November 10, 2011
I called that night just as I’d promised. I knew I would need to be the single most supportive person in Gabriela’s life during the hospitalization, because I had been the only person in her life for years.
When I say that I was the “only person,” I really mean it. While Gabriela had a lot of friends in elementary and middle school, when she entered high school she started having seizures. The combo of medication that made her dopey, and the small, undetected seizures that she suffered from all day every day had taken its toll on her friendships.
Gabriela knew that I didn’t like her high school friends, and she was right; I didn’t know why, I just didn’t like them. Gabriela defended each one to me, but it didn’t change that “mother’s feeling” I had about each one of her “friends.”
We had talked about them and I had counseled her, but I felt more damage would have been done if I’d forbidden her from seeing them. I had confidence that Gabriela would eventually see them for what they were, and make better friends.
Sadly, she opted for no friends at all.
Years later, she’d confided in me that the ridicule she endured at the hands of these “friends” was more than any individual should have to tolerate. Gabriela had been manipulated for their personal humor and entertainment.
One week before the start of her junior year in high school, Gabriela had asked me to find an alternative to the public high school she had been attending. She said she just couldn’t go back. Which was why I home schooled her for her last two years of high school.
I called the number on the flyer that was given to me by the nurse. The phone rang and rang, but eventually it was answered. It seemed to be a patient; apparently this was the phone in the day room. I asked to speak with Gabriela. After some hesitation a new voice came on the phone. “Hello, you’re looking for Gabriela?”
“Yes,” I answered.
“I’m sorry; she has been transferred to Unit 400.”
“Why?” I asked. Maybe they’d decided she wasn’t a good fit for the old peoples’ ward, I thought.
“She tried to escape through the nurses’ station just a while ago. We felt she would be better off in a ward where they are more equipped for this type of event.”
“What!? Is she okay?” I was dumbfounded.
“She’s fine. It’s just a safer ward for her; can I give you their phone number?”
I thanked her and dialed the new number.
The nurses’ station at 400 answered promptly. I asked to speak with Gabriela. Without any response to me, I could hear as the nurse held the phone down and asked, “Gabriela, the phone is for you, do you want to talk?” The nurse came back on the line with me: “She doesn’t want to come to the phone.”
Confused that Gabriela wouldn’t take my call I asked, “Could you tell her it’s her Mom?”
I listened as the nurse relayed the information to Gabriela, but I couldn’t hear my daughter respond. The nurse came back on the line and explained that Gabriela wouldn’t come to the phone. I thanked her and hung up. Why wouldn’t Gabriela talk with me?
I sat for a while building a story in my mind. Gabriela must be angry. Maybe she had decided being hospitalized had been a bad idea and now she was stuck there and it was all because of me….
I felt the blood pounding in my ears and tears welling up.