i’m out of here

3 minute read

this can’t be happening

With 2 options for the specialized care John needed, we had chosen the hospital closest to my house, rather than the state’s trauma center, Harborview, which was inconveniently downtown, and, as we sadly found out, also the only hospital with the combination of physical and mental health rehabilitation.

While this unexpected news sunk in we heard someone at the door of the room we were talking in and I literally almost fell over when I turned around and saw John standing there. He was wearing a pair of jeans that we’d packed for his transfer, a t-shirt and had his shoes and backpack on. He was so skinny the jeans were sort of hanging off his hips and he was swaying a bit but was very clear when he told us he was “out of here.”

I looked incredulously at the doctor assuming he was going to tell John that wasn’t possible but since he was an adult there was nothing we could legally do to keep him in the hospital. He was very angry and hostile and said he had already gone to the elevator but remembered he didn’t have his wallet so he’d come back to ask us for it.

I was speechless that a patient in his condition could’ve done this without alerting anyone on the staff, and gotten to the point that he was going to leave on his own. He could barely stand up but was adamant that he was leaving, and if I wasn’t going to give him his wallet he was going anyway and would beg someone to give him bus fare. I asked him where he was planning to go and he said to his friend’s house, back in the neighborhood where the last OD had happened.

At this point two things were racing frantically through my mind – the first being that John was apparently more mentally alert and functioning than we’d thought (GOOD!) and also that I’d better pull out every psychology tip I’d learned through 5 years of therapy because the only way he was going to stay was going to be through talking – we had no way to physically keep him there.

John came into the room and leaned against one of the beds – he was so weak from the process of getting dressed and walking down the hallway. But he was leaving, and that was that.

The next 2 ½ hours were the longest in my life. Between the psychiatrist, John’s dad and I we tried to understand why he wanted to leave and rationalized with him about his current situation. We re-iterated that he was there for physical rehab, not drug rehab (to my dismay). But his brain wasn’t entirely right and I’m convinced he was feeling some symptoms of withdrawal, and he was done with hospitals.

He knew he was weak and not functioning at 100% but he was determined to go find his friends. As we talked he was getting weaker and finally sat down on one of the beds. I have never prayed so fervently in my life – I knew, and told him, that if he walked out these doors he was going to be dead in 24 hours. I knew he would go back to his friends and use something, something that would kill him, if he even made it that far with his damaged body and brain. Nothing was connecting with him and he tried to get up to leave but his legs wouldn’t hold him. He leaned against the bed again and I suddenly knew what to tell him (divine intervention).

One of John’s friends had committed suicide 2 years earlier and it shook our neighborhood and his circle of friends to the core. His friend had been the straight-A student, captain of the varsity soccer team, good-looking, Mr. “has it all.” Since his death his family struggled to make it through each and every day and all of the kids in our happy little “village” where John grew up were shattered.

I took a deep breath. “John – I understand you don’t want to do this, you don’t want to be here and go through physical rehab. But think of Ryan, he doesn’t even have the option of getting better. He was hurting and he made a choice that wasn’t right and wasn’t good for him or anyone. You, at this very moment, have the chance to get better for Ryan. If you’re not going to do it for me, or daddy or yourself, do it for him. Do it so his mom and dad know that his life made a difference for someone else who was hurting.” I was sobbing and could barely speak but knew if there was anything that might break through to him it was Ryan.

John just stared at me like I was a someone he didn’t even know. He sat and stared right at me for at least 5 minutes while I cried. It wasn’t the small, exhausted cry I’d been doing off and on for the past week, it was hysterical, loud, heaving, wailing crying because I knew if he left we’d never see him alive again. I knew he would be the next statistic on a website, “Teen overdoses and dies after being discharged from hospital” or something generically tragic like that. It couldn’t happen like this.

Then in an answer to the most intense prayers I’ve ever offered up, John tipped over sideways and laid on the hospital bed, backpack still on, jeans sagged low below his hips. His eyes closed, and he surrendered to the support of the bed. We all looked at each other and at him and waited a few more minutes until we exhaled a relief that I’ll never forget. One more day – he’s going to be ok for one more day.