasn’t good at the time, and I was able to be a part of something and learn how to participate in a team.

My guard coach, Chuck, passed away recently.  I’m awaiting details, but since he was local to me, I’ll make every attempt to go to his services.  I’m sad.  Another person gone who was a part of my history.  I know that death is part of life, and I know that I wasn’t close to the man.  But still.  I knew him then, he influenced my life then, and that makes him a human being that had an effect on someone during the course of their life.  It’s okay to be sad he’s gone.

So, I started therapy last week.

Friday was therapy day.  I slogged through the morning chores etc. feeling like crap.  I figured it was my sinuses – Logan and my allergies have been acting up lately.  Major fatigue and moving really slow.  Then I had therapy in my home, which she’s doing both to keep Joseph and my therapy separate in different places, and to save me on gas.  I already go to the other therapy center 5 times a month, sometimes more.  The effort is appreciated.

I won’t discuss the content, except to say that she’s focusing a lot on my relationship with God.  This is both needed and really quite surprising considering how I know her.  I’ll take it.

After, I was just basically good for nothing.  I ended up taking what I consider a “depression nap.”  Whenever I’m mentally overwhelmed past capacity, my body shuts down and needs to sleep.  It’s not an escape hatch, it’s like it needs it.  I was even slurring my words.  I only had Joseph at home, so I was able to explain what was going on (having mental issues himself, I can word it in such a way that he gets it) and take a 2 hour nap.  I wasn’t any good the rest of the day either, but at least I was no longer slurring and was functional.  The whole weekend passed in a blur of feeling lazy and like crap and needing to sleep a lot.

Poe says that it’s my body’s way of dealing with crap I haven’t been dealing with just in order to go from one day to the next.  Now, I’m dealing with it, and my body – which has always had pronounced reactions to stress – is reacting.  Poe basically said go with it – don’t fight it – and let it do what it has to do.  In the meantime, don’t fight what’s going on in therapy, just do the work to go through rather than around.

Hmph.

I hate saying the words, “I’m in therapy.”  It feels both cliche and shaming all at once.  But I’m not letting that stop me from doing what’s needed to keep me healthy.

How is it even possible that it’s been this long since I wrote? I don’t have an excuse. The bottom line is I have so many balls up in the air that I’m having trouble juggling.

We went to church last Sunday. It was good. The kids enjoyed Sunday School. I want to get involved again. And yes, there may have been tears during worship. Music is something that connects me very much with God. We attend a denomination that is very demonstrative in their worship of God. I myself am not. It’s a very private thing for me, and I’ll admit I sometimes feel uncomfortable with the demonstrations of faith. HOWEVER – I feel blessed that our church is a place where those who feel the Spirit move them in that way are welcome, and comfortable, and able to express themselves. My discomfort is just that – my problem, not theirs.

We plan on going again this Sunday.  But there’s a hitch coming.  Why do we always have to have a hitch?  Poe’s current job is going away.  I know. But they’re apparently going to keep Poe out of everybody, and put him somewhere else.  For less money.  Again.  And this time his days are going to be Sunday – Thursday.  His hours are such that he’ll miss all the services.  Sigh.  I’m just going to have to buck up and make sure I round up the kids and go by myself when this happens.

I’m going in a different direction at Vineyard Virtual Services, which means I’m in the process of revamping that site, and doing some schooling in order to learn some of the finer points of the new direction.  Basically, I’m nitching myself into being a Virtual Author’s Assistant.  I love books, I enjoy working with authors, and I enjoy the minutia of things like editing and source lists.  It’s a good fit for me.  I knew something needed to change.

Joseph starts school Monday.  That will add some structure to our days.  Today, however, we have back to back therapy sessions, which totally sucks.  It just seems a lot longer than it actually is when there are two sessions close together.  And his therapist suggested that maybe I might want to consider separate therapy for myself.

This is the part where I laugh maniacally and ask her when would I have the time for that?  I have too many meetings for work and the kids and doctors and therapists and school pickups and grocery shopping and cleaning and billing and invoicing and work to day.

And this is the part where she says: Exactly.

She thinks I may have too much on my plate with too little a support system – especially now that Poe’s working full time.  She has a point.  We’ll see where it goes.  I start tomorrow.

I’m having a problem.

I’m not going to church.

It’s very bizarre.  It’s like I have a mental block or something.

My prayer life is better than it was.  I’m reading my Bible every day.  I’ve read it cover to cover, and now I’m reading it in chronological order.  I’m involved in an online Christian bookclub that does Bible studies.

Why can’t I go to church?  Literally, on Sunday, I don’t think of it.  We have a church.  We like the church.  It’s one of the few near us that actually lists the Bible in their Statement of Faith (which is just sad, in my opinion.)  We don’t feel it’s doctrinely unsound.  The pastor hasn’t said anything hinky.  The people were lovely and welcoming.  Joseph liked the kids’ church.

I can’t understand it.  Any thoughts?

**************

Check out Butterviews for BlogHer…  What caregiving is to me.  There’s a chance for a cruise at BlogHer’s roundup page – so you might want to check it out!  The post is Full Plates and Everything Else.

Back in March, my birthday came and went without a lot of fanfare.  We don’t have money right now for celebrations.  That was fine.  I was disappointed by how I felt about this birthday, 35, anyway.  Halfway through my 30′s, on my way to 40, and I was disappointed in my life.  Completely starting over financially.  “Stuck” living by my parents to help them.   Still overweight.  Still smoking.  Poor.  An unemployed husband.  No savings.  A fledgling business.  I felt like I wasn’t where I was supposed to be.

But I’m working on all of those things.  Because when I turn 40 I want to be in a place that it’s just fabulous.

But I’ve learned a lot in my 35 years on earth.

I’ve learned that the gray in my hair doesn’t bother me in the least.  I’ve learned to stop caring what others think.  Sometimes I still have to remind myself of that, but it’s true.  I don’t particularly care what you think of me.  I’ve learned that I have really broad shoulders, and I can handle a lot of responsibility.  I’ve learned that I have an inner mama-bear and can be a true advocate for my kids’ needs.  I’ve learned that I’m a loyal wife, and a loyal friend.  I’ve learned that I’m not frivolous, I’m not silly, I’m serious.  And that’s okay, as long as you have balance.  My husband creates that balance in our lives.  I’ve learned what my politics are.  I’ve also learned when I need to turn off the flow of information.  I’ve learned when I need to ask for help (although it’s still a struggle for me.)  I’ve learned more about what my personal faith is and looks like (although I’m still struggling with it.)  I’ve learned to love through the not so lovable moments.  I’ve learned that I can love and care for my family, even if I don’t particularly like them at that moment.  I’m slowly learning to let things go that don’t matter in the long run.  I’ve even learned I have a knack for home decorating – not that I have the funds to indulge in it.  I’ve learned to stand up for myself.  I’ve learned that I scare people with my bluntness, but I’ve learned that I’m never mean.  I’ve learned to tell people when I think they’re going down the wrong path, but how to make a bad haircut something positive.  Yes, you look fat in that, but man do you look fabulous in this.  No, you shouldn’t live with him first, but I’ll give you a bachelorette party to remember.  I’ve learned when to have tact, and when the superficial tact will get in the way of what someone actually needs.

So, while I’m not where I want to be in life – I know I’m working on it.  And these last 35 years have not been a waste – I’ve learned something from them.  That’s really all I can ask.

My readers run the gamut.  PR people read it, friends read it, online friends (read: we haven’t met in person yet) read it, strangers read it.  I don’t think any family actually reads here, but I know some family know about it.

I hold certain views, that I haven’t fully fleshed out here on the blog.  But due to those views, I’m making some preparations around my household.  I have a request of you all – my readers.

Because much of our correspondence happens online, the resources that uses – at least on my end – consist of a computer, electricity/battery combo, dsl/wireless combo, blog platform usage, email usage, and comment and/or networking site usage.

What if that all goes away?  What if we lose the internet?  What if we lose electricity?  What if we lose the phones?

Here’s where my request comes in…  If you wish to stay connected to me, offline, please get me your contact information.  How much info you give me is, of course, up to you.  My thoughts are phone numbers (including landline,) home addresses, email addresses, and any other information you would like to pass on to me.  I will reciprocate.  This is, of course, for those of you  I consider friends, and those who consider me a friend.  Someone you want to hear from even if we couldn’t connect online.

If you want to send me your info – don’t comment! You don’t want that info all over the internet!  Send me an email at sparksfley at gmail dot com.  I’ll send my own back to you as well.

As time has gone by, and Thanksgiving prepared and served and celebrated…  I don’t have the patience to update on the rest of the blow by blow.  So here’s the general gist…

On Sunday, I called and wanted an update on Joseph.  He was doing great behaviorally, ate and slept, and was in general good spirits.  That’s good.  I asked if we were still on track for release that day at 2:25pm.  The 72 hour hold time.  No.  Apparently he was on a tentative release date of Monday.  Unacceptable.  I asked for more information, but it wasn’t noted in the chart.  She said that she’d get the doctor to call me.  I waited on tinterhooks, but never got a call.  I called again to see if I could pick him up.  No, they would not release him.  So I called again at 4pm, and went through the whole thing again.  This time I talked to the charge nurse.  He told me that no, he was not going to be released on Sunday, or Monday.  He had been put on an involuntary 2 week hold.  Trying to hold on to my composure, I asked why that might be?  Considering that he had been no trouble at all, had managed his upped dosage of meds, and was reacting fine both physically and mentally?  He had no idea, and suggested I bring it up to the doctor.  I mentioned that I would if one would deign to speak to me.  Mind you the 72 hours were up earlier, and I had only spoken to a doctor once.  On Friday, for his history.  So, they had decided to keep him – again – without my consent, and apparently my knowledge.  I told the nurse I would speak with him when I got there in person.  For our hour with our son.  After we got there, Poe took Joseph to start the visit, and I spoke with the nurse.  I went through the entire series of events with him in chronological order.  After listening to me, and my being rather nicely forceful in person, he took a look at the chart.  He said that it did seem odd to him, and he would definitely look into it.  He said that I probably could take Joseph on Monday, but that he wanted to look into it, as the hold was continued without my knowledge or consent.

We visited with Joseph.  He was noticeably worn about the edges, and was really ready to come home.  I told him I was doing my best to move things along, but that it was out of my hands.  I told him I would keep him apprised with as much as I knew.  We left him there… That night, again.

Poe and I went to dinner again at the Denny’s down the street.  As we finished, and were just waiting for the check, my cell phone rang.  The hospital.  I took the call outside, while Poe paid the bill.  That was the nurse.  He said that he didn’t know if I would be able to take Joseph on Monday or not.  You see, the doctors don’t work on the weekend.  So – while Joseph was there for his 72 hour hold, the doctors, who can’t be bothered to observe the holds on the weekends, were not observing him.  Therefore, it would have to wait until the doctor (the mythical person I had never spoken to – I spoke to a different doctor on Friday) observed him an made a decision.  He couldn’t possibly be expected to approve a release without observing the patient!

No.  He couldn’t possibly be forced to work on a weekend.

Seriously, people.  I usually have a great respect for those who work in the mental health field, and those who work with children.  But I think you forget sometimes.  It’s your job.  I know that.  But guess what?  It’s our lives you’re playing with.  So pardon me if I don’t give a rat’s ass about your getting your weekend time in, if it means you can just keep my son, whom I have custody of, and who has NO social services complaints or files on.  Again.  Our LIFE.

I gave the nurse what for on the phone.  I was pacing up and down the Denny’s parking lot.  I noticed Poe – listening with half an ear, just keeping an eye out to make sure I didn’t walk in front of a car or something.  I then told the nurse I expected a call the next morning.  I also warned him that if I didn’t – they were sure to hear from me.

We went home, dejectedly.  Eventually, we got ready for bed, and relaxed.  Around 10pm, the phone rang.  The hosptital number.  This could not be good.  I answered the phone.  It was Joseph himself.  God forgive me, but all I could think of was please don’t be having a meltdown – they won’t let you come home if you do!  But I just asked him what was wrong.  It was hard to piece together.  He couldn’t talk very well, and the phone isn’t that great.  Apparently, another boy was in Joseph’s room, and wouldn’t leave.  The patients aren’t allowed in each other’s personal rooms.  Joseph was trying to hedge him out of the room, when the other child attacked him, and put him in a choke hold.  I calmed him down as best I could.  I asked about how he was physically, and he said he couldn’t talk very well, and his neck hurt – but he was ok.  I told him to go straight to bed, and if anyone bothered him again, not to take care of it himself, but yell for an adult immediately.  I told him I was working on getting him out.  I hung up with him, and immediately called the nurses station again, where he called from.  When they answered I asked how Joseph was.  They said he was shaken, but ok.  They said that the other child was put in the “quiet room.”  Considering my son is in a locked down mental institution, I’ll just let you imagine what the quiet room is.

The patients are not allowe to use the phone.  There is a public phone that they can use after 3:30pm.  He was scare enough that they let him call his mommy from the nurses station.  I then had to hang up, an leave my son there.

The next day, the doctor who originally did the history called back.  They said that they wanted to keep him another night for observation, after the altercation.  I questioned their own sanity.  That was not appreciated.  Apparently they wanted him to react to the situation so they could observe it.  Horsehit – my guess is they were covering their own legal asses.  I made it clear that the kid had mental healthcare out the wazzoo on the outside.  I made it clear that the child was being held 100% against my wishes.  I made it clear that my husband and I were looking into our legal rights and the legal ramifications of what had transpired.  I made it clear that I didn’t appreciate being left in the dark.  “Well, I spoke with you on Friday.”  Yes.  That one time was enough to keep me feeling informed about my involuntarilly hospitalized son, sure.

I think that she couldn’t possibly be a mother.

She informed me that he was tentatively scheduled for release, the next day, Tuesday.  I asked when?  She couldn’t tell me.  Who can?  The social worker.  OK, when will I hear from them?  She couldn’t tell me.  Which was so helpful.

Around 2pm, I got a call from a new person at the hospital, who I hoped was the social worker to arrange release.  No such luck.  It was the administrative office.  Our medical insurance will only cover 80% of the bill, and I would owe $1000 for the remaining 20% when I picked him up.  And how did I want to pay for that?

I must say, I reacted totally inappropriately.  I started laughing.  Hard.  With a little tinge of hysteria.  I then informed him that my husband has been out of work for the last 8 months.  This was the first actual mention of money.  And lovely timing, while I’m trying to get the kid out and all.  While he didn’t say so, I definitely got the impression that feeling was you get your kid when you give up the dough.  I don’t think so.  The words “kidnapping,” “blackmail,” and “extortion” come to mind.  I consulted with my mother, and she said no to the money.  Not no to me…  She was pissed at them.  She said that if they didn’t give him up the next morning,  to call the police.  Let them come after me for the money if they wanted to – but she wasn’t paying them a dime to get my kid out and they can’t force me to.  Further, she spoke to an attorney, and apparently we have more rights than they let us know.

Finally at 4pm I called them back.  I still hadn’t heard from a social worker…  After playing phone line bingo, I was told that he had left for the day.  He leaves at 3pm.  He gets in early, don’t you know?  I said fine – give me someone who can help me.  I got the charge nurse (a different one.)  I explained about the release.  She said she could arrange it with me, as she would be the charge nurse the next morning as well.  Finally.  I arranged to pick him up at 8am.

I did, too.  I was there early.  No one bugged me about money.  They weren’t in yet.  They explained about how I was to get aftercare and an appointment at his therapy center.  I explained – again – that he has been going there for 2 years, we have standing appointments, not to worry.  She was surprised by this.  Why yes, I do take care of my son!  Imagine that!

I took him home, and we had a long talk on the way home.  And then got him in a hot shower, and into clean pajamas.

His therapist came to the house the next day and had a session with him – and a session with us after.  She knew how hard it had been on us, and couldn’t do a thing about it.

And now?  We’ve taken him out of the school.  I was going to homeschool, but that’s going to mess with his mental health care through the state, and I cannot put that in jeopardy.  We’re currently looking at another school in another town that only has 4 kids at a time, and they all have issues like Joseph.  The idea is matriculation back into the main school in a year or two again.  Our district would be in on the whole thing.  But they have a psychiatrist on duty there.

I should probably mention his discharge diagnosis.  Bipolar disorder.  Actually makes sense to Poe and I, who live with him every day.  But couldn’t you have told that to me?  And not left me to read it on my son’s paperwork?

So.  School changes coming.  We’re waiting for a tour with his therapist before making our final decision.  Possible medication changes coming.  But he’ll be removed from the situation that was causing breakdowns and such mental angst.

This was an awful, awful experience.  I’m glad it’s behind us.  We have a long road to hoe…

But I’d like to leave you with two thoughts.  One, to parents, fight.  Don’t let it happen to you.  Ask questions.  Question them.  They may have lots of deserved degrees, but they are also human.  You live with the child, you know  them better.  Fight.  Don’t let them walk all over you.  Go with your gut.  Two, to teachers, doctors, and all those that work with children.  This is our lives.  Don’t play with it.  Don’t make it seem less than.  Don’t make our concerns seem less than.  Our lives exist constantly, fluidly, forever.  We don’t get standard breaks, and leave at the end of the day, and close up shop on Friday.

As I work and try to prep for Thanksgiving at the same time…  the events of those 5 days are getting farther from concrete memories to impressions.

On Friday, Poe took care of Logan’s getting to school, and let me sleep in.  I was up so late the night before, and the emotional toll was great.  When I got up and had some coffee, I had my parents come over to the house so we could tell them the whole story of what had happened the day and night before.  They had been out of town and started the trek back when we called them.  They had gotten home about 6:30am.

While we were talking to them, the hospital called.  It was a doctor, but not the one on Joseph’s chart/identification bracelet.  We went through Joseph’s mental history, medical history, school history, as well as familial medical and mental histories.  I can do all that in my sleep.  I made it clear, again, that we did not agree with his hold.  She confirmed for me that his hold, should nothing else happen, would be up Sunday at 2:45pm.  I confirmed visiting hours for the night.  After that she asked me to put him on drugs.  Like 3.  He’d been there part of one night.  I said no.  I did allow, since he did break down, the next step up dose of the medication that he was already on.  That’s it.  I know the effect on his body, and that’s all I was comfortable with at that moment in time.  She was not pleased with me.  She then said that she would remove the 72 hour hold if I was willing to commit him for several days of observation.  I said no.  I didn’t think he should be there in the first place, and I certainly wasn’t going to be the one to commit him based on that – and for even longer than the hold to boot.  Although, in retrospect, I wonder if I should have – and if I had, would I have been able to sign him out right away?  I don’t know.  She was not pleased with me.  I was turning out to be a bit of a stubborn parent.  Obviously, part of the problem and not the solution.

5:30pm – 7pm per day.  That’s it.  To see my son (who was not in prison – although you wouldn’t know it.)

We numbly went through our day.  I couldn’t work, and let my clients know.  I was also in contact with Joseph’s therapist to keep her in the loop, since it quickly became obvious that the hospital would not.

And finally, it was time to get ready for our first visit to the mental institution.  I had been there the night before, but it was for an admission, so this would be new to me.  My father stayed with Logan.

Poe hadn’t been particularly involved in any of this.  Not due to not caring, but because he was making sure Logan was ok, and all his bases, meals, homework, etc. were covered.  This visit was the first he would see of the hospital.

We made the trek out there in Friday commuter traffic.  30 miles round trip.  We signed in.  We then made our way back to the pediatric unit – going through locked gates and doors that held signs, “Caution, AWOL risk.”  We passed the resident cat.  I don’t know who feeds him, but he’s HUGE.  We’re finally let into the pediatric unit, and Joseph came out to meet us.  He was still in the clothes from the night before, but I had brought him clean clothes.  I could also immediately tell that he had not brushed his teeth.  He lied and said he did, but I can tell.  Eventually I flat out asked him if he had a toothbrush?  No,  he did not.  I marched him up to the nurses station, and they gave us one.  “All he had to do was ask.”  “He’s 9.  He’s not going to ask.”

When we came in, we were immediately surrounded by Joseph and his three roommates.  His three roommates held us in awe, as if visiting parents were a rare and delicate species.  This saddened me so much, that I had to stop thinking about it.  I couldn’t take on their pain too.  It’s hard enough giving enough of myself to the kids I already have.  I eventually told the other kids that they needed to find something to do, as we wanted to visit with Joseph alone.  They could all hang out again in an hour, I promised.

Finally, alone with Joseph, we took stock.  He was exhausted.  Even though he came in and finally got to bed around 2am, he was awoken with everyone else that morning at 6am.  He was loopy, glassy-eyed, and a little stupid.  A combo, I think, of the upped medication dosage, and 4 hours sleep compared to his usual 10.  He was having fun though.  The usual come down of having released all his anger, combined with being around kids his same age, with similar issues.  He’s the only one in his school, so this is a new and intriguing turn of events.  No school, just groups and stuff.  So, we basically told him what we knew was happening, and promised to return the next night.  He understood that he couldn’t come with us, and accepted that.  What he wasn’t happy with was the fact that we couldn’t stay.

We gave him hugs and kisses, and promised to return the next day.  And then watched as medical equipment was taken in to his room.  His roommate had ingested something, and needed medical attention.

We left him there, and went to Denny’s for dinner.  We weren’t ready to return to a too-quiet home.  A cloud of concern hung around us like a fog – but we didn’t talk about it.  It was obvious but unspoken.  What can we say?  It’s out of our hands.

Saturday passed much the same way.  He was more alert in the visit, having gotten more sleep.  He didn’t want us to stay the whole time, though.  He wanted to go to gym-time to play games.  Of course the only time it’s available is during visiting hours.  We let him.  Who are we to say he (a nine year old boy couped in group therapy all day) can’t let off steam and run around.  We understood that.  He has to survive this.

We left, alone again.  Sunday, however, is when the shit hit the fan.  Mama bear had to come out and play.

I’m going to try to explain what happened in small doses, because I am short on time, and because I’m short on spirit.

For those who might not read regularly, Joseph has mental and emotional/behavioral issues, as well as specific learning disabilities.  As a result, he is on medication to help regulate his emotional control (a very mild form, as we recognized the need, but needed to balance it with our genuine concern for long term effect data shortage.)  He is on an IEP at school which includes special education, regular class, and counseling.  He has outside mental health care as well.  He’s been having serious trouble with another child at the school who has known him for years, and know all his buttons and triggers, and has no compunction in using this knowledge.

The school is aware of everything – including this other child.

On Thursday, we got a call around 1pm.  The school was asking us to come down, as they couldn’t find Joseph, and felt that he might have possibly gone off campus.  I stayed home, and Poe went to handle it.  He has before.  Joseph has run before.  One of his issues was using violence against those he was angry or upset with.  After years, he now understands that’s wrong.  Instead, he runs.  It’s his natural fight or flight response on overdrive.  In the past, he’s stayed close to the school.  Poe got there and called me to say that the school didn’t know where he was.  They asked us whether we wanted them to call the police.

You’ve lost our son, and you ask us if we want you to call the police?  Yes.  He’s 9 and needs to be found.  They locked down the school until he was found.  One mom was in the office, complaining to the secretary about how it was really inconvenient, and she took time off work for her meeting, and blah blah blah.  My husband was standing right there, and told her, “I’m so very sorry that my son’s disappearance has inconvenienced you ma’am.”  She just gave him a dirty look.

What led to this?  I found out later that this other child has been “stealing” Joseph’s friends (again) and sending glares Joseph’s way.  Well, it got to be one glare too many and he ran.  What the school failed to tell us at the time – he had an aide with him, who failed to attempt to follow him.

Thus started an hour’s nightmare of the police crawling over our town trying to find him, them coming to the house (I stayed home in case Joseph called us,) giving them his most recent photos, etc.  I explained that he has issues, briefly, but serious, and that no one at the school seemed to be aware of any particular incident that day.  Then came that interminable wait.  Waiting is awful.

Eventually we got the call that Joseph had been found.  And here’s the kicker that starts it all.  He was found on the effing freeway.  He had walked all the way from school – PAST our house – and onto the freeway on ramp a block away.  He was trying to get to the mountains to run away, and that was the route he knows.  When he’s in his heightened state, he has no way of thinking through actions/reactions/consequences.  He put himself and other drivers in danger, true.  However, even though I was available, and police knew this, the police sergeant on the case decided without speaking to me about his history to put him under an involuntary 72 hour hold, because he was obviously (in his mind) trying to kill himself.

If he had talked to me first, he may have realized that putting a 9 year old in a mental institution could possibly be detrimental to him, and that he has therapists on call willing to come to him to help him through this mental crisis.  He didn’t.  Once he signed the order, too, it was out of everyone’s hands.  They wouldn’t let me see him at the freeway, just told me to leave and go to the hospital.  I ran home, got his medical information, my ID, etc, and headed to the hospital.  On the way I called his psychiatrist and his therapist and put them on the alert.

When I got there I found my 9 year old son handcuffed to a hospital bed, purple with fury, and stiff as a board.  As soon as he saw me, he started to cry, his joints loosened, his color started coming back down to normal.  After a few minutes, they saw my effect on him and removed the handcuffs.  They threatened him with restraints, but he didn’t understand – although I did.  I briefly saw his shoulder.  The fire department personnel physically removed him from the side of the freeway, and he was all banged up.  Apparently he socked one of the firefighters who was hauling him.  The police wanted him charged with assault.

The doctor spoke briefly too us, but really, he didn’t do anything.  They took his vitals, but that’s it.  He never got psych care there.  Their role was to take custody of us, and for the hospital’s social worker to find a mental institution that takes pediatric patients.  It took a couple of hours, but they found one.  I was informed that I would be arrested if I tried to leave with him.  At some point, Poe came and relieved me, and I went home to Logan to eat something and just take a break.  You see, the judgment and stares you get when there’s mental issues involved feels heavy.  I had to handle the bulk as my parents were on vacation (but were on their way back as soon as they heard) and Logan needed to be cared for.  Joseph’s behavior was completely calm in ER for the many hours we were there.  At the mental institution it would be several more hours until a bed was available.  At 10pm an ambulance was sent for him.  I wasn’t allowed to take him myself.  I followed the ambulance to the mental institution 15 miles away.  (We would continue to drive 30 miles a day every day for this.)  It took them 3 more hours to get him checked in, due to a  shift change.  I got home around 1:30am.  He didn’t get to bed until about 2:30am (and then awoken at the normal wake up time at 6am Friday.)  He was exhausted.  Just exhausted.  His normal bedtime is 9pm.  It was all just so disjointed.  I kept wanting to say, “but he’s a kid.”  “It’s past his bedtime.”  “He hasn’t had his bath.”  I mean underneath all of the crap – he was thrilled to ride in a real ambulance.  He’s a child.  It was such a grown up situation, and he looked so very small.  So very tired.  Trying to keep brave, as he couldn’t remember everything, but knew he caused this.

When I got home, because I wasn’t allowed to stay, my husband tried to hug me, but I wouldn’t let him.  I had held it together for 12 hours, but I needed to tell him the important stuff first.  I had to tell him that the 72 hours would be up at 2:25pm on Sunday afternoon.  That we would be called tomorrow about his care, and for them to get his history.  That we could visit 5:30-7pm nightly, but that’s all we could see him.

Then we went to bed.  And I lost it.  Totally, completely, thoroughly.  It wasn’t pretty.

I asked Poe what kind of mother leaves her child at a mental institution (as if I had a choice?)  He said, “The kind who’s kid plays on freeways.”  Gallows humor.  Gallows humor certainly got us through this week.

That afternoon and night was surreal.  Strange.  Sort of seen like it wasn’t really us – like I was watching a play or something.

To be contined.