In the last chapter I shared how Purim and the lead up to Pesach had been. Chana was not doing well, and things were getting steadily worse.
The energy in the house on the last day of Pesach was just off. Maybe it was the lack of any normal schedule, maybe a little too much togetherness, and then there was the constant underlying tension from Chana. She had been spending almost all of her time in her room. I didn’t know what was going on, and I was afraid to guess.
I tried knocking a few times, letting her know I was here if she needed anything.
Eventually I decided to take a nap.
I got into bed and probably fell asleep for a bit, but then my husband came into the room.
“Did you call Hatzalah?”
“Me? No. Why?”
“Hatzalah is at the door. They said they got a phone call about a drug overdose.”
I jumped up and ran across the hall. Hatzalah was already in Chana’s room, prescription medicine strewn across the floor. The paramedics were busy taking vitals, trying to get Chana to talk, trying to figure out what she took, when she took it, and how much she actually took. I didn’t know the answers to any of those questions. I stood there dumbstruck, watching everything unfold.
So were my kids.
They were right there, watching the scene unfold.
I took a deep breath and called out to my married daughter to come and take the younger kids out of the room. My husband and I stood there, not really sure what to do. We tried to gather all of her prescriptions together so we could figure out what kind of cocktail she had taken. We grabbed what we could find and showed it to the EMTs.
They were still busy trying to get Chana into a somewhat more lucid state before they were ready to take her to the ambulance. My husband and I were left trying to decide who should go with her and who should stay. I didn’t want to go, but I also knew I didn’t want to stay.
I couldn’t stomach the idea of going back to the ER by myself when it was Shabbos or Yom Tov. I would have no way to be in touch with anyone and no way to distract myself. So, I told my husband that we needed to go together.
Within minutes we were heading to the ambulance. Since it was the middle of the day, there were tons of kids playing in our building’s parking lot. Lots of neighbors were out on the street, shmoozing away the last few hours of Pesach.
And here I was, climbing into the back of the waiting ambulance with the flashing lights; dreading the trip ahead. Again, the siren shattered the peace of Yom Tov as we pulled away, and I watched our neighborhood fade into the distance.
There were so many similarities to the first time that it was almost eerie. The same sway of the ambulance as we navigated the curves of the road. The same calls from the paramedics.
“Chana, stay with me. Don’t fall asleep. What did you take? How much did you take?”
Chana floated in and out of consciousness, just like before.
Ironically, I was just as thirsty as the first time. But this time I didn’t hesitate. I asked for water and allowed myself to enjoy the sensation as it went into my body. I was so tired.
The same self-recriminations started creeping in. I knew she wasn’t doing well. I knew she wasn’t in a good place. How could I have fallen asleep?
Before I knew it, we arrived at the hospital. The same loud beeping as the ambulance backed into its spot outside the hospital doors. The same gust of air when the doors opened. The same rush down the hallway. Even the same wait in line at admissions to let them know we had arrived.
It was definitely easier having my husband there.
This time, though, they didn’t pump her stomach. We had gotten there too late for that. After consulting with the ER doctor and the on-staff psychiatrist, and determining how many and what pills she had taken, they decided she would simply be monitored in the ER.
It was a very long day.
My husband and I watched Chana sleep. We listened to her mumble incoherently. We spoke in fragments about what we were going to do next. It was now blatantly obvious that she couldn’t be home. She wasn’t safe. Something had to change.
But mostly we sat.
And waited.
Lost in our own thoughts. We both felt like we had hit a brick wall in her care, and we had no idea what to do next.
Since all I could do was sit there, I was incredibly bored. There was absolutely nothing to read. At least my husband had found a sefer.
As the hours passed and the fluids helped flush the medication from her system, Chana slowly became more alert. By the time Yom Tov ended, she was awake, regretful, and considered physically stable enough to go home.
There was no psychiatric plan offered. Again, she wasn’t considered unwell enough for an adult locked ward, but she was too sick for other types of treatment.
Hours after chag ended, our son-in-law came to pick us up from the hospital. It was now dark, cold, and the roads that led us home were dark and twisty, which felt fitting for how I was feeling.
Chana was exhausted and slept next to me in the back seat. I sat quietly with my thoughts. I was sad, angry, frustrated, disappointed, and resentful.
How had we ended up here again? Why wasn’t Chana getting better? Did she not care?
I had all of these thoughts and feelings, but in that moment, I had no one to share them with.
When we got home there was still the post-Pesach situation to deal with. My daughter and her husband had rallied everyone together to turn the kitchen back over, and they did a pretty good job. But there were still things that only I could take care of.
Once Pesach is over, I always make a real effort to have everything back to “normal” before I go to sleep that night. I find I am better organized that way, and I feel less stressed knowing that the Pesach dishes are no longer mixed in with the regular ones.
But that year Pesach seemed to linger for more than a week.
The random Pesach pot cover, Tupperware lid, and serving utensils that I kept finding in the days after we got home felt like painful reminders of that awful day.
Just as I hadn’t managed chag perfectly, I felt like I hadn’t been managing Chana properly either.
We were back to square one. Literally. Back from the hospital with nowhere to go.
I was overwhelmed. Pesach remnants were scattered around the house. Chana was in her room, and I assumed she was thinking thoughts I didn’t even dare try to imagine.
We spoke to her psychiatrist. When Chana found out we had reached out to her behind her back, she was incredulous. But we didn’t know what else to do. She was sitting in her room on her phone, not really making any moves forward.
After a couple of tense days, she agreed to try the first hospital again – the one that had blacklisted her. Maybe the blacklist was no longer in effect.
Early the next morning we made the long drive to see if we could get anywhere with the admissions doctor. We went directly to the psychiatric ER.
The same admissions doctor was there. He remembered us very well.
We went through another intake. He explained that the official blacklist was still in place, but since more than thirty days had passed, perhaps she could be given a fresh start.
So, we sat.
And waited.
There were a few other people waiting to be seen, and since they hadn’t turned us away, I allowed myself to feel hopeful.
Finally, the head of psychiatry came in to speak with her. He took us to a side room and began a litany of questions.
“Why did you try to commit suicide again?”
“Do you really feel like you have nothing to live for?”
“You broke the rules last time. How do we know you won’t do it again?”
“Why do you think we can help you?”
“Why are you cutting yourself? You know you’ll have scars for the rest of your life.”
“Why do you think we should let you come here?”
I sat there watching her try to answer. I felt like crying. Where was his compassion? Why was he even a psychiatrist?
He left us in the room while he went to check the bed situation upstairs.
We sat there for over an hour.
Finally, he came back.
There were no beds. Maybe tomorrow.
We could come back and check again.
So, we left.
We returned the next morning.
Still no beds.
I was assured they would call me if something opened. I asked for a phone number to reach them.
Of course there wasn’t one.
So, we went home.
No one called.
After a couple of days, we tried another hospital. Again, she wasn’t sick enough for their program – but too sick for other facilities.
It felt like an exercise in futility.
Eventually we heard about another place – a new system that exists across Israel called a bayit meyazen, literally “a balancing house.” It was a residential treatment setting, not a hospital, where she could receive intensive therapy in a more supportive environment.
Chana decided she would look into it and see what the options were. For the first time in a while, there was at least somewhere else to try.
The author has started a website and online support for parents who are going on similar journeys, she can be reached at parentsbyachad@gmail.com.