A Different Kind of Loss

When someone says the term "state hospital" or "psychiatric facility", generally you garner pictures in your head of strait jackets and shock therapy.

There is still such a stigma tied to these places.  We did take our son there, and while the buildings were old, they were exceptionally clean and in good repair.  Everyone knew our name when we arrived, from the administrative secretary down to the children in our son's wing.  They had been told he was coming and welcomed him, and us.

There were bright blue benches scattered around the grounds and tulips and daffodils in full bloom.

The doctor talked to me for almost two hours.  He never interrupted, but wrote constantly as I talked.

Because this place is so far away, we can only visit our son on the weekends.

Do I question our choice to place him there?

Yes, of course.  But then I remind myself of what we have dealt with at home for the past four or five years, and of how hard of a time he had when he was home, briefly, from our local hospital, and I would not put him back into a situation where he was suffering.  The truth is that right now, he functions better in this kind of environment, and he needs the help that is available to him there.  We do not have that option here.

This entire situation is a new one to me, and it's not one that families like mine have to face very often.  The emotions that come with it are new, and sometimes terrifying.  The house is quiet.  We have been 24 hour a day caregivers for 11 years, and now we are not.  It feels strange.  It feels empty. His absence in our home is profound in countless ways.  I have laundry leftover that I have to do, and I had to hang some of his shirts up in his closet today.  And that was strange, because he always pulls his clothes off the hangers and throws them around.  But now they're just hanging there.

It's the tail end of spring break, and normally I would be reassuring him about school starting back up next week.  Instead of driving him to school on Monday, I will be going up to the school to withdraw him so he can go to school in the ISD that the hospital is located in.  They do have school there.  And PE.  And art. They also have a "quiet room" with a chair outfitted with restraints.  It's a very last resort, you know, in case the patient is trying to harm themselves or someone else and they've run out of options.  That's a hard thing for parents to see, after they've dropped their child off there.  Then I think about the number of times my husband has had to practically lay on top of my son and hold his arms down for this very reason.  And I understand the existence of the "quiet room", when I think of that.

There really aren't enough words to explain the sense of loss we feel here.  This entire situation is so hard to write about.  But I also feel like it needs to be talked about. Do we know what the outcome to all of this will be?  No, we do not.  And that's the scariest part, not knowing what will happen next, or if we will finally have to come to the conclusion that he thrives in a different environment because he is, in fact, a different child.