Inpatient

It’s so sudden, the shifting from “they” to “we.” I thought of inpatient psychiatric patients as other, worse off… and then I came to the end of myself.

My son has scared me before. He has done things that have caused me to fear for my safety, for his brother’s safety, his own safety… but always I felt like I was the best person to handle the situation. This week, that dam burst.

I became undeniably aware that I could no longer run interference. I needed help. So we called the psychiatrist. We went to the ER.

In our room, which was swiftly procured for us, we had constant observation behind the glass. He had a different colored gown for staff to easily identify his risks. There was increased security, with an armed patrol officer passing by every ten minutes.

The fear, the anxiety, and complete uncertainty overwhelmed me. And I was struck by the contrast of how I felt vs. my son’s delighted state of constant snacks and television. Over 6 hours in that room, and he enjoyed them all. I was in hell.

Once I learned they recommended inpatient services for him, my mind went into overdrive. Thank the Lord for our social worker, who found his placement, reassured me multiple times, and was an overall Godsend.

I didn’t break down until he left with the paramedics who had to transfer him via ambulance. He hesitated for a moment before going with them, and I knew shit was going to hit the fan for them once he realized this was not a fun trip. Tears streamed down my face as I tried to take deep breaths walking through the pediatric ER and out into the parking lot. You’re not supposed to go into the ER with a child and walk back to your car alone. It was uncanny, and it was so quiet. I didn’t know what to do with the quiet.