To the E.R. or Not to the E.R.? That is the Question...

If your kid has fallen off his skateboard and cut his head open (which has never personally happened to me, my kids take after their mother in many ways…they are indoor folk), the spewing blood and open wound would send you to the nearest emergency room on the run.  Why?  Well, to get help.  To have someone who knows how to close a wound, close it.  To have someone with sterile hands disinfect it, so that germs don’t spread and make the rest of the body ill, as well.  Pretty much, a no brainer, right?

Before Cory’s mental illness started, she’d been to the E.R. a grand total of two times- once for a fractured arm, incurred wrestling with her beloved cousin, and once for a lacerated scalp from a spirited rock fight, also between cousins.  In both cases, it was pretty clear that more than a band-aid and some T.L.C. were needed.

It was not always that clear during Cory’s mental illness.  At the beginning, I was so freaked out and scared myself, unable to understand what was happening to my child, I must have called her doctor and his nurse line daily.  I imagine there were impatient sighs each time my wavering voice began reciting Cory’s name, birthdate, and symptoms on the line.  It took a long time for me to adjust to our new normal.  It took time to realize that the question wasn’t “Is she experiencing delusion thinking?”; the question was, “Can I keep her safe?”

I can’t count how many nights I spent awake with her, trying to reassure her that she was ok, that we were ok, and that nothing bad was going to happen.  It seemed the hallucinations and the delusions worked hand in hand, feeding off each other, blending together seamlessly until she could not tell what was real and what was not.  If she began thinking that someone was living in the basement, she soon heard them calling her name, saw them traipsing casually through the house, smelled them, and saw glimpses of their mal intent as they taunted her.  I will never forget the time Cory went downstairs to the laundry room to put some towels in the dryer, and returned screaming, climbing the stairs like a herd of buffalo seconds later.  What had gone wrong?  She’d seen a hand slide under the door at the bottom of the stairs, and seem to beckon her.

Taking her downstairs to show her that no one was there really didn’t work.  In her mind, the owner of the hand was as sly as they were frightening.  She’d simply say they’d heard us coming, and hid…but would be back to get her the next time she was alone.  For she was the one they really wanted.  They might bother me, but only because they knew that she loved me, and that getting me would bring her on the run…that I would be used as a bait of sorts.

Now remember, this all took place during the hellish year we spent trying to regulate her meds.  The voices were on the rampage, tall men in hats, and shadow people were on the loose in the house, and the delusions just moved from one impossibility to the next.  Cory’s brain was so active, she could not sleep no matter what they gave her- barring one unfortunate med that had her so sedated, she had to be taken off of it or she would have been sleeping the clock right around.  So as I took Cory from appointment to appointment, sorted her meds, locked up the sharps, and tried to keep life around the house going- dinner, laundry, family time, I became exhausted.  I was a single parent during this time, so there was no one in the house to break me.  If Cory was up, I was up, period.  My nerves quickly became a jumbled mess.  My sweet girl could be fine one second, walk into the other room, and begin screaming at the top of her lungs as she spied some unwelcome hallucination.

It got so bad that I began to think to myself that the day I turned the corner of my living room, and saw something or someone there, they’d have to ship me off.  Don’t think I didn’t begin to wonder if the house weren’t simply haunted.

During those trying times, I had to decide whether or not Cory needed more immediate help than what I could give her.  It basically came down to whether or not I could calm her, and if I thought I could keep her safe.  That’s not as easy to judge as you might think.  Trying to judge someone else’s internal feelings and thoughts is a big undertaking.  Thank God, Cory and I had the super close relationship that we did.  It had been built over time, brick by brick.  She knew she could tell me anything, no judgment.  If there’s anything I would tell parents, it’s this:  be sure your kids know they can talk to you, about anything.

The other thing I learned how to do was to be a good observer, and pick up on her body language and behaviors.  The more I learned how she reacted in certain situations, the more I knew how to help her avoid triggers, and surround her with calm.

But there were those times that I was completely on the fence.  To see my beautiful, intelligent daughter dissolved into a sobbing pile on the floor- reason often unknown- was heartbreaking, and pretty dang scary.  What do you do when someone won’t –or can’t- stop crying?  What do you do when their fears are illogical, and reasoning with them is not an option?  What do you do when your adult daughter is banging her head against a glass medicine chest to make the voices stop?  What do you do?

So after all those times of having to make the call for Cory, I experienced it for myself a few days ago.  It was a Saturday night.  I was grateful it was the weekend, for it had been a stressful week.  After taking my meds, I laid my head down on the pillow, and closed my eyes.  Within seconds, Cory’s broken and twisted body appeared before me, every detail intact down to what she’d been wearing.  It was like being placed, against my will, into a movie scene, where everything was reenacted…only to me it seemed so real, it was like it was happening all over again, in real time.

I tossed; I turned.  I groaned; I cried.  I covered my face with my hands in the dark, as if doing so would remove the pictures in my head.  I got up, dizzy from my sleep meds that weren’t working otherwise, and staggered to Tim who was eating his late night dinner at the kitchen table.  When he asked me what was wrong, I could only cry, and wail, “I can’t stop seeing her.”  Me, the one with all the words, who says nothing in a group, but won’t shut up one on one…can you imagine?

The thing is that some things are just too horrible for words.  I knew what I was experiencing and I wanted to tell my husband, but I just couldn’t stop crying.  I just didn’t think he would understand.  She’d been taken to the funeral home by the time he got there.  Calling my mom was a possibility, but I didn’t want to wake her, or upset her.  And  I wasn’t sure she’d understand either…Cory’d been covered with a sheet by the time she got to the road.  So there I sat, beside Tim, crying without explanation…embarking on a full fledged crying jag.  Tim put a tentative hand on my leg, and said the only thing he could think of, “Honey, why don’t you just go to bed?”

Obediently, I trudged back to bed, where I lay in misery, my mind alternating between seeing her on the road and seeing her in the casket, until morning.  Dear God, is this what Cory went through night after night after night?  How did she do it?

The next day, I tried to distract myself  by getting out of the house with Jake to run errands.  We hadn’t gotten far before the road flashbacks began, and I soon realized that being behind the wheel was not a safe idea.  Back home, I retreated to bed, crying and holding my stupid head in both hands.  Why wouldn’t these awful memories just go away?  If we can choose to cherish certain moments, why can’t we choose to abandon others?  About the time I began hitting myself on the side of the head, I began to consider going to the hospital.  What would I say?  What would they do?  Would they try to make to go to Fieldstone?  Did I need to go to Fieldstone?

I called Tim, who told me to go, go now.  I held back for one reason and one reason only…fear.  What would they do to me?  Looking back at how that felt, I can only marvel once again at my brave girl.  The way that she embraced help that was there for her, and trusted those who wanted the best for her is nothing short of amazing, because here’s one nearly forty year old woman who was scared to death to go to the e.r. and complain of flashbacks.

I gave myself an hour.  In that hour, I pulled out a book of portraits from one of my favorite artists (Tina Berning, she’s awesome), and crawled into my bed with a sketchpad, and a waterbrush.  I tried to move my focus from those horrible flashbacks to trying to replicate what I saw before me.  At the end of the hour, I was calmer…not wonderful, but better than I’d been.  I decided not to go to the hospital, but to take my medicine, and wait it out.

As I sat up in my bed, staring at the Cory photo collage on my wall, I flipped through the drawings I’d made.  They were pretty decent, actually, even though each one had been made through a curtain of tears, with a huge lump in my throat, and my heart going to beat the band.  As I looked them over, feeling a little proud, to be honest, I wondered how many times art had saved Cory a trip to the hospital, as well.  If she were here, so I could ask her, I think I just might be amazed at her answer.

Love you, Cory-Bird.  You are my heart.