I’ve been composing something in my head—about how Julia new placemet is going and how home is going and generally, although somewhat anxious about the world around us, I am feeling optimistic.  I thought that it might be the entry which would kick off the end of the  memoir that I’ve been working on off-and-on, although for the last few months it has been mostly off.

I hadn’t written this optimistic mostly-happily-ever-after post because I’ve been busy.  Feeling better means catching up and keeping up.  Tuesday night, I congratulated myself on getting my tax stuff together to give to the accountant.  Slowly, I’ve been feeling rather good and almost organized enough to do for myself.  

But you know, the shoes always drop. I’ve been waiting for them.

Monday night, Julia had an extremely runny nose. She had been coughing some a few days before. I gave her some decongestant Monday evening and she went to bed early. When I woke her up Tuesday morning, she didn’t want to get up.  A different kind of not wanting to wake up than usual. And so, I told her to go back to sleep and I called her van ride and her program. John, the program director, said she seemed off on Monday and asked if anything was wrong. He said she asked for quiet space. When I asked her about it later, she said she was not feeling that well on Monday.

She slept all of Tuesday, waking only when I asked about food.  She ate a late breakfast and an early supper, and after each she went back to bed and sleep.  When she woke up Wednesday morning, she seemed well and in a good mood. She got ready and got on the van without any difficulty.

Note: After some behavior, “they”, whoever those in charge are, always ask about sleep and breakfast and getting on transportation, as if they will spot some clue to the behavior that will follow. And so, so many times, I have not noticed any detectible clue. When Julia was younger and there was school behavior, I’d wonder if I was missing the clues.  Kinda’ like the “was I the bad mother?” for not noticing some variation in how she chewed her waffles or zipped her coat.  No one ever voiced my mothering definciencies but that never stopped my slightly paranoid feelings. And I get it, we’d all want to be sure there was some reason for everything.  And maybe if we figure out the triggers or the reasons, the behavior could be avoided the next time. However, for Julia, the behavior seems to just happen without a participating event or clue. So many times, Julia’s behavior surprises me in an of-course-it-is-possible-kind-of-way.  

Anyway, on Wednesday, after morning meeting at The Price Center, Julia went to the first lesson. She was asked to join a goup and reacted badly. She cursed, refused to join the group, asked for some space and said disrespectful things to staff. (She explained later to me that asking her to join a group was what triggered her changed mood but I’m not sure it was really that.) For whatever reason, she began spiraling and even after a phone call to me and some suggestions of what she might do to feel better—get on the stationary bike, listen to music, color—she began saying that she wanted to commit suicide. 

This is a dark place. I need to preface what comes next: Julia has never attempted or planned to do harm to herself. She told John that she was saying what she said to get attention.  Yes, when she is spiraling into feeling awful about herself, she is not able to explain it in words. She cannot sit down, rationally and talk about feeling so badly that nothing feels good. She wants to be made to feel better. She wants the magic of a “cure.”  

The suicide comments surfaced during late high school and during her transition program. Her teachers, aides and therapists grew to understand what Julia meant when she used the language and worked on others ways to say what she meant; however, the last of that work was more than two years ago and she needs a refresher.  I hadn’t thought of even telling The Price Center about this because Julia has not been using self-harm langugage for a long time.

Using suicidal language at The Price Center triggers a crisis response and a 911 call. Julia was taken to a hospital for evaluation and whatever might come next.  Thankfully, it was a smallish hosital and the one nearest to our house. Once at the hospital, she was admittd to ER, put in a little room, changed into hospital paper clothes and asked to stay in bed to wait for the procession of health care professionals—medical doctor, phyciatriactic resident and social worker—to visit, assess and recommend/perscribe. Julia’s Price Center supervisor followed the ambulance to the hospital in case I could not get there quickly enough. He met me at the ER door and we both waited for them to allow us back to see Julia.

I’ve always imagined that Julia would not be able to handle being taken to a hospital and put somewhere alone, that she would esculate further or have a full on melt down, or possibly something worse but when they let us into her ER cubical in the locked section for psych patients, she was settled in a gurney ready for a nap.

We came in, she greeted us like the world was rosy and told me she was starving.

It was past lunch time and she was not allowed to eat the lunch she was carrying in her lunch box per hospital policy. The very nice “patient observer” found a box lunch for her. She ate a sandwich and applesauce. Then she ready to nap, her morning behavior and her hyperviligence having exhausted her. She drifted off until and between medical and administrative visits. I called Julia’s therapist, Michelle, who came over to hang out with us and calm me down.   

We were there for a few hours and time was beginning to lose value when the trinity of PCP, med doc and social worker came through to mostly ask the same few questions. Julia was able to answer some of the questions without much prompting on my part.

Finally, after a few hours and much fretting on my part, they discharged Julia with the instrutions to see her health care provider soon. We went home, Michelle spent some time with Julia, and then, Julia took a long nap. She woke up to eat some dinner and do her Wednesday evening chore while I went to choir. And although I checked in with her often, she was fine.

I, however, remained very anxious. I could not shake the feeling that this was the beginning of a new chapter of life which would be punctuated by periodic flights to ERs triggered by something Julia said or did.  I worried that at some point there would be extended hospital stays where they might try to stabize Julia chemically before releasing her, probably too soon. I was in full catastophe mode as I sat singing in the church hall, almost in tears. I sat and stood and sang and all I could think of was how to get out of there. If I had been near a door, I would have slipped out but there was no way to leave from the middle of the room without attracting attention and probably getting asked why I was leaving.  No one noticed my distress and now, I wondered if I would have been asked why I was leaving. Perhaps slipping out had nothing to do with where I was sitting.

I went to bed still in full catastrophe mode and had some disturbing dreams, but not before I decided that I could not spend Thursday with Cheshire because that would put me 40 minutes from home or The Price Center or the hospital.

Julia woke up on Thursday ready to go back to her program.  She was fine that day and on Friday.  I, however, emerged slowly from my anxious state. You know, there are some rather awful experiences that every family like ours goes through—recognizing that some people don’t want their child playing with yours, IEP meetings where a parent must fight hard for necessary serivces, getting at least one visit from Child Protective Services, answering your kid’s questions about why she is different and why no one invites her to parties or the prom, fighting for some school activity when the teacher in charge says, ‘special ed kids never do that,’ the endless quest of applying for state or federal disability services, and figuring out how you, as parent, will construct your adult child’s future.

Well, this was another one — taken to an ER because of behavior that other adults can’t deal with.  Once admitted, the patient may or may not be admitted depending on what they said or what behavior they exhibited.  And if there was some cure that was only administered to those who were on the precipice of madness, my anxiety may not have gone through the roof, but there is no cure, and hospitalization of patients with mental health challenges does very little for the patient. And in my mind, it would distrupt Julia and our family beyond measure.  

And all of this was my anxiety.

The reality — Julia was not admitted.  She spoke politely to all medical staff, the ‘patient observer’ clearly took a shine to her.  Julia handled herself well.  Once discharged, she dressed and went home with me.  She napped—she was so tired.  She ate supper.  Then I went to choir and she took out the garbage cans for Thursday morning pickup, practiced her cello and made her lunch.  She was happy to greet me when I came home and happy the next day to resume her normal schedule.

It took a day for me to find some silver linings and perhaps the happily-ever-after part of this is my take aways. The first of which is Julia’s behavior in the hospital. The crisis response broke her spiraling and she was able to de-esculate and gain some control of her emotions. The next was the care that John, the director of her program, took with her and with our family.  On Thursday morning, I went into Price Center and spent a long time with John answering his questions and trying to give him a bigger picture of Julia.  The upshot of that meeting was his decision to spend some time with her often, maybe ever every day for awhile, getting to know her. Part of my anxiety was that the first whiff of behavior that demanded more time and energy, would change Julia’s welcomed status. Talking to program directors over the past two years many of whom have come right out and expressed the desire and/or the policy that inappropriate bevahior of any kind was not welcomed. I can feel right now that she has landed in the place just right.

And finally, for a final silver lining that I already knew about, was Julia’s therapists willingness to drop what she was doing to hang out with Julia and I at the hospital and then at home.  Michelle is on Team Julia in a way that makes her one of our family.  And I am so grateful.

And so, this was not the optimistic mostly-happily-ever-after post that I intended to write, but there is more truth and grace to what this became. And for this, I am grateful.