So... here you go!
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I wasn't allowed to stay with him. My not-quite-yet four year old son would be in the hospital without me for several days. Parents weren't allowed to stay outside of assigned visiting hours, and I would have to leave him in the care of strangers. We were four hours from home and my temporary bed would be at the Ronald McDonald House located a few blocks away. Heavy with the knowledge that I would be leaving him there, those two blocks felt more like a million miles. I had no way of absorbing that pain in the moment. I had to be strong for him, and reassure him that all of this was perfectly normal. He takes his cues from me, and I drew on every ounce of strength within me to present myself assured and calm.
After we'd arrived on the ward and been given the tour, a nurse led us back to the main area and I knew it was time for me to leave. He'd lagged a short distance behind us as we'd woven our way through the halls, his ruffled blond hair bouncing atop his head like a buoy in the ocean. Eyes wide with curiosity, he seemed to believe we were on a grand adventure. I avoided looking down at him to keep myself from feeling anything. I was numb; the overwhelming reality of my young son entering psychiatric care had washed over my senses like a sticky film. I'd nodded in recognition when she had shown me the room where patients gathered to watch movies and play board games, and as she led us through the rest of the wing, I'd scanned the halls for signs of comfort and reassurance that my oldest boy, the one who had thrust me into motherhood with gusto, would be safe and well cared for.
We circled back around to stop in front of the charge nurse's desk. I looked down into his bright questioning blue eyes to tell him I loved him and would be back in the morning. My smile felt borrowed from someone else and I knew he could sense my hesitation as he stared back at me. Breaking our unspoken communication, I bent down to pull him close, nuzzling my face into his neck and reassuring him he was okay and I loved him desperately. He was silent and stoic, tilting his had like a beloved family dog trying to comprehend words flung into the air. As I straightened, I was suffocated with feelings of failure laced with the thin thread of hope that maybe I had rescued him. Maybe this time real help would come. This time we'd find the elusive freedom. My heart split wide open under the pressing weight of guilt and shame. Tears threatened to slide down my face, and I refused to allow them access in that moment. Lies of inadequacy hovered around me like thick smoke, and the slash in my heart gave space for them to take up residency. Walking towards the heavy grey metal doors meant turning away from him. Turning from him felt horrifically symbolic and I rebelled against the wretched feeling. I felt as though all of the air had been sucked out of the room and the carpet seemed to stretch in front of me for miles. The rock in my chest grew heavier with each step I took; creating space between us that felt both visceral and emotional. I swallowed and tried focusing on the colorful childish paintings hanging on the walls. Reassuring myself we'd come to a place of help and treatment became my mantra, threading itself through my brain to keep thoughts of panic and desperation from landing. When I finally put my hands on the door, the steely cool of its surface bore testimony to the atmosphere; cold and sterile. Turning my face back to him, I was relieved and crushed to find him still watching me. His features were so baby-like, innocent and fresh. he understood I was leaving for the night, but thankfully, he didn't have the maturity to grasp the gravity of this dramatic initiation into psychiatric care at such a tender age. He stood rooted in the same spot, next to a faceless nurse wearing cheery, bright scrubs. He was so small. So young. How was I to leave him here without me to protect him from unseen dangers, from others who might not understand his behavior and words?! I was pierced again with the default statement I'd adopted as a mother at some point on my journey: I was a failure. I could see him struggling to fight back tears, and fresh grief washed over me knowing I couldn't run back to wrap my arms around him with protection, reassurance, and comfort. There was no comfort for us to be found in that moment, only the stark reality of reaching for support for our future to buffet me from complete wasting.
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