A Mother’s Worry
My child is struggling with their mental health.
Content Guidance: This story references self-harm (cutting) and suicidal thoughts.
The sun is shining brightly outside, its aura casting light through the window, brightening up my workspace. I have mushroom-colored linen fabric laid out on the cutting table, freshly ironed flat and weighted down with pattern weights. I’m about to make my first cut into the fabric when my cell phone rings. A school number lights up the screen. It is summer vacation for my kids so I cannot fathom why the school would be calling me right now. I set my scissors down and answer the phone.
“This is Patty Ortiz up at the school, from the counseling office…”
I feel a slight sinking in my stomach as though my insides are on a slow-motion free fall. I try to swallow my growing sense of unease. I’ve only met Mrs. Ortiz once or twice since the kids moved up to high school. She seemed nice enough, I guess, but I can’t stop the feeling of dread that is spreading through my body. I hold my breath while I wait for her to get to the point.
“We’ve been notified by a teacher of an issue with your child. It is urgent that you and your child come to the school as soon as possible so we can discuss this incident.”
The tiny knot that lives in my stomach and burgeons in situations like this is expanding rapidly. I hang up the phone with shaking hands and walk to my child’s bedroom, gently knocking on the door, my mind spinning in directionless turns.
“We have to go to the school for a meeting . . . about you. Do you know what this is about?”
My child stares at me, a blank look across their face. Their little voice squeaks out, “I don’t know.”
I suspect this is not true but I understand. I was a teen once. I just nod and say, “let’s go.”
I am a person who worries about everything in general and about my kids in particular. My mind works overtime trying to think of every scenario, every outcome, every potential threat.
When I took my young children to the playground, my senses were on high alert while the other moms seemed calm and relaxed. I took my spot on the sidelines but my insides were a wreck of nerves and anxieties. I watched their every move, ready for the unexpected.
A fall. A broken limb. A bully.
With toddlers, when we were out in public, I held their hands or carried them or put them in a cart and pushed them. When they outgrew holding my hand, I insisted they walk in front of me so that I could see them at all times, prepared for the worst.
Kidnapped. Lost. Afraid.
Before that, when we laid them in their cribs at night and crawled into our own bed, I would lie awake for hours fretting about unlikely scenarios.
Sudden death. Fire. Carbon monoxide poisoning.
And even before that, I worried when it felt like they were too still inside my womb, when it felt like too much time passed since the last hiccup or since a foot stretched against my bladder. I was constantly anticipating my worst fears becoming reality.
Miscarriage. Premature Birth. Death.
My child and I are quiet while the trees and fields rush past the windows of our minivan in a blur, not unlike the thoughts inside my overactive mind. This child has an easy-going personality. I generally feel pretty secure in their decision making skills. They have a fair amount of self-confidence and aren’t overly concerned with conformity. But I realize with horror that I’ve allowed my child’s personality to lull me into complacency. I have failed to assess all the threats. This is a troubling and disquieting realization. I try to remember to breathe. I try to convince myself that everything is going to be okay. That maybe it won’t be as big of a deal as it seems right now. But the little knot that lives in my stomach is a football now and my sense of dread and panic is still rising. I ask again, “Do you know what this is about?”
There is no answer and in my current state I’m unable to consider that my child might be feeling a surge of panic too.
At the school, we walk silently down the long hallways. My right shoe squeaks every time it leaves the floor. I can hear my heart thumping, rhythmically; the sound fills up my ears. We enter the room where Mrs. Ortiz is waiting for us. She is sitting at a long table with a manila folder in front of her. Her face is all concern and seriousness. I take a seat across from her, my child in a chair right next to mine. Mrs. Ortiz opens the folder and removes a paper, presents it to me. It is a photocopy of some text messages. Mrs. Ortiz explains that I’m looking at messages sent between my child and a teacher. My breathing is shallow yet labored and my anxiety level is too high. I don’t want to be here. I can’t concentrate. I can’t take in what I’m looking at. I see the words. I read them again and again but they register in little spurts:
cutting again…life is hell…hate myself…depressed…am I important?
My heart shatters into a million pieces inside my chest but I make very little outward movement and keep my face neutral. I do not know this woman well enough to show emotion. I look at Mrs. Ortiz. She has an intense look on her face. It’s stern. I am sure there is concern there somewhere but it presents as something else. Anger maybe? Judgment? I’m not sure.
She begins to interrogate my child. I’m trying to believe that she is trying to help but I am very uncomfortable. The questions are too aggressive, too probing. My hands are clasped together so tightly in my lap and I feel my jaw tighten. My child is fidgeting in their seat in a way that tells me they too are very uncomfortable. I grasp that my child does not trust this woman either. But information is registering so slowly for me. Panic weeds out all but the most pertinent words.
Hospital. Evaluation. Risk.
My brain doesn’t know what to do with these words, with all this information. My internal dialogue hits overdrive. I know my child better than anyone, don’t I? Is the hospital the right choice? Does Mrs. Ortiz know better than me? Can I trust myself? My child is suffering and I missed the signs. Do I really know them better than anyone? I can’t do this. I don’t have a choice. So what do I do? What do I do?
My internal autopilot takes control. “Thank you,” I say, automatic, robotic. “We will get them some help,” I say, bland, dry. This woman must think I am the most unfeeling parent she’s ever met. If only she could see my insides. I hear myself decline to have school personnel call the hospital. And then we rise from our seats and walk out of the room, the pieces of paper folded in my hand. Back through the long hallways, I reach for my child’s hand but I am rejected. My child is not a child anymore. Holding their hand is a thing of the past. So I hold my tears inside instead. I swallow. I whisper, “I am so sorry you’ve been feeling this way.”
My child walks silently beside me. Stoic. A near mirror of my own straight-faced mask.
We climb into the minivan and I start the engine. We put on our seat belts. My heart is beginning to slow, to beat more regularly now. My thinking is coming back into focus. The knot is still too big in my stomach. I take a few more deep breaths.
“Do you feel like you need to go to the hospital?” I ask.
The answer is no.
I decide to respect this. I do know my child almost as well as anyone. Taking them to the hospital will be more traumatic than helpful. This is a truth that I am confident in. I put the van in gear and take us back home.
We walk into the house and remove our shoes. I follow my child to their bedroom. I ask for all the sharp and potentially sharp items and I take them. I ask again if they want to talk. They don’t. So I leave their room and return to mine. I go into my closet and turn the light off, close the door, sink down onto the floor, bury my face in my knees. I feel safe inside this small space. I breathe. I try to convince myself I can do this. I try to think of what it is I’m supposed to do. Surely, I need to do something. I have to do something. What am I supposed to do? What would my husband do? My husband is so much more qualified to deal with things like this, with life in general. He doesn’t panic. He doesn’t shut down. He doesn’t worry like I do. He doesn’t hide in the closet. But he is at work. The next steps are up to me.
I come back out of the closet. I sit down at my desk, email the principal. “My child will be starting therapy as soon as possible,” I write, “we won’t be hospitalizing them.” I request to speak with the teacher my child was communicating with. The principal responds almost immediately. The teacher calls shortly after that and I get a better storyline, a better map of what is going on. Little pieces start fitting together inside my brain.
This was not the first time and it won’t be the last time that I am cracked open by what I cannot see coming. Because of my anxiety, I often think that I cannot and will not survive the events of parenthood, of life, but somehow I do. Somehow I figure out what to do next and I take little steps in that direction. It doesn’t get easier. There are so many things to worry about as a parent in this world. And as author Elizabeth Stone says: “Making the decision to have a child…is to decide forever to have your heart go walking around outside your body.” But I can’t let the worry stop me.
After the phone call, I return to my cutting table with the crisp mushroom-colored fabric lying in wait. I pick up my scissors, guide the blades, allowing them to slice right through the layers, the weight of them comforting and yet somehow heavier now.
LACI HOYT wants to live in a world where kindness is a priority and everyone owns at least one hand-knit sweater. She writes from her home in upstate NY about living with chronic illness, love and relationships, and any other thing she can’t get out of head. Her writing has been published through The Kindred Voice. When she’s not writing, she can be found with knitting needles and yarn, hunched over the sewing machine, or creating unique dolls and bags for her Etsy shop. Every Sunday, you can find a new haiku published on her blog. Visit Laci at www.liviatree.blogspot.com
