Things I Did In Our Tiny Alcove Of The Emergency Department While We Waited For The On-Call Psychiatrist To Assess Whether He Thought My Daughter Would Attempt Suicide Again If We Brought Her Home by Lina Herman

After Kaschock

Found my youngest child a ride home from swim practice.

Studied pictures in the pamphlets the social worker left with us. Adolescents with serene faces sitting on stone benches. Wondered whether psychiatric treatment facilities really have all those trees.

Watched my daughter twist her hair into a Dutch braid.  She used to spend hours in front of the bathroom mirror practicing moves from a spiral bound how-to book with step-by-step photographs. Bows and Braids.

Asked my colleague to cover the strategic visioning session I was scheduled to facilitate the next day.

Admired the straightforwardness of the nurse. Do you want to die? she asked my daughter.

Wondered if I could be like this nurse. Clear eyed. When my daughter told me she’d swallowed all those pills, I’d said, Wait. Why’d you do that?

Wrote a detailed facilitator guide so my colleague would feel prepared and supported.

Flipped through channels to find something to watch on the corner mounted TV. A Disney show about summer camp that might or might not have been a musical.

Appreciated laugh tracks. The way they cue you up for an appropriate emotional response.

Also watched The Kardashians for the first time, the one where Kris tried to connect with Kylie by making her take a mother-daughter bonding trip to San Diego. The daughter rolled her eyes but when the camera panned to the two of them riding in the back seat, I could see their legs touching.

Smiled proudly when my daughter used her best manners to order tomato basil soup. Thank you so much.

Stopped myself from picking at the gummy residue on my daughter’s chest – gray and sticky leftovers from her EKG leads. I worried that my fingernails would feel sharp against her skin.

Guided my daughter’s head and arms into a fresh pajama shirt. A beige scrub top with S– Hospital silkscreened on the chest. The first set had turned a deep wet black. All that activated charcoal spilling from her mouth.

Searched in my head for sentences to speak to my daughter. Tried for sincere but casual. Not too intrusive. Not overwrought. The kindness of the nurses, I thought. Or something about the distraught patient from the next alcove. How the heavy curtains didn’t block his plaintive moans.

Settled instead for rubbing my hand over the fine layer of black hair on her back. I’ve held her in a hospital bed and run my hand over her soft down like this before. Fifteen years ago, when she was first born.

Tried to get comfortable in the extra bed they wheeled in for me once we realized that the psychiatrist wouldn’t come until morning.

Lay flat. Felt as if the hollow in my chest would cave in on itself.

Adjusted the bed until I was tilted up, almost 90 degrees. Watched the hallway light seep in around the edges of the curtains. Rested my hand on the railing of my daughter’s bed and listened to her breathe.

Image Credit: Flickr Creative Commons/Don Harder