Happy Death Day

One year.

One year ago today I received a call that changed our family forever.

“Rachel is safe, but….”

That’s how it started.  The dreaded phone call.  But that certainly wasn’t the beginning.

I’ve heard so many stories about teenage suicide explain how no one knew anything was wrong.  I understand how this can happen, and yet this was not us.  We KNEW she was not okay.  We had known for more than six months about her self-harming and had suspected it the previous spring (she lied when confronted about it, but that’s another story).  Her counselors were helping her at school, she was seeing a therapist and she was on medication.

This wasn’t supposed to happen.

But by suppertime one year ago today I had authorized my daughter’s admission to a locked psychiatric unit.  To keep her safe.  To keep her alive. 

By this point I was communicating frequently with one of the counselors at her school.  I had come to dread his calls, not because he was a bad person (far from it) but because he never called with good news.  So when my phone rang that afternoon and I saw his name I wasn’t terribly shocked.  His request that Jeff and I come to school ASAP, however, was very unexpected. 

By some small miracle, Jeff was actually able to answer his phone when I called and he came home so we could go to the school to get her.  Once we got there the counselor informed us that Rachel had moved from ‘suicidal ideation’ to ‘suicidal intent’.  She confessed to him that she had three potential plans for ways to commit suicide, in her bedroom, that we would be unable to prevent.  She had come dangerously close to putting one of those plans into action the night before.  School policy dictates that in this situation he must complete the required ‘suicide intervention’ paperwork, which then required us to take her to the hospital for a mental health evaluation before she could return to school.

Rachel was brought into the conference room with us and this process was explained to her.  As Jeff and I struggled to process what was happening, Rachel looked down the table at me and said “Mom, don’t cry.” 

“I won’t” I responded.  And somehow I managed to keep that promise. 

This is when the reality and severity of her illness sunk in for me.  Not because of the information we had just received but because of Rachel’s demeanor.  Too often depression is thought of as extreme sadness.  Rachel wasn’t sad.  She had what is known as a flat affect, a complete absence of emotion.  And it was terrifying.  The emotional rollercoaster that teenagers are known for is certainly not fun, but it’s at least normal.  This wasn’t normal.  This was so beyond normal it’s hard to even describe.

The drive to the hospital was long.  There are only three hospitals in our ‘area’ that are equipped to deal with this: one in Lincoln, one in Council Bluffs, or (where we went) Immanuel hospital in Omaha. 

Upon arriving at the Emergency Department, I felt that we were out of place.  There were no obvious injuries or signs of illness.  Was this really where we were supposed to go?

After explaining to the lady at the desk that we were there for a mental health evaluation, she nodded and quickly processed Rachel.  A nurse did a preliminary exam while security was contacted.  From that point on, we had a security guard with us until she was within the locked unit.  At the time it seemed ridiculous.  She’s not a danger to anyone but herself, I thought.  But that was the point.  He was there to keep her from trying to hurt herself.

She was required to change into scrubs and then a mental health practitioner met with her while we sat in a waiting area and watched as her apparel was searched by multiple security guards. 

The practitioner came and discussed our options with us: outpatient treatment, partial hospitalization, or inpatient treatment.  I opted for inpatient treatment.

It is as this point that I should note that Jeff strongly disagreed with this choice.  He did not feel it was necessary, but he also knew that if we took her home and anything happened to her I would hold him responsible.  I honestly felt it was the only choice because in the previous hours it had been made painfully clear to me that the one place that I thought she would always be safe, home, was, in fact, not a safe place at all.  Furthermore, I felt ill equipped to determine how to make it safe for her. 

Since that day I have often questioned whether my decision was the right one.  If you ask Rachel she will tell you that at that point in time, it was absolutely where she needed to be.  The ‘return rate’ for that unit seems to be rather high, so I’m grateful we haven’t had to repeat the events of that day. 

A few weeks ago on the way home from her weekly therapy appointment, she shared with me a dream she had had the previous evening.  It was a movie about her life titled “I Lived Past My Death Date.”  She refers to March 12^th as her ‘Death Day’ because she really didn’t think she would still be with us on March 13^th.  By some miracle she is.

That’s not to say that she’s fine.  There is no cure for major depressive disorder and her treatment is ongoing and varied.  But she’s definitely better than she was a year ago.  While I wouldn’t wish this situation on anyone, it definitely beats the alternative. 

It makes me think of the movie ‘Pirates of the Caribbean: The Curse of the Black Pearl’ where Captain Jack Sparrow repeats throughout the movie:

“This is the day that you ALMOST caught Captain Jack Sparrow!”

March 12^th will forever be the day that we ALMOST lost Rachel.  But we didn’t and that’s the important part.  A student at a middle school near us took his life a couple weeks ago.  It’s a painful reminder of what could have been.  But we’ve made it a year.  It was a rough year, but things have gotten better and we have hope that they will continue to improve.

So Happy Death Day Rachel.  We’re so glad you’re still here with us. 

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