The turmoil had reached a boiling point, and it seemed unending. I contemplated searching for those phrases—phrases that haunt every parent’s thoughts. “Things will improve,” I reassured myself, but the situation only deteriorated. Thus, I retreated to a secluded spot in the orchard, away from prying eyes and ears, and typed “child psychiatric hospitals” into my phone, tears streaming down my face.
What would happen if I pressed that call button? My life would irrevocably change, and I’d never revert to what it once was. What kind of parents make such a choice? Who sends their child to a mental health facility? Are they like my daughter—intelligent, compassionate, and lovely, but burdened with a malfunctioning brain?
I pictured her face as I would leave her there, the screams and cries echoing in my mind. She would look at me with a mix of betrayal and anger, asking, “What kind of mother would do this?” The guilt would tear through me like a lightning bolt striking a tree.
This is a story of a mother and father grappling with a sick child in a system where mental health care is scarce. Yes, child psychiatrists exist, but they’re overwhelmed, and many don’t accept insurance. My family would have to shell out hundreds of dollars to secure care for our daughter. The system is failing us, leaving parents feeling isolated in their despair.
How I wish my daughter had a physical ailment instead. If she had a broken bone, we’d go to the doctor, apply a cast, and watch her heal. Friends would write “Get well soon!” on it, and it would truly come to pass. But mental illness doesn’t heal that quickly. It’s a complex web of biochemical issues that can’t be fixed with a simple bandage. Therapy and medication are essential, but finding the right approach takes time.
Maybe I hadn’t done enough as her mother. Perhaps I was too demanding, or maybe I was overly involved.
With a deep breath, I dial the number. The phone rings once before a voice answers, “Psychiatric unit.”
I provide the information he requests, struggling to keep my composure. I don’t know this man, whom I’ll call Tom, but he seems genuine and knowledgeable. I answer his questions while fighting back tears, a lump forming in my throat, feeling like it might explode.
“Has she ever expressed thoughts of harming herself?” he asks. At that moment, the dam breaks. Tears flow freely as I lose the ability to respond.
Tom is patient, allowing me to gather myself. He understands how challenging this conversation is and reassures me he will wait. I finally confess that my daughter has expressed a desire not to live, that she feels unwanted.
As the tears keep falling, I realize I’ve never shared this with anyone before. If I don’t speak those haunting words, maybe they won’t exist.
I learn there are available beds that night. Tom needs to call back, but he’ll be in touch soon. We hang up, and when he calls an hour later, I can’t bring myself to answer. I know my daughter needs help, and I’m committed to finding it. I’ll call every resource available until I find someone who can assist her and accept our insurance. I’ll cry myself to sleep, all the while holding onto hope.
I will advocate for her happiness for as long as I live because I am her mother, and she is worth every fight.
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Summary
This piece vividly portrays the emotional turmoil of a parent seeking mental health care for their child amidst a flawed system. It encapsulates the heart-wrenching decisions faced by parents and the struggles of navigating mental illness, ultimately highlighting the unwavering love and commitment to their child’s well-being.
Keyphrase: “mental health care for children”
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