Commit Him or Dismiss Him?

waiting-500x500

“At the precipice of all that I’ve worked for, I no longer know what I’m waiting for.”

There are so many kinds of waiting that come with mental illness. Waiting for understanding. Waiting for help. Waiting for forgiveness, for signs of improvement. For doctors and caseworkers who slam the phone down. Waiting for a child who won’t let you see him. For the person you loved to emerge, unscathed, from the one who now hates you.

But there are worse kinds of anticipation. Especially from 3,000 miles away. Waiting for phone calls from policemen who have found Sean, or not. Waiting for hospital clerks to give you scraps of information before nurses HIPPA-up and hang up. Leaning into the bureaucratic silence as shelter workers and jailers and coroners search their list of names for the one that will make your heart stop.

Hardest of all, in many ways, is waiting for peace. It’s not so much that peace is fleeting; it’s just impossible. But that doesn’t stop me from deluding myself that I’ll nestle into it someday. I think it is what drives me to push ahead through cosmically absurd impediments to try to get my son help. It’s the closest thing I have to hope: the idea that through long-term psychiatric care Sean will have some kind of healing and that the collective family nervous system can begin to unwind.

This week the thing I’ve been waiting for is finally come. Through a Perfect Storm of intervention by shrinks and crisis units and conservators and hospitals (not to mention my ex-husband–yes! the bad one, who performed the greatest act of bravery I’ve ever witnessed in rescuing Sean from the street. Read future post!), Sean is going to mental health court for a conservatorship hearing.

Quite unlike the small victories of those 72-hour, or 14- or 30-day holds, this will determine whether he is judged sick enough to become a ward of the state for up to a year, and possibly more. Finally, finally a chance for Sean to get real psychiatric treatment instead of the Fun House of jails and shelters and sidewalks he’s been treated to thus far.

There’s one catch though, and it’s almost unfathomable. California’s General Conservatorship law states that if a judge determines his condition doesn’t warrant Sean  being a ward of the state, he will simply be released. RIGHT THEN. Commit or dismiss. No gray area, no resumption of month-to-month treatment. Just a “Vamoose baby, don’t let the door hit your wheelchair.”

At the precipice of all that I’ve worked for I no longer know what I’m waiting for. Justice? Mercy? Destruction? Shock? Oh, these days are long.

 

 

 

Advertisements

Losing a Child to Mental Illness

dscn6140

“Our love doesn’t stop. It grows around the pain ….”

I had an idea when I started this blog nearly two years ago that I would be brave enough to take some readers on a journey with me to find my homeless son. And I did write it, I suppose courageously, up to a point. I found Sean, but encountered an utterly changed child–delusional, paranoid and ravaged by mental illness and a life on the streets.

In my last contiguous chronicle, I had succeeded in getting intervention by a mobile crisis unit and watched as Sean was shackled in People’s Park and loaded into an ambulance bound for a psychiatric hospital. There my posts ended. At the very beginning.

In the ensuing months, Sean has cycled through operatically horrific episodes of hospitalizations, incarcerations and homelessness. He walked into traffic and was hit by a car and spent 5 months in hospitals only to release himself Against Medial Advice. He is now in a wheelchair, nearly catatonic, refusing help of any kind. He is also in one of the best psychiatric hospitals in the Bay Area, where he is being “stabilized” after his recent admittance. He was picked up in an alley, sitting in his own waste, convulsing.

I couldn’t write about any of this. I just held my breath and blundered through. But I want to now. Maybe not so much the outward journey of negotiating the nefarious mental health system, but what it feels like as a mother to grieve a living child. I have discovered there are so many of us, often sitting alone in our own pain. Mothers whose children are lost to drugs. Or to husbands, or courts, or through anger. Children get lost through our own failings and for no reason at all.

Our love doesn’t stop. It grows around the pain, misshapen, and even strengthened.

Schizophrenia has stolen my son. But I will not let him go.