The elevator ride to the 7th floor felt slower than I anticipated. Clutching my son’s beloved stuffed dinosaur tightly against my chest, its vibrant blue fabric shimmered against the sleek grey elevator walls. He had been admitted just the night before, and my head throbbed from the 13-hour stint in the emergency room. This building was labeled a hospital, but its drab exterior reminded me of old Soviet-era office structures. Inside, it was just as bleak. Gone were the cheerful painted walls and whimsical themes that often aim to mask the pain lurking behind closed doors. Here, discomfort and despair clung to every surface. Outside, I cried, but inside, I felt nothing but shame, guilt, and an overwhelming sadness.
My thoughts turned to the man sharing the elevator with me, likely in his 40s, who carried a pink and yellow tie-dyed comforter along with a small tote bag that appeared almost empty. Neither of us dared to make eye contact, both of us feeling the weight of our circumstances. I thought about how he wasn’t just a stranger; he was someone’s father, possibly a devoted one, caught in the shared narrative of parents with ailing children.
My son, Leo, was just four years old and still in diapers. He could barely speak a few words, yet he had been admitted to a psychiatric facility three hours away from our home—the only one in the state willing to accept him due to his ongoing seizures. The hospital’s website boasted about its premier psychiatric inpatient care. But the lobby and waiting areas were a glaring testament to the failures of America’s mental health system—underfunded and understaffed, patients arrived under various circumstances, some held by anxious caregivers, others handcuffed to beds. A month after Leo was discharged, a shooting occurred in the lobby.
Well-meaning individuals who had never faced my situation often saw this as a failure of my parenting. They suggested that if I had only employed timeouts, found the right medication, or consulted the right doctor, I could have sidestepped this nightmare. Perhaps this was my burden to bear. Nobody could judge me more harshly than I judged myself. I often found myself drowning in negative thoughts, believing that my greatest tragedy was my inability to consistently meet my children’s needs. Their struggles seemed so easy to overcome, or so I once thought.
Leo was born in 2018 with deletions on his 15th chromosome. He experienced horrific abuse shortly after birth, being violently shaken multiple times. One night, he stopped breathing, and his life changed forever. When he was finally admitted to the hospital, he had several broken ribs, two broken legs, a broken arm, and bleeding in his brain. I wouldn’t meet him until he was 15 months old when my partner and I became his third foster family. We adopted him the following year.
When I stepped off the elevator, I noticed that a group of family members had gathered in a loose line, waiting for the one hour a day we were allowed to see our children. I scanned the room, and the diverse mix of ages and skin tones reflected a shared burden of shame, inflicted by the medical system and society. The stark fluorescent lights and plastic chairs reminded me I was in a legitimate place, yet everything felt profoundly wrong. Small talk filled the air, but no one dared to make eye contact.
At precisely one o’clock, two security guards stepped out with two staff members, possibly nurses, who didn’t introduce themselves. They reminded us that personal belongings must be stored in coin-operated lockers. Nothing could be taken onto the unit, not even my son’s stuffed animal. I reluctantly placed it alongside my purse and keys, feeling as though I was entering a prison. Though I understood the safety measures, I couldn’t shake the anger that arose from the treatment of mental health as a crime. I wondered if the oppressive atmosphere reflected where children like Leo ended up after being failed by their communities, doctors, and social workers.
After what felt like an eternity, I finally went through the metal detector and rushed down the hallway with my partner. When I found Leo, he smiled at me, wearing only a blue t-shirt and a heavily soiled diaper. I approached a staff member for a clean diaper, my frustration boiling over.
I didn’t want my son in this place. The urge to run away with him, to escape to a simpler life, was overwhelming. I imagined us in a Volkswagen van, traveling through the serene forests of Canada, living off the land and homeschooling in peace. It was a fantasy where I could manage my emotions and help my traumatized child, but reality held me back.
I attempted to change his diaper on the bed, horrified to see the dried mess smeared on his back. I asked for a shower for him, and loudly questioned why he hadn’t been assigned a one-on-one caregiver, as I had requested. The staff’s response was disheartening—they didn’t know why he was even there. I wanted to tell them about the sleepless nights, his rages, and the chaos he caused in our home. But their dismissive attitudes only deepened my sense of failure.
When the nurse arrived, she informed me that the doctor wanted to speak with me. He didn’t believe Leo had a seizure disorder and suggested taking him off all medication. This was a common reaction from new psychiatrists, and I felt defeated. He wanted to switch Leo’s medication and swiftly left, never to be seen again.
Walking out of the hospital, tears streamed down my face. I made my way to the hotel that would become my home for the next ten days, away from my older son, my dog, and my work. The experiment of removing Leo from his medication lasted only three hours. The next morning, I received a frantic call—he had been climbing on tables, screaming, and generally out of control. He was deemed too dangerous for the other children, yet they planned to return him to my care at the end of the week.
For the next ten days, I arrived without fail for my one hour with Leo, giving him showers and cleaning up after him. I heard staff members express their inability to manage him, and I sobbed into my sleeve during the elevator rides back to the outside world. Each day brought little change as they adjusted his medications. A social worker suggested I seek resources in my county, as if I hadn’t already explored every option.
Ultimately, the psychiatrist decided to discharge Leo back to my care. Although they managed to change his medication, it did little to help with his violent outbursts. However, Leo did begin sleeping more at night, which significantly improved our family’s quality of life. The burden remained heavy, though; he continued to be the source of chaos in my life.
I have been advised to give up on him eight times. The solution presented to me? To voluntarily institutionalize him for my own peace of mind. Yet I was told not to feel guilty, as if survival for us all meant accepting such a reality. I often wondered if the options would be the same if my son had cancer.
For any parent, survival shouldn’t equate to relinquishing their child to an institution for a good night’s sleep. I remain thankful for the staff at the facilities Leo has been in, but I can’t help but feel that this journey could be made smoother, with less stigma, to alleviate the shame and guilt parents face when seeking help for their children.
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Summary:
This poignant narrative recounts the harrowing experience of a parent who had to admit their four-year-old son to a psychiatric hospital due to severe mental health issues and a seizure disorder. The author reflects on the stigma, guilt, and feelings of shame that often accompany seeking help for a child in crisis, while navigating the complexities of the mental health system. The story highlights the struggles of parenting a child with special needs and the desperate search for effective support and resources.
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