She Is Not a Duck, Part 12

A Mother’s Journey into the world of Mental Health and Spectrum Disorder Challenges

She walks like a duck, talks like a duck, but she is not a duck.

Chapter 11 “ Go South,” They Said

It certainly seemed like everyone I questioned regarding the availability of Mental Health supports, schooling, and specialized care for Sarah had the same answer.

“The further south you go, the more choices you will have for her.” It was portrayed, time and time again, that the Promised Land of psychiatric care could be found in Florida. The care there was more progressive and accommodating.

This weighed heavily on me.

Have I investigated every single possibility in New Jersey? Would relocation be detrimental to our other kids, especially our oldest who would only have 2 years left until graduation if we moved at the end of this school year?

It was either ironic or divine intervention, that my oldest daughter who was a sophomore in High School, was being bullied. By a boy. He would shoot ‘paper wasps’ at her and she was coming home bruised. A paper wasp was a carefully folded piece of heavy paper that resembled the paper footballs of yesteryear. He had bragging rights for being an accurate shot. His slingshot skills resulted in a stinging sensation when the wasp made contact.

The school said they would address it if and when they could witness him doing it. In other words, they weren’t going to do a thing even after seeing the bruises, on several different occasions, that my daughter suffered.

We were in the throes of researching our options both at home and in Florida. Surely the cream would rise to the top.

Disaster Across the Board

Sarah was dark, so very dark. She was experiencing a particularly difficult day filled with anger and tears. I was able to take her into Philadelphia for a crisis appointment with her psychiatrist.

She no longer resisted appointments because we had come a long way in learning how to navigate her illness. She had reached a point where she wanted to know why she felt the way she did and why her world would crash down around her.

She, too, wanted a break from her illness.

And though we wouldn’t get answers, some appointments would result in enough relief to get her over the hurdle.

Once we were in the elevator, with a new prescription to try and a sliver of hope, my phone rang.

My oldest, in the middle of her school day in New Jersey, was being rushed to Cooper Hospital and Trauma Center because she was shot in the eye with a paper wasp. There was great concern, lots of blood, and they were bypassing the local hospital to take her to an ER with premiere Eye Surgeons.

My heart rate shot through the roof.

I needed to react.

I can’t react.

I had acquired the skill of stifling.

The first thing I learned about Sarah’s anxiety outbursts is that they directly correlate to the energy around her. She is already dark. I need to remain calm.

“We will be there in 20 minutes. We are just leaving Philadelphia now,” I softly stated to the school nurse.

Sarah is instantly agitated again and professes death to the boy that hurt her sister. I tell her it’s our job to stay calm so we can get to the Trauma Center safely. “I am sure your sister will be fine and she needs us to be strong. We don’t want to upset her more.”

It took everything in my power to keep Sarah from crashing again as we drove through the side streets of an active high-crime city. It looked like it, too, and she knew of the news reports. She was sure we will get shot. I assured her we won’t. What do I know, really?

We finally got to the ER desk and saw the school nurse who explained they arrived minutes before us and my daughter was on a gurney in the back. She appeared harried. She had good reason.

I was still calm. I had to be. I needed to see my daughter.

My heart was racing with fear and concern. For both of my daughters.

I said a silent prayer for Sarah to stay calm.

We were in the early part of the year 2010 and in the throes of the Swine Flu pandemic.

The registration nurse told me that in no uncertain terms, would Sarah be allowed to join me to see her sister. It’s actually against the law, because she was under 18, and the CDC determination for containing the Swine Flu prevailed. She must stay in the waiting area of the ER.

I looked over to the room full of strangers and instantly knew that this was not an option.

Through my tight mouth and clenched teeth, I practically hissed at the nurse. “I don’t care if you get her a bee keeper’s suit, double mask her or surround her in bubble wrap. She is coming with me. I need to see my older daughter, now, and you can call the police if necessary. Have your Head of Psychiatry come down here, or check with her doctor in Philadelphia. We just left the office from a crisis appointment. I cannot leave Sarah here as she is suffering as well as my daughter in the back.”

My practiced calm was cracking.

My voice was quite low and very controlled but I was visibly grinding in determination. I meant business. I let my dagger eyes speak for me and add the unseen punctuation marks.

After a small huddle of hushed voices, the staff masked her and let her stay by my side.

Once the dust settled and I got both daughters home, there was an immediate conflict.

The girls had bedrooms next to each other with a Jack & Jill bathroom in between to share.

My oldest daughter was sandbagged in her bed, propped up with her head stabilized in one place. Any movement was forbidden. Her pupil was ripped and her retina was damaged. Her cornea scratched. Her eye pressure would build as well as the pain. Injury-related glaucoma, they said. I needed to administer eye drops every 3 hours. Even bandaged, she was extremely sensitive to any light, anywhere.

Sarah required light, almost at all times. Darkness triggered her.

They practically shared the same space.

The elementary school called within an hour of getting everything set up at home. My son had run into the end of an uncovered and jagged-edged pipe on the playground. He was now missing a chunk of his leg and needed immediate transport to the local hospital. He can’t walk.

I looked at my husband, who arrived home around the same time as the girls and I had. As I fought back the tears of exhaustion, I simply said, “it’s your turn.”

Our decision was made.

We started scheduling flights to look at the homes we found online.

In Florida.

• Thank you for joining in part 12 of my series. We will travel through the hallways of the psychiatric world, the school system, and our family dynamics. I look forward to sharing more and hope you will see that none of us are alone.
• To continue reading the series ~ access She Is Not a Duck, Part 13 HERE
• Please access the link below if you need to start with the Introduction to the series and many thanks. Each subsequent Part will also be linked at the bottom of the story, upon publication, for continuity and convenience.