My children

Tomorrow, we hospitalize our second child this summer.  A psych placement.  I'm doing the unthinkable for me. 

I've been committed to caring for my children at home regarding their mental health needs.  Of course, I would seek counseling and therapy and the like for them. But I would never hospitalize, institutionalize, or incarcerate. 

And I've kept that promise to myself for more than 14 years now. 

I've spent money on elaborate alarm systems to alert me of movement during the night that could end in danger. I've slept tethered to the child who would not remain in his bed, wandering the house to his own detriment.  A ribbon with one end tied around his waist and the other end around my wrist, so that his movement would cause my own and wake me to care for him.

I've lay on top of the child who was attempting to run away in the dark until the child gave up and fell asleep.

I've stood with law enforcement having created a perimeter in the area and a command station in my front yard as a search for one runaway child went on for hours.  In the dark.  I watched as units from neighboring areas arrived to participate in the search.  I agreed with the K-9 officer my knowledge that the dogs were trained to apprehend.  And I've given indication - even permission for the dogs to injure my child should they be successful in their search.  I've prepared with the spokesperson for the sheriff's department for the arrival of the press as the time continued well past anyone's comfort level and into the late, late hours. 

I've watched my beautiful child stand on furniture in the corner of our den and heard that child tell me I was not looking at my child any longer.  But at Satan. And taken that child to the emergency room.  And signed that child out without hospitalization against the advice of eight physicians. 

I've ridden to a hospital in another part of the state where one of my children was taken by ambulance following a series of seizures at summer camp.  Calling the highway patrol on our trip to alert them of our speed exceeding 100 miles per hour and our need for an escort.  I've brought that child home to spend six nights in the hospital under medical surveillance including video monitoring to determine the source of the seizures.

I've driven a child to the hospital, alone because my husband had to stay behind with the others, and had the child stop breathing while in the car seat behind me.  And made the decision to continue rapidly towards the hospital, dodging other cars and running red lights, rather than stop and call 911, having to judge which decision would get my child medical attention the quickest.

I've taken one child to nine neurologists in an effort to discover a diagnosis. Botox injections in the calves.  MRIs with sedation.  A horribly painful spinal tap.  And watched that child daily for eight years not knowing whether that child would live or would shrivel up and die a horrible painful death from a disease that would not reveal its name.

I've sat at the feet of one child during a forensic physical exam where it was determined that the child had genital warts and had been systematically and repeatedly subjected to anal penetration. 

I've sat alone with my child in the hospital pre-op while waiting for the anesthesiologist to come.  Walked with that child to the door of the operating room and watched that child's behavior mimic instant death as the anesthesia was administered, my child's eyes fluttering and body falling backwards onto the gurney.  And caught myself before I hit the floor from the very raw emotion that was uncontainable at such a sight.

I've nurtured a child who was beaten until both eyes were blackened, one swollen shut, and at 12 months of age weighed 15 pounds.  I fed that baby meal after meal and bottle after bottle around the clock until the child was unrecognizable two weeks later except for the yellowing under the eyes from the bruises continuing to heal. 

Tomorrow, I will take the child who was sodomized before coming to us.  Who was burned in a bathtub at 18 months old.  Who had prenatal drug and alcohol exposure, and for whom we were the fifth set of caregivers - our first child - and walk away from the hospital without that child for the first time ever.  I will leave that child in a place that appears to be safe while I worry always that no place is safe for a child like mine. 

And I will go a week or longer without this child sleeping in the room above me.  With an empty seat at the kitchen table.  With an empty seat in the car.  Without the sound of this child's voice echoing through my home as it has for my entire parenthood.

When I look at what I've lived through with my children, I wonder how I could trust the care of any of them to anyone else.  And I know that I'm no longer able to do for this child what is needed.  I had to go to a place where I could no longer care for myself to admit that I could no longer care for all the needs of my children.  

I can logically see, as I will be led to do, that few have traveled the path I have and made it as long.  Does that assuage the guilt I will feel when I lay down tomorrow night knowing my child is alone?  Cannot get to me if needed?  That I could not stay the course until the end?  That I gave up on my child because I finally gave up on myself?  That this child asked me at age two to protect her from the sodomizer.  And I did.  But when it got tough, I did not continue to put my child's needs before mine.

Will I smile this week without shame?  Laugh without guilt?  Be capable of movement?  Or go down with the ship?  Enjoy watching my other children swimming knowing that one is without us, watching the clock, knowing where we are? 

Will my heart that is already so wounded from all I've seen my children endure continue to beat?  Or will this be the final blow to a heart that has seen more than its share of the pain life has to give?