In the previous chapter, we try to adjust to a new normal. Then, Chana takes a turn for the worst.
Since Chana was a danger to herself, she was admitted to the locked ward.
And locked means locked.
There are several barriers you must pass through just to enter. First, an outside gate opens into a vestibule, which you may only enter if no one else is inside. Once there, a guard checks with the ward to confirm we are allowed in. He performs a superficial bag inspection, removing her spray deodorant, nail clippers, and a porcelain figurine – each deemed dangerous. As he hands our bags back, he buzzes the door open.
Once on the grounds, we walk to the teenage ward. Another door. We ring the bell and wait to be buzzed in, only to find ourselves in yet another vestibule, ringing again until a staff member arrives with a key.
Minus the bag check, the entire process repeats when we leave.
Throughout the four months Chana spent there, I was never able to make peace with this ritual.
The psychiatric hospital is a surreal place. No one looks sick. The kids appear physically healthy. There are no IV poles, no one too ill to get out of bed. They walk around, sit in the lounge, and play with the therapy dog. It almost feels like camp.
And yet, it isn’t.
A boy walks past us, mumbling to himself. A girl paces the hallway, trying to burn whatever calories she can. Others drift by, staring blankly into space.
Clutching her bags, her favorite pillow, and her beloved stuffed dog, we walk to the nurses’ station. We are greeted warmly. The nurse explains the daily schedule and asks for some medical history. The ward director gives us a brief tour – just a couple of hallways lined with bedrooms.
After fifteen minutes, he leads us back to the door and suggests we give Chana a hug and a kiss.
And with that, we leave our daughter in a locked psychiatric ward.
I am not sure what to think.
My husband isn’t sure what to think.
We are exhausted – physically, mentally, emotionally.
We go to a local café to decompress. I watch people walk by, absorbed in their own lives. And in that moment, I realize that I have become one of the other people.
I carry this burden everywhere – at the store, at work. I see women from the neighborhood chatting, asking about one another’s kids. I smile and say that everyone is doing well. This is not something that can be shared in passing. The uncertainty surrounding it keeps me from sharing it even with some of my closest friends.
The risk of slipping up is always there.
Around that time, one of my other children was sick, and life felt chaotic – multiple ER visits, constant motion. Someone offered to make food for Shabbos. When she called to arrange a drop-off, she mentioned that she had made a special gluten-free dessert for Chana.
I almost told her that Chana would be spending Shabbos in the hospital. I am still not sure if I didn’t say anything to protect her privacy, or because of the shame I was experiencing. It was probably both.
With Chana out of the house, the pressure didn’t disappear – it shifted. We moved from twenty-four-hour vigilance to three hospital visits a week: visiting hours, parent meetings, forty-five minutes each way.
At group meetings, I prayed I wouldn’t run into anyone I knew. Yet when I did – two different mothers – I felt an unexpected sense of camaraderie. Women I barely knew became people I leaned on. When we later passed each other in town, a shared glance and quiet smile reminded us that we were not alone. I found myself cherishing those moments.
Life on the ward is totally different than a regular hospital. The ward ran on a privilege system. Patients had to earn rights most people take for granted. At first, Chana was restricted to the floor. She could not attend school, which was off the ward. She could not leave the ward for any reason. She spent those early weeks sitting and reading. Going to groups, medication adjustments and some therapy.
Later, she was allowed to attend school – but only with a shadow. A staff member stayed with her at all times. At the very end of her hospitalization, she was allowed to go back and forth to the classroom across the hospital campus with the rest of the patients. One staff member for the group.
Eventually she was allowed to come home for Shabbos. I had mixed feelings about this. While it was nice to have her home, as soon as she walked in the door the familiar tension would creep into my shoulders and remain there until we brought her back to the ward motzei Shabbos.
When I went through all of her stuff to get rid of the razors she had used for self-harm; we also bought a safe. We had to lock up all of the medication in the house. Her prescriptions. Our prescriptions. And all of the once innocuous over the counter meds needed to be put away. I resented that I had to do this. I hated that I had to explain to my kids why we had to lock everything up. And I was so very, very sad for Chana that she had lost her independence, not just in terms of her medications, but also her autonomy in so many other areas of her life. When she did come home for Shabbos, we had to sign her out and formally accept responsibility, agreeing never to let her out of our sight. If she wanted to go for a walk with a friend, I needed to ensure that her friend would walk her to our apartment, not just part ways at the corner like they used to.
After a few months, she seemed to improve. The staff determined she was ready for discharge.
And just like that, she packed up her bags and said good-bye to that safe cocoon.
As she walked off the ward for the final time, the head nurse said, “Chana, I never want to see you here again. You’re doing great. Everything will get back to normal.”
How I wish that bracha had come true.
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.