routerecalculation

Hello, Mom?”

“……..Hi!”

“Soooooo, I’m transitioning on Wednesday.”

Two more sleeps. This is the day I’ve been waiting for and wondering about for a very long time. Since December 9th actually. Two more sleeps till our current program at ADTP starts transitioning my daughter in to main stream public school. Even typing out those words makes me shake in my shoes. The last time we tried going back to school, I found myself standing by the river, wondering if I would ever see her again.

The ADTP program is a 3-4 month program, with intense private and group therapy, as well as private and family counseling. There is school work involved, and it’s run by both Alberta Health and the Calgary Board of Education, so they work hand in hand to try and catch up the main holes that have been missing in relationship to school work while treatment has happened. It has been 1 year and 3 months since my daughter was in school regularly. She only attended the first 2 weeks of this school year. Now, we will look at sending her from a classroom of 3 kids (ratio at ADTP is 1 to 3) to a school of 800. She will go back with an IPP, but will that be enough to accommodate her needs?

“What? This Wednesday? I thought we had discussed waiting a little bit longer? I need to prepare. I need to communicate with transportation, the high school, and…”

“Do you want to talk to my teacher? Maybe that would help?”

“Yes. Yes please. I think that would be a great idea”

“First, one more thing. Can I take the bus?”

“What? Really? The bus? Is that really a good idea?”

For the last 3 months, transportation has taken my daughter directly from the door of my work to the program, and then has picked her up and delivered her in to my view. Without fail, I have known where she is the entire time, and that has been a tremendous burden removed from my shoulders. She’s basically had her own private chauffeur, and now, she wants to ride a bus with 45 kids on it.

“Ok, let me talk to your teacher.”

“Hi. So we have a start date of this Wednesday.”

“Is there a reason why you made it earlier?”

“We thought that was the date set in the transition meeting.”

“No. You were supposed to get back to me after the new program met with you, and after we would decide the exact dates so I could arrange transportation, and time from work. I don’t feel good about just doing this without being prepared.”

“Oh, well you’ll have to talk to the counselor about that. In the meantime Wednesday is the day. So the plan will be all day, and then Thursday afternoon.”

If there is one thing that drives me bonkers, it’s lack of communication. During this entire process, there has been time and time again where communication has broken down, and I have been left not knowing what the real agenda is. I have made it very, very clear, over and over again, that I am an involved parent, and need to be in the loop with what is going on. A transition means so many different things and I really don’t think wanting to be engaged in the process makes me a control freak. It makes me someone who likes to be prepared.

We continued to discuss the plan, and the teacher assured me that I would be sent an email outlining a safety plan and details that were being discussed.

“Hi there, this is the Vice Principal at the new school. Is now a good time to talk?“

“Yes, it’s fine. Thanks for calling.”

“I found out news that your daughter will be joining us on Wednesday. We’re looking forward to having her.

“I don’t really know what to say. This is happening faster than I expected, so I’m still a little shocked.”

“I think the plan is just to have a calm, quiet day, and not overwhelm her with anything too much.”

“We haven’t even had a tour yet. She doesn’t even know where the safe spots are. She says she feels like just throwing herself in to it and seeing what happens. That really makes me uncomfortable.”

“Actually, that makes me really uncomfortable as well. I don’t think that’s a good idea. I think we need to have proper safety plans in place. I would prefer if you brought her to the school. She isn’t even in our system anymore. We had to transfer her to the CBE system, so you’ll have to re-enroll her. There will be a lot of forms to fill out”

“I just don’t know how this is going to work. How do we take a girl who can’t even motivate herself to walk up the stairs sometimes to do a whole day in a school? ”

“What is the thing that scares you the most?”

“I don’t know. I don’t even know if my fears are realistic. I don’t think she’s a runaway risk, however I never would have thought she was then either.”

“Does she have a phone?”

“Yes she does”

“What are her triggers.”

“I don’t even know. It could be anything. This is just so unknown. I can’t picture what this will be like. Do you have a nurse at the school?”

“What kind of nurse? Mental, or first aid?”

“First aid. What if she cuts and needs help?”

“Yes. We have people trained in first aid that could help.”

“What if she panics and leaves?”

“We will put a plan in place with her phone. How easy are you to reach?”

“I work 4 minutes away. I don’t want to wait 20 minutes this time before I’m even notified if something happens. She made it to the river last time.”

“I can assure you, we don’t want that to happen either.”

We continued to talk for a few more minutes, and left it at being cautiously optimistic for a trial day with plans in place.

Two more sleeps. I’m scared. Terrified actually. I don’t know what will happen. I don’t want to end up back at the hospital, or at the river for that matter. I don’t want to go through it all again. I don’t want her to cut or self harm because she can’t deal with the pressures of everyday life. I know sometimes I have a hard time dealing with every day life, and I haven’t gone through what she has.

At the end of the day, this is her battle, and I can only fight along side. It makes me feel helpless and wildly out of control. I really don’t like that feeling at all.

Two more sleeps.

Not to many months ago, one of my boys decided to get a tattoo.  Ever since he was younger he had been designing ideas for what would be his first permanent marking.  He would come home from school, covered in designs up his legs and arms, and my only thought other than potential blood poisoning from the ink and lack of complete school work was, “thank goodness they can’t do this on their own when they’re kids”.  Can you imagine?  If he would have been allowed to just go get anything done, (despite the money factor) he would have come home with all sorts of crazy stuff permanently etched in his skin.  He went to a concert once, and the artist signed his arm.  He begged and begged for me to let him have a tattoo over that signature on his arm, and wouldn’t even shower until I gave in.  Despite his stubbornness, I won that battle and we took a picture of the autographed arm right before he showered.

The 18th birthday came, and off he marched to the tattoo parlor, money and design in hand, ready to be inked. ” How hard could it be? ” The question he should of asked him self is “how painful will this be?“  He texted me a few times while I was at work, all excited.  It was the actual day of his birth, and he was fulfilling his dream.  Little did he know how much pain that dream would bring him.

It’s a very difficult thing to watch someone be in pain, even when it’s self inflicted.  It would be a lot easier to be detached and say “It’s your own fault”, or “You should have thought of that first”, but as an empathetic person, it’s pretty hard to watch someone suffer, let alone a mother watch her child suffer.  I came home from work, and there he was, sitting on the couch, holding back the tears.  I took one look at him and knew it was going to be a long night.  He hadn’t decided on the first one being a small symbol – he’d covered the entire calf on the back of his leg.  To make matters worse, a relative had called leaving a message on his phone that was upsetting, and when getting cream for his leg at the local grocery store, a secret shopper though he’d been shoplifting and tackled him in the parking lot, dragging him back in to the store.  (He ended up with an official apology from the market owner, a $25 gift certificate and a job after I was done complaining, but that’s a different story).

Seeing his face, I immediately went in to action.  I had to help.  First the pain killers – lets get on top of it. Next we talked about the phone call and the message, and I dispelled his thoughts of feeling guilty about not wanting to call that relative back.  Next, I let him rant about the grocery store incident.  I let him just go on till it was out of his system, and then went and found the cream he needed for his leg.  When I came home, I sat with him, had some dinner and just reminisced about the last 18 years and how special he is.  The next couple of days was hard for him, but he got through it.  I would have taken that pain for him if I could, but it was something he had to get through while I watched.

When my daughter first started having stomach pain, I figured it was just a regular stomach ache caused by constipation. Eventually as time passed on, the pain got worse and worse, bringing us to the emergency center 18 times in a span of 5 months.  She was treated with Acetaminophen, Ibuprofen, Naprosyn, Naproxen, Toradol, IV Toradol, Buscopan, Morphine, Demarol, and even Fentanol.  The Fentanol worked, but then I learned what it really is and insisted she never have it again.  Despite that, they gave it to her on a second occasion – 3 doses – and I was very upset.  She never had it again after that, but of course, it’s all she asked for. There was nothing else I could do to stop the pain.  I was so incredibly frustrated, desperate for anything that could help.  There were many nights I sat with her, massaging her legs and back, warming hot water bottles, covering her in blankets, and then massaging her legs again.  We would put on some kind of movie, and with the combination of all of it, she would eventually fall asleep, only to repeat things the next day.  The morning would start off at a 2 or 3 out of 10 on the pain scale, and as the day progressed, by night time we would be at and 8 or 9, and sometimes a 10.

One day, I was posting my frustration on Facebook, and an old friend of mine from high school, now in the US, messaged me about some alternative methods for dealing with pain using essential oils.  Quite truthfully, he could have said rub banana pudding all over her stomach and make her dance and I would have tried it.  I eventually met up with his mom, and purchased a very small bottle of peppermint oil.  Sure.  Why not?  It wasn’t going to hurt her.  We met up in a parking lot, and got the oil.  My daughter was in the car, crying from the pain.  I had her expose her abdomen and we rolled on some peppermint from this tiny bottle.  Within about 20 minutes, her pain had significantly subsided.  We were both stunned.  Perhaps this would be worth studying a little more.  (I did study more and came up with great info, but that will be saved for a different blog).

Months of counseling, a long hospital stay, and even more therapeutic work along with consistent use of  poly ethylene glycol (PEG), and  Peppermint Essential Oil (medicinal grade is the only one that worked well), helped her stomach pain subside. For months it was completely gone, and I can’t even begin to express my relief.  To not have to see the miserable pain in her face every day anymore was enough to make me twirl and dance and sing.

Pain and mental health really go hand in hand.  Feel sick, or in pain for any duration, and soon you feel frustrated.  Eventually you start feeling down, and hopelessness can set in.  Over time, depression sets in and you can’t see your way out of the fog.  I have come to learn through my daughter, that the best help I gave her through some of those darkest days was just sitting with her, and being there.  That was probably the hardest part for me, because I’m a do-er by nature – not a sitter.  A hug, reassurance, and just being there for someone can be the ultimate act of love.  We can’t necessarily rescue someone, but we can definitely be there to help them through the journey.

My daughters pain is back, and some days it’s not pretty.  I have refused trips to the hospital, and instead I run a hot bath, get out my oils, find a good movie, some cozy blankets, and some hot tea and we sit.  Sometimes we don’t talk and it’s just quiet, but she knows I’m there, and that’s what’s important. Don’t get me wrong, if it was a safety issue, we’d be back there in a flash.

I won’t lie.  My frustration and exhaustion are very close to the surface, especially when I thought we were past this, but I’m reminded that this is a journey, not a trip.  More research.  More listening.  More counseling, and Dr.’s and programs.  Our journey ahead might be long, so it’s a good thing that my well of love is so deep

I’d like to sit down and have a talk with the world. I’d make sure there were lots of comfy chairs, and tea and cookies so everyone would have a bit of a snack. Snacks always seem to make people feel better.

After everyone had tea, I would bring out blindfolds and have people make their way to a seat. No one would be allowed to see who or what they were sitting next to, and everyone would get to just talk. No questions could be asked about race or religion, and everyone would be given the same 3 questions to ask.

1. What do you value most in your life?
2. What is the most difficult thing you are facing right now?
3. How can I help you?

Imagine being blindfolded then sitting next to people you don’t know. Would you feel comfortable? Would you be scared? Would you be able to say something about the people around you without seeing them? Without knowing race, religion, body size, gender, or sexual orientation, would you be able to say something judgemental or would you have to start out kind?

My point is, and I’m going to be brief, is that when we live in a small box and don’t open our hearts up to possibilities, we rob ourselves and others of happiness and joy. Because we are taught to make judgements based on what we see at such and early age, it’s almost impossible not to form immediate prejudices. With a staggering statistic of approximately 3 seconds to decide that first impression, it feels like we just don’t stand a chance.

Imagine being able to have a relationship with anyone? I don’t mean a romantic relationship, I mean friend or business, even mild aquantance, without what you see as being “good” or “bad” interfering with your decision.

Why are we scared when we see tattoos and piercings? Why does a fat person gross you out? Why does another religion make you feel like you have to defend your own, rather than understand and be accepting of theirs? Why is someone a bad parent because their kids make stupid decisions without taking in to account consequences? Why does sexual orientation make you approachable or not?

Imagine if we could ask those 3 questions, without our own judgements getting in the way. Maybe we could all be friends.

“Of all the days to be running behind!  Why did they have to pick today?  I swear, of all the days they picked the busiest one of the week, but who am I to complain.  Shoot – there’s a stain on my shirt.  I wonder if they’ll notice?  I could wear a sweater….nah….it will be cooking hot in the room.  It always is.  Construction?  Seriously??!!  Of all the days to do construction!  There’s not even a worker on the road!  I didn’t count for 50km/hr.  I can’t walk in to that room late!”

As I hurtled towards the school in my little yellow bug, a million thoughts were crossing my mind.  Today was the treatment evaluation for my daughter.  Time to see where things are at, talk about a discharge “graduation” date, and make a plan going forward.  I knew there would be a lot of people there, so I really didn’t want to be late.  My daughters former principle and guidance counselor, the vice principle and guidance counselor along with the transportation lead from the school division, her current counselor and teacher, and a psychiatrist and counselor from a potential new program.  The room would be full, and I would be there with my daughter, ready to gather information and make a plan.

“Crum – no parking.  Of course not.  No matter – I’ll park on the street.  I’d better downhill park incase my parking break lets go.  You never know with this thing.”  I ran to the door and rang the bell, but no one answered.  Finally one of the school psychiatrists answered the door and let me in.  I walked up the stairs and saw the counselor standing with a woman I didn’t know.  They hadn’t started yet, so I must have gotten there in the nick of time.  Behind a locked door I could see teachers talking while they waited for us to enter.

“Wow, this is a lot of people.  Which chair should I sit in.  I guess here is better then anywhere.  Who do I really want to look at is the question?  I dunno’.  Just don’t cry.  If nothing else, don’t cry – they’ll think you’re a baby. No reason to be emotional – stay strong.  Breathe deep.  My foot hurts.”

The current teacher started off the meeting, talking about the work they were currently doing, and how hard they’d been working.  He emphasized the fact that she’s not unmotivated, but her current state is keeping her from regular school work, and they’d been spending more time on “the human condition”.

“Human condition?  Hmmm.  That’s an interesting way to put it.  Everyone else seems to understand.”  I sat and continued to listen to more of the conversation.  Teachers and counselors chatted and discussed dates, timelines and possibilities and then a question was asked of my daughter.  “How do you feel about the idea of going back to school?”

She began to talk.  I was very impressed at first. “Well, she’s well spoken.  There are 10 adults in this room, and she has complete control over the situation and what she is saying.  Her message is coming across clearly. Don’t cry – seriously – hold it together.   Ok, she’s saying home is safe – that’s good at least.  Seems to be no issues there.”  She continued to explain what her life is like.  How coming to program is the only thing holding her together, and that she lays on the floor and cries for hours every day.  “Really, when?  When does that happen, and why haven’t I noticed.”  She tells them about how accepted she feels at program, and that ultimately, her entire focus for the last year has just been staying alive.  Her message is very clear – she is comfortable where she is, and feels that sometimes it’s not even enough.

My turn to talk.  “Can I say something?”  All heads turned my direction.  “At this point in time, I feel very uneasy.  Tension has been mounting for the last few weeks, and is only getting worse.  We spent her birthday at a restaurant with her crying in the corner, and I declined a trip to the hospital that night.  I feel it was all we could do to get through the weekend.  For whatever reason, she does not feel comfortable talking to me about it, and needs more support.  I do not know how it would be possible for her to go from this to a regular school environment.”

The room was silent for a moment.  A few murmurs and mumbles.  “Seriously don’t cry now.  It’s not a good time for that – don’t cry”, I thought.  I began to bite the inside of my lip to try and choke back the tears.  There is nothing imminently horrible here, so I don’t know why I would cry.  My daughter began to talk again.  “The hard thing here is that unless I’m suicidal, no one takes me seriously, but I don’t need to be on the cliff to be in danger.  If I go to the hospital, and I haven’t run away then there is nothing they can do.  I’m not serious enough.  These programs only think it’s serious if you’re ready to kill yourself.  I’m not there, but I want you to know, this is serious”.  She made her point very well, and as she spoke, I was pretty sure someone in the room stuck their hand in to my chest, and started to rip my heart out, very, very slowly.  “Don’t cry.  You’ve made it this far.  Stay strong.  Don’t be weak.  For crying out loud, suck it up.”  I bit my lip harder.

Different people in the room interjected feelings and opinions, stressing to my daughter that they were hearing her, and that a full and total transition would not be necessary.  Different ideas were thrown out on the table, but inside I knew this just wasn’t going to work.  She couldn’t make it through one evening at the school, how possibly would real life work?  As people talked, I noticed how her body language had changed.  Her knee had started bouncing quickly – first one, and then both, and she had started chewing on her thumbnail.  She was hunched over and was now not making eye contact anymore.  She was folding her hands over her legs, trying to hide the visible cut marks that showed below the line of her shorts.  If I tried to say anything she got very defensive.  “She never chews her nails.  She’s starting to unravel.  Perhaps not a great day to wear shorts.  Next time I’m going to say something.  Hold it together girl, you’re doing great.  This is too much.  The pressure of this meeting is just too much.  Man, it’s really hot in here.  Is there no window?  I guess not – mental health and all.  Seriously, they need a/c in here. I should have brought someone with me.  I’m never going to remember all of this.  I should be writing this down.”

Finally the psychiatrist spoke up.  She talked about a brand new program starting at the beginning of June.  It has 6 bed for kids that would overnight, and 6 more spots for other kids, 1 of which was being held for her.  The program is so new, they couldn’t really even tell us a lot about it, except that a spot was being held for her.  The program, unlike all the others, has no definite end date.  My daughter asked over, and over again, if she’d be able to come there for night.  “Why is she so determined to stay over night?  Can’t she handle it at home?  What’s making it so bad?”.  Finally I spoke up one more time.  “I think I need to emphasize, that we’re on the edge here.  I think you can hear the desperation here.  It’s not really getting a whole lot better.  She needs extra support”.

I couldn’t hold back anymore.  As they all continued to talk, and started to wrap up the meeting, I felt the tears starting to run down my cheeks.  First, one on the left hand side of my face, then one on the right, and then before I knew it both eyes were leaking, and the tip of my nose was burning.  “Good grief.  Stop it.  I need a Kleenex.  Just pretend this isn’t happening.  Don’t bring attention and they won’t notice.  Just wipe the tears and it will stop.  Ok, maybe one more time.  Damn it!  Stupid eyes.  They’re going to notice.  Seriously, just stop!”

I managed to quickly pull myself together without attracting too much attention and the meeting began to wrap up.  The teachers and counselors left the room, and the ADTP team stayed behind to set follow up dates and plan a family counseling session.  My daughter went to gather her things so we could leave.  I quickly took advantage of her absence to stress my concerns with the psychiatrist. “At this point I don’t even know if we could go to the lake for the weekend.  Can I even plan a summer vacation with her?  Am I stupid to think taking her to the lake for a couple of days would be a good thing?  I need you to tell me if I should forget planning anything this summer or not.”  We agreed to keep in touch.

As we left, her counselor remarked, “You did so good today.  You spoke so well to all those adults.  I couldn’t help but notice you seemed uncomfortable, trying to cover your legs.”  They talked for a few moments and my daughter said, “I was fine.  I don’t care if people see, I was just uncomfortable.  I don’t care – I’m fine.”

“She’s fine.  Right.  She just spent an hour convincing everyone she’s not ready, and she’s not fine. She’s definitely not fine.  This is never going to be over.  I just see no end.  She doesn’t even want to be at home.  I’d better make a plan.  I need to keep work clothes in town.  I’m going to need to stay in town and not have to drive home late.  I can’t miss work.  I need a break – seriously, just a small break.  Wow, it’s warm outside.  I wish I didn’t have to go back to work tonight.  I just want to go home.  My foot hurts.”

We got in the car, and drove away.

“Are you ok mom?”

“Huh? What?”

“I said are you ok?  You seem upset”.

“I’m fine – just tired.  I’ll be fine”.

I sit in a room. The walls are a newly painted pale green – peaceful and refreshing. In the window sits a bamboo tree, and a tiny stone Buddha hangs in the window as a symbol of peace. A straw heart with a red ribbon hangs on the wall. There’s a wooden end table with a large old lamp on it to light the room at night. . The window is set at the angle so the bright sunshine can stream through the window throughout the day.

Below me is my daughters room. I can hear the canter of her voice on the phone. There’s an odd chuckle, here and there. I know she’s on the kids help line. She’s been struggling, and won’t talk to me about the details, whatever they may be. I know the outline of the story, but it’s the details that are eating her up from the inside out.

The cutting has stopped, for now, but she’s getting thinner again which is just a different type of self harm. Her birthday dinner was 4 of us sitting at the table talking, and her sitting in the corner of the booth crying and wanting to return to the hospital. “No, I won’t take you back there. I will not sit in a cold room for 9 hours only to hear it’s all in your head. We know what this is from.” “Please, just stop the pain”, she cried. It was a difficult evening.

Today I feel as if my heart is a little bit broken. I’m doing my best to stay cheery, but it’s been more difficult this week. I know it’s wearing on my boys, my fiance, and my family, which wears on me even more. I find myself apologizing for just trying to to be a good mom. I lack the energy to stand up and do.the things that need to be done. Maybe a little cry would do some good.

There is a time when you hold your baby, and you look in to their eyes and promise them you’ll never let anything hurt them. Unfortunately it’s a promise we can’t keep. Somewhere along the lines things just fell apart a little. The puzzle box fell and some of the pieces got lost. Every once in awhile I find one, but the is still the missing few rhat keep me from putting things back together.

I have no reason to be sad – I know that. All 3 of my children are alive, and are, at this moment, not in iminemt danger, and yet something just doesn’t feel right. I can’t quite put.my finger on it, but my spirit is bothered.

The call is over, and the house is quiet. My job today will be to try and fill these walls with sunshine and somehow change the energy. One step at a time. One bit at a time.

To stay in one spot is to drown. If I want to go somewhere different I must swim, so swim I shall. I’m not a great swimmer and definitely no fast, but I can swim, as long as I know there’s an edge. I don’t really like the water, never have, but we don’t always get to choose where we are.

Time to jump in the water once again.

I grew up in a Mennonite home. Our family was based on hard work, kindness, following the rules, telling the truth, and a Christ based faith. There was always room at the table for one more. My dad would have given the shirt off his back for anyone. My mom was a little on the wild side (at least compared to the rest of us), so there was always time for a celebration or some kind of party. We had chores, and I think my first job was selling Regal door to door when I was 7. We went to church Tuesday nights for family night, Friday nights for Youth, Sunday mornings for Sunday School and Service and Sunday nights as well – we never missed. It was unacceptable to be in God’s house poorly dressed so we always had our Sunday best on, and once we were older, if we were well behaved, we could sit with our friends on Sunday night in the balcony. Our pew was second from the front on the lh side, and we’d better not be late or everyone would know.

It was a different world back then. No cell phones or computers, pretty much no electronic technology of any kind. If you wanted to communicate you had to use a telephone, write a letter, or wait till you saw the person next. Girls were girls, boys were boys, and those who didn’t fit in had to hide for fear of unacceptance and ridicule. Bullying was face to face, and as I remember it, was harsh and unforgiving. Fit in or be left out. Don’t be too fat or too thin, too tall or too short, too strict, too straight….the list went on and on with descriptive words to judge and describe you and whatever the world thought of you.

So much has changed – some for the good, and definitely some for the bad. With the invention of electronics, you know longer have to get up the courage to speak to someone face to face. Bullying happens 24/7 with the ability to challenge someone in an instant.

Lives can be threatened and changed in the blink of an eye, with no realization of consequence. Recently, an old friend of my daughters from her last school, was being cyber bullied. The texts floating around were making fun of her for being gay, a fact everyone has known for some time. The rumor was that she was going to kill herself, and the kids were all laughing and thought it was funny. My daughter found out and was horrified. While other kids were laughing, she was ensuring the safety and security of a girl she completely accepts as her friend, a person, and a valuable human being. At my daughters current school (ADTP) they are given the opportunity to introduce themselves using descriptive words so others know how to address them and so there is no opportunity to be confused about who they are. This was quite puzzling to me at first. I always thought we were given a name and that’s what we use, but no so here. In her school you have kids struggling with gender identity, kids who have been abused and mistreated by their own families, kids who have no families, and kids who are.just plain struggling. I’m sure.it’s the same as anywhere, but here they are welcomed and embraced. Piercings, tattoos, colored hair, different clothes – it just doesn’t matter, and when then say no bullying, they mean it. Even the kids hold each other accountable. There is no bullying. They can say “I prefer to be addressed as he, she, they….I’m male, female, bi-gender, trans-gender, pan-gender…..I have an eating disorder so I’m in the bathroom a lot because I can’t poop…..I have hyper sensitive hearing so I wear huge headphones all the time – I’m not being rude I’m just scared. The list goes on, and they truly understand and accept each other. They actually all really love each other. Can you imagine if we had the freedom of that in our every day lives? No judgement for your identity and what makes the you that people see? I know I’ve thought of this in different ways in the past. When filling out forms I resent having to fit in to a “divorced” column because I don’t think that moment should define my life. I don’t check Mrs. because I’m not, but Ms. has a negative connotation. I don’t like my last name because it’s not really mine, I kept it because at the time it was important to my kids and now it’s not. I’m a female, and won’t judge you, no matter what you are, even if the church and religion don’t agree. I eat sometimes because I’m sad. My house is messy because I’m over whelmed and tired. What are my descriptive words and how do I like to be addressed? How do i think of myself? What should you expect? It really made me think. Female, she, kind, caring, determined, spontaneous, hard-working, passionate, soft, old-fashioned, silly, changed….that’s a pretty good start. Can you imagine the freedom on your psyche if we could all just be who we are? How would you descride yourself if given a chance, knowing there would be no ridicule?

The day after any escalation is always unnerving, to say the least. You never really know what the mood.will be like, and you’re never quite sure if you should say anything or pretend it didn’t happen.

“Are you going to call the Dr and tell them what happened?”
“Yes”
“Are you going to tell them who I was texting?”
“I haven’t decided that yet”
“You know I’ll get suspended if you do”.
“You’re not going to get suspended for sending a text. That’s not what I’m upset about. I’m upset that you self medicated without telling me.”
“I’ve had higher prescriptions than what I took.”
“That’s not the point. The police almost kicked down our door because you took extra “sleepy pills”. Your actions deeply affected your brother, myself and a co-patient. You didn’t even ask to take more. That is the problem.“
“Nope. I’m going to get in trouble. I’ve already had a warning. Can’t you just punish me on my own? Can’t we just figure it out? I don’t see what the big deal is. I thought you’d be proud of me. This isn’t my fault. It’s not my fault. You should just be glad I’m alive”.

It’s at times.like these that I have a hard time not laughing. Not because it’s funny haha, but mostly because it’s amazing how once you know about the disconnect between the front and rear parts of the brain in adolescents, the more it shows. How many times have you muttered or thought “How stupid can they be?” Really be honest. Now match what they do with the information that kids don’t have that connect between actions and consequence. “It’s not my fault. I didn’t mean for this to happen”. That statement now makes perfect sense. Of course they don’t mean it to happen. No one ever means for something to go wrong. It absolutely never dawned on my daughter that saying, “I’ve taken lots of sleepy pills. I’m tired, goodnight”, to another mental health patient would result in what it did.

I got the call at 830 am.
“Hello, this is the counselor. We got the message – what happened?”
I began to explain the events of the night before.
“Can you tell me who she texted? Was it a current of former patient?”
“Well……”
“I know you or your daughter doesn’t want to say, but it’s important we know. There are rules for reasons but we can always discuss things”.
I didn’t tell the name, but it didn’t matter. They knew who it was.

I received another call at 1130am.
“Hi there, sorry to bother you, but we need you to come right away.”
“I can’t, I’m at work and in charge today.”
“We need you to come and youll need to take her with you when we’re done.”
“But I’m at work. She’d have to sit here. I can try and find someone to cover me for a few hours but that’s the most”.
“We will work with that”.

My mind was racing. What was going to happen? Are they kicking her out? She’s not suicidal – far from. The context of the text was innocent – it just went bad. Surely they weren’t going to kick her out of the program – I’d be hooped.

When I got to ADTP, I sat with the Dr and the counselor to explain what had transpired the night before. I was concerned about the medication piece. They were upset by the communication. They sent for my daughter and we had a discussion.

“We have 3 things to discuss. First, you know what you did last night was wrong. You’ve already had a warning.”
She nodded her head.
“We are sending you on a reflection (the positive word for suspension) until next Wednesday. You will have pages to complete that need to be brought back. You’ll have a private counseling session Tuesday morning but will not be able to be part of the program until Wednesday when you come back. Rules are rules. The same for everyone here.”
“I understand, it just sucks. It was the first time we had talked since we were warned. ”
“Secondly, we have decided to keep you in program longer – at least till June. Due to the circumstances and everything you’re dealing with, we think it would be beneficial”
“Awesome. That’s awesome. That will be great.”
“Third, there’s a new program starting, and I don’t even know what it’s called yet. There is room for 12 kids, and we’ll be holding a spot for you. It will last 6 months to a year. It’s lead by a Dr here, and she knows the details better than we do so we’ll talk about it down the road a little. ”
“Wow. That’s incredible.”

The rest of the meeting went well. I had to take her back with me, so we chatted for a few more moments while she got her things together, including an “I’m sorry I called the cops on you” cake. We actually had a good laugh about that, because although it may seem horrible, sometimes you just have to laugh.

On the spot we invented a company that would make cakes for akward occasions. My daughters passion and weakness is cake, so her friends bought her one. We started making up slogans like, “Sorry you cut…..”, and many others that were inappropriately funny. The psychiatrist, counselor, and I all had a good laugh, knowing full well the underlying seriousness of it all.

“See you on Wednesday”

Every evening, usually between 10 and 11, I get my jammies on, get a glass of some kind of liquid, and sit myself down in my chair in the living room. It’s usually the time of night when it’s quiet, and I’m not really ready for bed. I usually fall asleep, and wake up a short time later to stumble off to my bed. Not a great routine, buts it’s how it works for me.

“BANG, BANG, BANG, BANG,BANG.”
“What the heck was that? What’s going on? Where is my son? Help. I need help. Who’s there? What’s going on? Who is banging on my door? At this hour? What’s going on?”

I tell you right now. That is one of the worst ways in the world to finish a hard day. As I peeked through the window, trying to keep my knees from buckling, I saw two RCMP outside my front door. Quick thoughts ran through my head. “Did I park wrong? Why are there cops at my door. Those boys! Now what have they done?!” None of the thoughts made any sense, but it’s funny to recall what goes through your mind in a stressful situation.

I opened the door, and stood there now very awake in my nightgown in front of two extremely tall officers.

“Hi, hello?”
“Is this the ____ residence? Are you ____?”
“Yes, that’s me.”
“Is your daughter here?”

OMG! Now what. What can this possibly be about!

“Yes, she’s sleeping.”
“Can we speak to her please?”
“Um mm, no. She’s sleeping.”
“We need to speak to her now.”
“Ok, but she’s in bed sleeping. I’d have to wake her up.”
“You don’t understand. There’s been a text sent that she’s taken sleeping pills. When was the last time she had her phone?”

I’m not quite sure what happened next, but I’m pretty sure I’ve never run a set of stairs that fast before. We have a routine that electronics get turned off and turned in before bed. Things seemed to be going well, and the time had gotten later throughout the week, but I also knew the phone had been turned in for the night. I ran in to my daughters room and say her there, face down in her pillow.

“Wake up, wake up. You’ve got to wake up.”
“Huh, what? I’m sleeping. Don’t bug me.”
“Did you take more sleeping pills?”
“I always take sleeping pills. It’s not my fault. I didn’t do it.”

She was half asleep, talking sense and gibberish all at the same time. I could wake her, kind of. That must be a good thing. She hasn’t been suicidal in awhile. Why now?

“Wake up. I need you to listen to me.”
“Leave me alone. What are you doing ?”
“Did you send a text to anyone saying you’d taken lots of sleepy pills?”

I don’t think I really waited for the answer. I ran upstairs and grabbed the phone, turned it on and ran back down to her room.

“You changed your password. Unlock the phone.”
“No, leave me alone! Fine. Here. ”

I ran back up to the police and gave them the phone. I also told them I had woken her. They weren’t satisfied with that.

“We’d like to see her if possible. Do you mind? Can we go in her room? We need to see her face.”
“Yes, sure. Whatever you need.”

We proceeded to the basement. My son was now awake, asking what was going on. One officer stayed with him asking questions, and the other came with me. In the back ground I could hear, but also had to pay attention to what was happening hwith my daughter. By this time she was starting to wake up. She opened her eyes and saw an RCMP officer standing in her room. He was searching through her phone, looking for messages that would shed light on the situation. She pulled the blanket over her head. What could be worse for a teenage girl then to have a stranger standing over your bed, and you have messy hair, no makeup and pajamas on?!

“We need to see your face. Did you take extra sleeping pills?”
“Fine. See. I only took 1 extra. That’s still less then I’ve been prescribed before.”
“Why?”
“I just wanted to sleep. I don’t sleep well. It’s been a crappy day. I just wanted to sleep.”

“Is this true? How much does she usually take?”
“She usually takes 50mg. One extra would near 75 mg. She’s been prescribed 100 before, we’ve been dropping it down”.
“Who gives her the meds? Do you have them locked away? Is there alcohol on the premises?”
“We both do it. They’re locked away now. There’s one beer in the fridge – it belongs to my son. We aren’t allowed alcohol in the house during this time. It was for the game and is still there.”
“We’ve done some research. There’s a history of mental health? You’re her mom right? Are you divorced? Where is her dad? Will you be watching her? How long will you watch her for? Why was today so bad? Will you tell her Dr’s about this? ”

The questions went on for a bit. After all were answered, and they felt satisfied that she was under good care and was ok. I shut the door behind them, still shaking from the adrenaline pumping through my veins, and went to her room.

“I saw the messages. I know you didn’t mean anything by what you said, but do you understand why you can’t send messages like that? To text another patient that you’re taking “lots of sleepy pills, goodnight”, and then not be able to answer her concerns is going to cause alarm. She did the right thing by calling the police. We’re going to call her now so she can see everything is ok.“

We made the call, and there was a very shaken girl on the other end. We assured her everything was ok, and then I told them they both needed to go to bed and get some rest.

None of us slept well the rest of the night. I continued checking in every 15 minutes till 230 and then not as often. My son and I talked for a bit to try and come down from the fright of it all. My daughter tossed and turned which brought me relief. At least she was alive. I had to believe she hadn’t taken more then she said. I looked at her and debated calling an ambulance, but I knew deep down this wasn’t a suicide attempt. I had to trust this time.

“Hello, I know you’re not open now, but I need to speak to the Dr first thing in the morning. Here is my work and personal number. We’ve had an incident tonight that we need to discuss. Please call me first thing in the morning.”