The Midnight Call
“I’m in jail. I need help.”
We were 900 miles away with no more information. It didn’t matter. We needed to reach Nick fast. It was midnight, and my son needed a lawyer.
The next few hours were a scramble as my husband and I researched lawyers in Spokane, Washington. Two rose to the top. We booked seats out of San Jose. We threw a handful of clothes into carry-ons. I left a quick voicemail for my newspaper publisher.
“John, I need to fly up to Spokane. Nick has an emergency. I will call later.”
We dashed to the airport.
The layover in Seattle gave me just enough time to leave messages at the two law firms I scribbled down. I prayed one would call back. It was two days after Christmas.
Once we touched down, I was bombarded with an endless stream of voicemails. My son’s apartment manager left multiple messages about a Crisis Intervention Team trying to find me. I had no idea why.
“I hope Nick is okay,” his voicemail said.
Followed by a Crisis Intervention Team voicemail, “Please call us back right away.”
My hands shook as I dialed the number. I lucked out and reached someone minutes before closing.
The woman explained my son had been transferred from the jail to the hospital. “He was talking gibberish when the police found him in his apartment,” she said. “He broke into a house and vandalized a car.”
She added that a social worker would be there waiting. I took down the fellow’s name and number and gave him a quick call to say we were on the way.
We rushed out of the airport onto the snow-covered interstate toward Deaconess Hospital. Inside the rental car, Ray and I sat in silence. Numb and frightened. The only sound, the crunch of snow as the tires traveled east. Both of us were lost in thought. I was haunted by the last text exchanged between my son and me just before Christmas.
“Please, come home. You’re all alone up there. You don’t have to stay long. I miss you,” I hoped Nick would come home for the holidays.
“Nah.”
“What will you do? All your friends went home.”
“I will just go out and burn down a tree.”
His response shocked me. “What. That sounds terrible. Please come home. I will buy you a ticket.”
No reply.
I stared at the screen.
What the hell. My nature-loving, backpacking son would never say that.
Unnerved, I called. He didn’t pick up. I knew something was terribly wrong.
Startled by the ring of my cell, I fumbled to grab it. It was one of the lawyers.
“Hello, this is Tim Note.” His voice sounded like a Christmas miracle.
“Thank you so much for getting back to me,” I said. “My husband and I just got into town. We’re heading to the hospital. We’re not from here. We live in California.”
My speech came in rapid fire. The connection was poor, and the last thing I wanted was to lose the guy mid-sentence.
“Our son was arrested for breaking into someone’s house, slashing a car’s tires,” I repeated what the crisis team told me. “When the police got to his apartment, he was saying very strange things about the FBI and even stranger things about his toothbrush. The police said he wasn’t making sense. He was talking incoherently.”
“They will most likely admit your son for 72 hours,” Tim said. “During that time, you probably won’t be able to talk to him.”
He explained the hospital would admit him on an involuntary hold to be evaluated. I had no idea what he was talking about.
“The police want access to his apartment to search for weapons,” I told him. This request was so preposterous; I couldn’t fathom such a thing.
“Hold tight and don’t do anything until I get back into town and I can talk to them,” he said, referring to the local police. “I will be back this weekend. I am on vacation in the mountains. I can see you on Monday morning.”
“Okay, I will call your assistant first thing in the morning to make an appointment. Thank you.” We had a lawyer.
My adrenaline coursed nonstop as we closed in on the hospital. The facility looked ominous as the tires labored up a steep, snow-padded incline. Atop the hill, we parked and rushed through the emergency doors in search of Jim, the social worker.
Two distraught parents blowing in with the snow. Overwhelmed and drained from confusion and travel, Jim figured us out first. He began to explain things. I heard nothing. Too anxious for lobby chit-chat, I just wanted to see my son.
Guided to the emergency area, I froze. A security guard sat stationed by my son’s room.
What’s happening here? Is my boy dangerous?
As I moved closer, the guard acknowledged my presence with a nod and politely stepped away.
Under the fluorescent lights, garbed in a flimsy hospital gown, Nick looked like a ghost. His face was gaunt. His skin ashen. His arms bony, one limp by his side, the other picking at something invisible in the air. He looked ghastly.
Then I noticed the cloth strap securing him to the bed. The sight rattled me. Nothing made sense.
Nick stared at the ceiling, unaware of my presence.
I stepped in and whispered, “Hi, Nick. I’m here.”
He turned to look at me. Eyes pained, frightened like a cornered animal.
“Get me out of here,” he hissed.
“What happened?”
“Nothing. I had a blackout, that’s all,” his tone defensive. “I want to leave and go to my apartment.”
“I’m not sure you can go yet. Dad and I need to talk to the doctors.”
“You’re not my parents,” he blurted out.
Stunned. “What do you mean, Nick? Of course, we’re your parents.”
There’s an edge to his voice, a snarl I’ve never heard before.
“No, you’re not!” his response adamant.
“Nick, what are you saying? I’m your mother.”
Ridiculous thoughts raced through my head.
Do I need a copy of his birth certificate to prove who I am? What’s all this nonsense?
Then he added, “Ray isn’t my father. I don’t look anything like him.”
“Nick, that’s not true. Of course, Dad is your father.”
Emphatic and agitated, he claimed we adopted him.
Flummoxed how to respond to his adoption theory, I said, “I’ll be back in a few minutes.”
As I stepped out, the guard resumed his watch.
In the lobby, Ray and the social worker, Jim, talked about options. I slumped into a chair.
“He doesn’t think we’re his parents. He thinks we adopted him.”
My husband stared at me in disbelief.
Reality began to set in. My son had experienced some sort of mental health episode — an event so severe it exploded into a crisis. Still, I didn’t understand the magnitude, and my uncertainty was furthered by Jim’s ambivalence as to whether he should admit my son.
“I’m going back there to talk to him. Let me see what’s going on,” Jim said.
We stared at him helplessly.
At that moment, panic and pain were all Ray and I understood.
“How can we do this?” he questioned, hands folded in his lap, head down.
“I don’t know either, but what choice do we have?” I said. “How do we take care of him away from home? We are in a hotel. He will be discharged and go to his apartment. What if he takes off? Something is really wrong. I am so scared we could lose him. Or something worse. He’s already in legal trouble.”
Terrified and torn, we knew nothing about mental illness or psychiatric care. Jim, our conduit, was the only thing holding this nightmare together.
“That’s it. I’m admitting him,” Jim said re-entering the lobby. “He said you aren’t his parents and he’s the son of a black rapper.”
What in God’s name is happening here?
Dumbfounded, I walked back to see my son.
“Nick, you might have to stay here a while longer to get better.”
“Don’t you dare put me in a psych ward. I will never talk to you again.”
How does he understand this? I barely get it. Did Jim say something?
His words wounded. His threat filled with conviction. I didn’t want to do it. I felt like a fraud and a liar.
“I love you, Nick,” not knowing what else to say I added, “I’m worried about you.”
He turned away to stare at the ceiling. I stared at the flimsy gown barely covering his back. I had no words. I walked out of his room and returned to the lobby.
I am such a coward.
I relayed my son’s comments to Jim and expressed guilt.
“He will get better,” Jim’s voice soft. “He doesn’t mean it. I hear that a lot.”
But I have never heard it. I have never been in this situation. I have never seen those hard eyes, angry demeanor, or heard that snarl in my son’s voice.
“I will tell him this is my decision,” Jim said.
Deflecting the decision onto Jim furthered my sense of guilt and abandonment.
I wanted to believe my son would forgive me, but my heart pained beyond reason. Unable to muster the courage to walk back one last time to say goodbye, I filled out forms. I was told my son would be under observation for seventy-two hours with no contact.
The lawyer’s words clarified.
I stopped by the nurse’s station and asked about my son’s personal items. I wanted to make sure he had his wallet and ID. He did. Only his keys were missing.
I walked out of the hospital into the darkness, trembling, the angry words of my son ringing in my head.
The story is the moment I learned my son suffered from a mental illness. It would throw all of us on a rollercoaster from hell until my son received the care he rightly deserved.
