In the previous chapter I discussed the shidduch process with our son and how tricky it was because of the stigma around Chana’s illness. In the end he marries a wonderful girl.
But while one part of our life was moving forward, another part was still very unstable.
After Chana came home following that initial suicide attempt, everything felt jumbled. She had “aged out of the system” that had once been relatively flexible with treatment options, and now we were left trying to piece something together on our own.
So, she was home. And had been, basically, for over a year.
During that summer and into the fall, she attended a private outpatient program about fifty minutes away. Three times a week. I drove her every time. There and back. She had to arrive early, so public transportation wasn’t really an option. And most of the time, we weren’t sure it was safe to let her come home alone. Driving was the only real choice.
I would study her face when I dropped her off, searching for clues. Did she want to be there? Was she hopeful? Resentful? When I picked her up, I watched again. How had the day gone?
She didn’t say much.
“Fine.”
“Okay.”
“Whatever.”
Most of our car rides were quiet.
After almost two months in the program, Chana began taking a turn for the worse. She had been self-harm free for a couple of months, but her anxiety and depression were intensifying, and we were afraid she might start again. One of the program’s requirements was that she remain stable – no self-harm and no suicidal ideation.
After many interviews at different hospitals, we finally managed to get her into a hospital – what they call a “locked open ward.” I don’t fully understand how she qualified. Somehow, she was in that elusive sweet spot: sick enough to be admitted, but not too sick to be rejected. I still don’t understand the formula, but I didn’t care. She would be somewhere safe.
It lasted five days.
Chana broke a rule. She used her phone and took a picture of her foot while standing in the hallway.
She was discharged immediately. And when I say immediately, I mean it.
Forty-five minutes later, we pulled into the hospital parking lot to pick her up and saw her sitting on the curb next to her suitcases.
I was incredulous. There was no one to speak to. I left message after message. No one returned my calls. The facility had a zero-tolerance policy. Any infraction meant automatic discharge.
Just like that, the option was gone.
We were back to square one.
Chana was home. Bored. Sad. Anxious. Possibly self-harming. And we had no direction.
We spoke to our psychiatrist again. The idea of another open inpatient ward came up. Similar structure, but less rigid. Patients were considered more stable, so there was more flexibility.
So, I drove her there.
We waited for hours in the emergency room. There was no one else there – just us and a bored secretary smoking a cigarette and watching the news in Russian. Still, we waited.
Eventually we saw a doctor. Then waited again.
Finally, we were told she was admitted.
But only for a week.
This time, the head psychiatrist decided she didn’t need inpatient care, but rather some kind of intensive outpatient treatment. I didn’t understand any of it. Obviously, she wasn’t stable. But apparently, she was stable enough to come home.
So, she came home.
And she was not feeling well.
We tried to look into other options.
Life, meanwhile, did not pause.
I often joke that most of the year we are fairly boring people. But on Purim, our house is the place to be. Our newly engaged son is a real chevraman, which means that our house fills up – our friends, his friends, boys from his yeshiva, boys from random yeshivas. Music, singing, divrei Torah, laughing, eating – and yes, drinking.
But that year was different.
Chana could not be around alcohol. She had been struggling with drinking and wanted to stay sober.
So, what were we supposed to do?
My husband suggested no alcohol at all. I resisted. I didn’t want Chana’s illness dictating every aspect of our lives. We went back and forth. Finally, we sought advice and were told to ask Chana what she wanted.
She said it was fine.
So fine it was.
Purim was wonderful. Our son was engaged, glowing with excitement. The house was alive.
And I was on edge the entire time.
Chana was there – in the background of my mind constantly.
Is it too loud? Too crowded? Is she really laughing? What is she eating? Why is she sitting so quietly? What is she whispering to her sister about? Why did she go to her room? How long has she been there? Is she alone? What is she doing?
She sat across from me at the table and I kept wondering: What is she thinking? What is she feeling? What are her eyes really saying?
It was exhausting.
We made it through Purim.
Then Pesach preparations began.
I usually like Pesach. During the year I’m happy to let my cleaning lady handle most things, but before Pesach I don’t mind tackling the corners that are ignored the rest of the year.
But Chana was home. Restless. Edgy. Bored.
I couldn’t get her to help. Most days I couldn’t even get her out of her room to talk. Things hadn’t stabilized after her hospitalizations. It was nearly impossible to find consistent treatment. The same confusing calculus still applied. So, I patched things together as best I could.
The days blurred. She stayed home. Occasionally went to the mall with a friend. But she wasn’t thriving. No one really knew what else to do.
Somehow, we made it to Yom Tov.
But between the sedarim, the company, and all of Chol HaMoed, it was too much.
By the end of chag, we were back in an ambulance because of another suicide attempt.
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.