This post isn’t written for the trolls, who haven’t a clue what we try to do. It isn’t written for adult adoptees, ex- foster kids, or even adults that are trying to fix their own childhoods. This written for the people I have been sharing our life with for the past two years. The people that have come to care about me and my family. If you are not in that last category, please move on. This is not for you.
Thursday afternoon, I decided to hospitalize Hope. I had some people pushing me toward it and some people pulling me away from this decision, but it was my decision and mine alone.
Hope and I were the only ones at home. GB and the Dad would be home in a couple of hours. MK and Mali were in the pool with friends. They were loud, they were horsing around and I wanted Hope to hold it together until The Dad and GB were home. I knew if she went in the pool under those circumstances, the odds were high we would have an explosion when I had to take her out. So when Hope asked if she could go swimming, I told her she would have to wait until GB came home. I told her GB would be home in less than two hours. Hope started throwing stuff at me; a shoe, a bottle, a remote control, a doll. I could have taken her down and kept her from hurting either of us, but I chose to call the crisis line for reinforcements. I did not want to have to restrain her for two hours by myself.
Tactical mistake. I sat down across the room and pressed the button for the crisis people. Hope ran across the room and started punching my face. My call went through and as soon Hope heard the workers voice on the other end, she completely lost it. I was bitten, clawed, had my hair pulled, punched and kicked. The waiver worker said it would take her twenty minutes to get here. Hope continued to attack me. At this point, if I tried to restrain her, I ran the risk of hurting her. I was sure, to my very core, that I could not continue to get beat up. I called New York Presbyterian Hospital admissions. As Hope screamed and continued to attack, I answered all the intake nurses questions. I had her psychiatrist number, so they could get her clinical information. The intake nurse said it wasn’t necessary, she already had every thing she needed. When I hung up, Hope stopped attacking. She asked me who I called. I told her the hospital and that she was going to the hospital because she couldn’t continue to hurt me. I reassured her I loved her, I was her Mommy and she would come home, but the hospital was a done deal.
It took another day to straighten out the insurance. The Dad did most of this work. She was under control the entire day. She could talk about being nervous and a little scared. We just kept following one step after the other. I was slightly worried that because she was no longer attacking me, they might not admit her, but I didn’t even consider changing my mind. Hope’s psychiatrist is starting the process to put Hope in a local (20 minutes away) RTC that she works at. We need to get our structure back and end the chaos at home. Hope will come home again, but the bald truth is that while she has started attaching, she is more likely to hurt someone now then when she came home.
Thursday felt like failure, but at the same time I knew I was doing what need to be done. Hope is in a single room, monitored by video cameras. She is safe. Hope has had a good day at the hospital, except for peeing. The whole thing sucks. However, I am the adult and I have to make the best decision out of the choices I have available. Waiver people, the shrink, and the hospital all said it was time. It doesn’t really help, though, because I have to live with the decision.