It is Thanksgiving eve. Tomorrow a good portion of our nation will feast on turkey and mashed potatoes and pumpkin pie. Where we can, we will be gathering with family, friends, and neighbors to give thanks for our many blessings. This year I am brought to my knees with gratitude that my family - my three kids, their father and myself - will be together. Eleven days ago we were nearly planning a funeral.
I had a day full of plans on November 15th. A friend was soon to turn fifty. I was going to meet the girlfriends, road-trip to Bonneville Hot Springs for a celebratory lunch, indulge in soaks and wraps, then head back to Hood River for the birthday party. Most likely I wouldn't have been home till eleven pm. I composed a quick text to my presumably sleeping seventeen year-old daughter - "Heading out. See you later tonight." I was just about to hit send when something told me to go upstairs and say goodbye in person. I knocked on the door. No response. I heard a weird clattering noise that sounded like a manual typewriter. I knocked again. Still no response. So I opened the door. The noise I was hearing was the body of my precious baby seizing so violently the bed was rattling. She was completely unresponsive, choking and hypoxic. Holding her head in a position to maintain an open airway with one hand, my phone was, thank god, still in my other hand. I dialed 911 and in no time Hood River's finest EMT's were on the scene. She was transported to the local emergency room, stabilized and the next day we transferred to Providence Portland Medical Center and the day after that transferred to the Adolescent Psychiatry in-patient unit at Providence Willamette Falls Medical Center. Yes - the reality we had to face was that our daughter had attempted suicide. She took a nearly lethal dose of Benadryl. Cost: $1.97. She spent a week receiving caring, skilled in-patient treatment in Oregon City. As a family we are circling the wagons and exploring how to ensure a healthy recovery . . . how to ensure this doesn't happen again. There are many resources and we are committed. We are optimistic. We are lucky.
I write this because I don't believe we are the only ones. Not for a minute. If this can happen in our family it can happen to anyone. Within days of our near miss another dear member of our community successfully hanged himself. The holidays are upon us. Surrounded by friends and loved ones it can be a joyous time but it can also be the loneliest of times.
Please . . . in this season and beyond, listen to your hearts. Let those you love know how much you care. Reach out if you sense someone is in trouble. The briefest kindness may be the one thing that gives a struggling friend the moment or two to decide to stick around a little longer. Know about our resources. Click here for the local Hood River Suicide hotline. Click here for the Mid-Columbia Center for Living.
I'm sharing the poem I wrote the morning after. It's personal and painful but I am sure it's not my story alone. Talk about this stuff - let's get it out from under the carpet.
Much love to you all.
Despair and Hope
I heard you get in around midnight.
The dogs did their due diligence then scrambled back in bed.
I dozily called out and you said, "Goodnight. I love you, mama."
"I love you too, Tay."
Always let those be the last words you say to the ones you love
for they may, indeed, be the last words.
I did not see the despair.
How did I miss that?
But I felt it today.
Despair when I found your body trying to die.
Despair as I held your seizing body and could only think, "Airway. Airway. Airway."
Despair as I fumbled the phone with one hand thinking,
"911 - goddammit, that's all you have to manage."
Despair as the line rang while I repeated my address
over and over in my head
so I wouldn't forget it.
Despair at uttering the words, "Possible overdose".
And when you stopped seizing and fell silent in my arms . . .
eternal, breath-stopping seconds of despair.
And then you took a breath . . .
And the flashing red lights arrived . . .
And this morning as I stare at you sleeping peacefully,
thanking God you're still here,
the sunrise view from ICU 220
harbors hope.
The dogs did their due diligence then scrambled back in bed.
I dozily called out and you said, "Goodnight. I love you, mama."
"I love you too, Tay."
Always let those be the last words you say to the ones you love
for they may, indeed, be the last words.
I did not see the despair.
How did I miss that?
But I felt it today.
Despair when I found your body trying to die.
Despair as I held your seizing body and could only think, "Airway. Airway. Airway."
Despair as I fumbled the phone with one hand thinking,
"911 - goddammit, that's all you have to manage."
Despair as the line rang while I repeated my address
over and over in my head
so I wouldn't forget it.
Despair at uttering the words, "Possible overdose".
And when you stopped seizing and fell silent in my arms . . .
eternal, breath-stopping seconds of despair.
And then you took a breath . . .
And the flashing red lights arrived . . .
And this morning as I stare at you sleeping peacefully,
thanking God you're still here,
the sunrise view from ICU 220
harbors hope.
