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Thursday, August 25, 2016

Those Words.....

I would think it as an injustice to myself to reframe from writing when for all matters---I write inside my head every night to no one-filling spaces into my subconscious for later dreams, and in some cases, feeding my nightmares.
Not today, I say, not today...

An update regarding prior post's titled (Tell My Mother i Love her).

My daughter is on her second antidepressant pill, changed from the first one of which made her question who she was, why she couldn't cry, and found herself battling mind blowing headaches.
This second pill had different affects, she was more herself, though, (at a shrill ) ten fold, unnaturally. Then paranoia set in fierce, of which created chest pain, and long hours on and off the phone trying to calm her down from various locations-work-boyfriends. It was a trying week with my heart bending and breaking. Somehow I managed to be a voice of reason for her, but the text messages still came in, just not as frequent. I can't tell you in precise words how it feels to watch your child suffer. But I refuse to think it'll get any worse, even if it does. And I refuse to give up wholeheartedly-this is my child.

She's a third week in on this second pill and I think I see a bit of a better change, however, our waiting on help for her has set her back today. I can't tell you the frustration we have with attaining help through Mental Health here. The waiting lists are long. It makes me wonder how many people take their life before they can get help. Today my daughter said, she could kill herself faster than getting help. Those words from her lips took the breath mine, and nineteen years flashed in front of me, "but you won't.." I said. "No..." she said.

***

That's all for today. I know it'll get better. I just know.

Dee~





Sunday, August 7, 2016

Conclusion of; Tell My Mother I Love Her...

Continued; part 3 Tell My Mother I Love Her...

My oldest daughter and I arrived at the hospital in record time. We stood at the information counter when I noticed a familiar face from behind the counter-she gave us a small nod to indicate she would send someone out. (It'll always amazes me how many times I see people I know in work-places here. It reminds me that I live in a small city, and not the big city from which I originally grew up).

 The doors next to the reception desk opened and a nurse approached. Every fiber in my body was alert and screaming, I could hardly keep it together. I could hardly believe we were there!---when suddenly the nurse announced to us that my daughter was finally asleep.
 I broke into tears that I had been strictly held back prior. I had pictured in my mind just then, the emotions that my younger-daughter must have endured alone before we came. I remember her phone call around 12am, she had said she arrived by ambulance around 4pm-she had to fight for her phone, they took everything, including her hair tie to wrap up her long-red-hair.
 I begged the nurse to let me in to see my daughter, she paused, then let both my oldest-daughter and myself in. I almost ran.

Curtain six-near the nurses desk was partly open. I swept in and knelt down near her bed facing her. Her eyes were closed with a single white sheet over her body that trailed up and around her head, as if for protection. I wanted to burst into tears just then, but I didn't. She opened her eyes and looked at me, then she looked over at her older sister, then immediately sat up. Words came to her in a rush, they spilled out in a story of desperation, the kind of desperation you get when all is taken from you and no one knows.
And then she began to tell us about how poorly she was treated after she was place in the hospital emergency, not forgetting to include also the (kindness) from one police officer, and one ambulance attendant who arrived at-boyfriend J's house-to find her naked in the bathtub with a half-empty-bottle-of-pills already swallowed, of which J struggled to get out of her hand.

When she finished purging her ill story from her hospital bed, I immediately found a nurse who could explain to me what transpired once my daughter arrived at the emergency-ward. I was told twice over by two nurses that, its difficult for people in her position to come in here and have all their possessions removed-for safety reasons. I understood, however it wasn't what I was asking. Neither nurse's would address the unforgivable conversation the acting head nurse had with my daughter before I arrived, which I found sadly, typical, as if we hadn't been through this one particular hospital in the past with the same familiar exemption of compassion. I left the nurses station angry and defeated, and climbed into the hospital bed with my daughter.

***
Today, seven days later, I sit here at the computer while She, my youngest-daughter, text's--from J's house (I love you). I panic a little. I sit there looking at the text trying to convince myself things are okay. The last text message was on that ill fated Saturday when she declared she loved her father and I, and missed us already. I sent her a text back with all my love, then I sent another one to make sure she was okay.
 I wanted her to stay home all week so I could stay close to her, but J took time off of work this week, so she left with him last night to stay the night. There isn't much we can do but respect her decisions, she's nineteen, and considered an adult in British Columbia-course, it doesn't keep my heart and stomach from fraying being without her.

Her text messages come to me with perfect images-she's doing her make-up sitting in J's living room sipping coffee, and looking out the window at the moving freeway traffic across a the corn field. But I feel more than I see, and I know she's thinking, so I keep the dialogue open and wait for her reply. In the meantime I scanned Pinterest for an image of a-Lily in the valley-she reminds me of one. I came across a photo of a tattoo with Lilies of the valley on an arm, and I imagined it---on my arm. For a moment my heart moved in such a way I thought I would cry, then I received a text message back from my daughter saying----
"I would like sometime if i ever get spare money to get a tattoo on my thigh to cover the scars. Help me mentally heal-not having to look at them."

It was then, after I read that, that I remembered her moving in her hospital bed and noticing a few nasty red lines over her upper thigh. She hastily hid them when my eyes made contact. She's done this before, years ago. I should have known. I should have. Should have. I should have.....

The rest of the text message was about, what flower and colours she would chose for her future tattoo, of which I encouraged in the keeping of things to look forward to, something she mentioned to me the other day-she needed to feel there was something----to look forward to.

Continued; part 4-Tell My Mother I Love Her...

Day eight. I don't really want to write this anymore, though, I know there's things yet to be said, or purged, so to speak.

She, feared the morning; thought she would have to face it without her mother. She sat there alone and cried from 4pm until midnight with little to no one stopping to let her call her parent's, or say a kind word, or hold her hand, or, or, or......
Eventually She requested the head of nursing staff, an older woman with spiked hair, to allow her a phone call to her mother. The nurse hovered over her while she made the call as if she were a prisoner. And although I understand why they take all possessions away in this case, it doesn't take away the shrilling emotions of a nineteen-year-old trying to get in touch with her parent's. That aside, it was what the head nurse said to my daughter that sits on my tongue like a hard-sour-candy I want to spit out----
" There's no need to bother your mother, she won't sit here all night with you. And we'll see about your tests in the morning, and what you've done to your liver. You'll have to live with your consequences. Do you want drugs to sleep?"

I have-never-ever-hated someone so bad in my life as I do this one nurse. These words here will not be the last words spoken, I reckon they'll find an avenue to this nurse in due time. That said, both my daughter and I feel tremendously ill knowing others may come across the same dispassion concerning patients whom attempt suicide.

The morning came and I was right along side of my daughter. The acting doctor arrived and signed her out, her medical tests came back fine. Next to see her was the psychiatrist-a nice man with a thick accent I could barely understand. I left the curtained room to give the two time alone. About fifteen minutes later the man found me and I followed him into a quiet room. He said he was happy with my daughter's answers and was going to release her. She would be relieved-she feared the psych ward. I thanked him and proceeded back to curtain six where I found my daughter with a councilor, a woman of sweet nature, and who had our local University in common with my daughter.

Between the councilor and the psychiatrist we were left with pamphlets with information that would steer us in the right direction in getting for my daughter. Unfortunately someone dropped the ball by giving us a pamphlet that only pertained to teens up to eighteen. We did though, have other information that might be useful, but one place had a whopping three month wait, and didn't deal with suicide, and the other place had a wait too, but would see what they could do. The next call was to her family doctor's office-my daughter's work was requesting a doctors note for her absence. I got that usual grumpy lady on the phone. She said they were all booked up, until I mentioned what happened. Even still I couldn't get my daughter in that day. I asked the doctor's office if they could pass our doctor a message of what happened over the weekend, her answer wavered, in fact, I don't think I really received a quality answer at all. Meanwhile my daughter and her boyfriend were stressing all over town trying to get into a walk-in-clinic for a stupid doctor's note for her work, to no avail. Eventually they went into Her work and explained to her manager, where she said don't worry, get it when you can.

The next day was my daughter's appointment with our family doctor-she went in alone, leaving her boyfriend in the waiting room and me on pins and needles near my phone. He finally recognized her for what she had, depression, and talked with her at length. He then made an appointment with a professional and prescribed her an antidepressant, something I feared, but now hinged on with hopes that it might help in her quality of life. I wouldn't let her drive for a few days because of it, and I tried in vain to keep her home, but really, I can't keep her forever, as much as I really, really, want to-that's a mother's agony for you. What she wants isn't always me. What I can give her isn't always what she wants. What she really wants is to wake up in the morning occasionally, along the side of her love. And he's been a fine man all along.

I need to end this writing for now and move on for my own mental health-I'm needed, and I'm bound and determined to be there for my daughter.
 I need to block out the horror of which finds my mind at night, and in a sickly stomach in the morning. I need to stop thinking of Her pleading to the ambulance attendants to tell her mother she loves her, when she thought she was dying. I need to stop the images of her crying for her mother in the hospital when no one would listen. I need my daughter to see that she is beautiful, truly beautiful. I need her to be happy and confident with her self-image, and I need her to pass a mirror and smile. I need her to love herself again. I need to get her the best help. I.....need my daughter and every other daughter out there holding a mother's hand to know, that their not alone. Oh, god, your not alone...
Last night my daughter took me to a place she once visited up high on the mountain to gaze over the twinkling city. In standing there in awe, breathing steady in days, out of the night sky soaring low was a meteor, a glorious ball of flame with a beautiful glittery tail. "Ah"...I wouldn't be anywhere else but in the moment with her. xo

D.

Friday, August 5, 2016

Continued;Part2-Tell My Mother I Love Her...

Tell My Mother I Love Her...

I couldn't think of nothing else, and still can't, in those haunting words days later when she told me what she said to the ambulance attendant, "please..tell my mother I love her."

The bile that surfaced was acrid and familiar, I choked on it Saturday night when I received her desperate phone call from the emergency ward. And I choked on it again while my oldest daughter carefully navigated us down the dark-dirt-road near the Coquihalla river from which we were camping at. Miles from home, miles from her, in the middle of the night, in the middle of nowhere, gagging back that bile while her older sister and I crept silently to the highway.
 I had million things go through my head, but mostly shock. I tried in vain to keep my oldest daughter focused on the dark road and not on my emotions from which were trembling at a shrill, and reverberating throughout my body. I couldn't imagine what she was thinking at this moment, she just gripped that steering wheel and looked forward. She's a brave one, my oldest, she's been through plenty. At that moment looking at her across from the passenger seat, I was enormously proud of her and her will to keep it together. I hung onto to her quiet emotion and gained a bit of strength, then threw up at the gas station.

***
Our drive with our Mac Donald's coffee continues-my youngest daughter in the passenger seat-

The long mountain road comes to an end. You can either go to the left over the bridge to the nearest lake, or you can turn right and head back towards town-we chose to go right, and went a little ways, turning off into a parking lot that straddles the river and a long walkway popular to the locals.
The dark of the night hadn't come upon us yet, but you could see through the gloomy clouds that the sun was slowly saying a-good night, though, people weren't shadows yet.

She stopped at a black berry bush and plucked a few berries off and popped them in her mouth. I stood quietly watching her. She reminded me so much of her father, he too loves the wild berries.
Everything seemed so normal in the moment, so much so--that I was beginning to think the weekend was just a bad dream-that it didn't really happen.

***
It's six days later and it's another tough day. Breathing is hard and I feel sick.
 I think of mother's all over the world going through this, and visualize a hand stretching out in the knowing. I suppose in some ways this is why I have found myself here-we all have a story to share.
I realize deep down that its important to tell (that) story from a mother's perspective, no matter the guilt and pain that's felt in the process of expressing the feelings that are--your own.

***
Back to Saturday, seven days ago when I received her phone call. Another morning with which I'm trying to keep my head above water.

I received a text from her late in the morning on Saturday. It was an ordinary text of love, nothing unusual. We often pass love between us when she's staying at her boyfriend's house, or at work, or at school.
The text said, "I love you&dad so much. And I miss you already!"
My first thought was, how sweet, my next thought came lightly, just a small thought, in how she was missing us so soon when her dad and I had only left the night before. It was a bit strange, but I hadn't thought further on it-I texted love back to her. She-was at J's house for the last few days (her long time boyfriend) and didn't want to come camping.

I received a phone call from her around 12:00 am Saturday night, the same day she sent the text.
I had just set aside a book I was reading and turned out the flash light in the tent. My husband snored beside me in a heavy sleep, he had drank off and on all day, where I had coffee, keeping me up late.
The phone call from her came through the phone in a frantic voice, I couldn't at first understand what she was saying. She said she had to beg for her phone to call me, that the nurse was standing there to get it back from her. The rest of what she said turned into a mother's nightmare-my mind was a shrill. I had only myself to get to her, and we were miles and miles away from home. She didn't think I could come to her till morning when the phone was taken from her, and I died inside a thousand deaths.

To be continued....

D.



































Wednesday, August 3, 2016

Tell My Mother I Love Her......

The first place we stopped was the gas station-ten bucks would top up the gas-tank for our drive up into the mountains, and hopefully to a trail of our choosing that would change the putrid chemical circulating in our bodies.

Everything seemed normal-we chatted while I pumped the gas and she washed the wind shield-I laughed when she laughed when the windshield wiper fell off into her hand, and again we laughed when I almost drove away with the gas flap open. It would seem either of our heads were on straight, and we knew it, but as usual laughter won out. Everything seemed normal.

We had two free coupons for coffees at Mac Donald's. Normally we would pick up our coffee's at Tim Horton's, but (free) won out. The conversation in the drive-threw was based around the rattle of the car in the engine compartment. We were like a two-bit-mechanic honing in with a perked ear. It was only when we received our piping hot coffee's did we abandon the rattle for what it was, old age.

It was a comfortable, cool evening, the clouds had wandered into the valley over the stretch of the day- making our August the coolest on record. It was hard to believe the day before was hot and sunny.

***
 I had rounded up the young adults of the family to meet up at the lake for a BBQ dinner that night, which almost never happened out from the crowds that flocked to the lake from every city gateway along the freeway.
Eventually, however, we did have that dinner. The boys threw a football around and later went swimming. A boat, a small distance away played a Shania Twain song that echoed across the water. I smiled in that tiny moment and looked back to the picnic table where my youngest daughter sat in a lawn chair with her face buried in her knees. My secretive efforts to bring all the young one's together for comfort foiled. She wouldn't be bringing that kayak to the beach to join them. She would sit there in her torment.
And I----well I would cry a million tears silently inside.

***
To the mountains with our Mac Donald's coffees ( two days later).

We turned off of the main road of town and onto a long road that follows the rushing river in an almost absent, slow climb through the mountains past dots of river homes and tiny communities.
 Partly up the road at a small park that we have never adventured before awaited a trail I assumed hugged the river through the trees from the parking lot. I was excited to take her there, and was disappointed when we arrived to find the gate closed for the night (dust it said on the sign). I should have known, course, it was still light out. None the matter, however, I turned back onto the mountain road and proceeded on with our adventure.

"Have you ever been up this way?" I asked her. She said no, and I turned off the mountain road and followed a meandering road up and then down into a hidden community of homes nestled along the river.
A small gravel pull off at the edge of the river found my car. I put the car in park and got out, hoping she would follow-she didn't. I lit a cigarette, probably to her dismay, but I couldn't help it. I stood for a moment and looked across the wide river with its wild colours roaring and tumbling. The mountains that stood before me were close and mighty, almost as if from another time, another world-withstanding, and holy. I pictured myself at that moment falling to my knees in mercy----but I didn't, instead I walked away from the car along the gravel pull off until I stood in front of a rustic, wooden sign that looked to have been made from one of the locals. At the end of the wooden pole was two wooden arrows stating the names of the two different mountains- one arrow pointed to, and read (Church) mountain.

We made our way back out of the little community along the river and back onto the main mountain road. I glanced over to her for a quick moment and saw the little girl in her-the girl who needed her mother-the girl who at nineteen had soft-blue smudges under her eyes against her porcelain skin attached to her frail body. The girl with the lost and desperate eyes. The girl, who's mother was quietly floundering herself in her own despair. The girl. The girl.....

We had woven along the mountain road back towards the town. The road was long and flat and easy to drive, giving way to conversation. It was all normal again. The air in the car wasn't sad with made-up-lyrics in our heads that only she and I could hear, it was, or seemed, much lighter as if we've come right out of a tunnel and into a vastly open valley.
And then it all changed in a moment.

Along the way she began to speak of a night four days ago with which I knew--with the spotty information I already had, that I wouldn't be able to bear hearing more of. In fact? I secretly willed her to stop. I might of even said it outside my head-I'm not sure. All I could hear in my head was her voice saying, "please tell my mother that I love her."

To be continued........
















Tuesday, August 2, 2016

~

Its those people who look for you when your gone, that touches your heart in a way where it threatens the core from which you grip to find strength.
 Its a floundering of feelings with which you feel the urge to scream out---and yet at the same time, though time doesn't really matter, you want to hide as to not draw attention.

And yet, here I am.....I've had better days than this. And I'm sure I will again.

Dee~