That night

We are all human. We all mess up sometimes. Sometimes it's not so bad, but sometimes it's irreversibly tragic. We may have been doing well before said incident, or we might have already been struggling to stay afloat. Either way, every now and then, the rug gets pulled out from underneath us and we are forced to cope with whatever we have within an arm's reach at that moment, compensating once we figure out how to resume seemingly impossible things like getting out of bed in the morning, taking a shower, or even not taking pill after pill after pill out of a bottle you know at some point will give you rest.

This is my story.

Exactly 8 weeks ago. January 30th, 2010... I don't remember much from that night because it turned to black pretty quickly.

The last thing I did was reluctantly give him his keys back. I had hid them earlier because I felt something in the air.

Before he left, I held onto him so tightly, even dug my nails into his leg. I bit my lip hard, sure if I bit hard enough, I'd wake up from the horrendous moment I'd never in a million years be able to think of as reality.

I remember we were both crying - me in a fit of hysteria, him with soft tears running down his face. He looked like death but neatly used his tissue, while my face was dripping of tears and snot and I was crying loud enough for the neighbors to hear.

Hug, kiss, "I love you."

I unclenched my nails from his leg.

That was it.

Instant fade to black.

He was leaving - why? What did he say to me? Wait, Mom says I'm leaving, too? Where did Mom come from? Where are we going? It's late! I just want to sleep. I'm already in bed - let me stay here.

As if no time had passed at all, I now remember a man opening the passenger side door of a car and asking, "Does she need a wheelchair?" I think I say, "No," but Mom desperately tells him, "Yes." I am too weak to protest, too absent to care.

I remember seeing the check-in window of the local ER. I had been there before. Why now?

Black again.

People were talking about me, but I didn't understand. Vitals? What were they saying?

Black.

I remember I am in a bed, my mom beside me, people loudly arguing from behind the curtain next to me.

Did I know where I was? Did I ask where I was?

I hear someone say, "Well she doesn't have a choice." A female, I think. A doctor, maybe? Did I protest? Surely if someone was taking my choice away, I'd be protesting! Choice about what? What was going on?

Another gap in recall before a man and a woman are strapping me to a gurney. Are they putting me in an ambulance? How is the sun rising? It's night time. Where are we going? Wait, where? To the hospital with the psychiatric floor? But I'm a nurse - do they know that? I'm not crazy. Must have been a mix up. "Pink-slipped?" What in the world does that mean? Where is the pink paper? Is "pink slip" just a saying? Can I sign a paper to get out of this? They tell me that's not how it works.

Next, I am in the hallway on a gurney. Where is my mom? Where is he? Last night was a weird dream, and now what kind of dream is this?

The black begins to turn to grey.

Nurses are changing shifts. I ask to change rooms because something bothers me about my roommate. Was she loud, smelly or obnoxious? Or was I just being difficult? I don't remember.

New room. This is worse. This lady talks to things and stares out the window. She's tiny, yet she scares me. I cannot be in the same room as this woman. "That's all the beds we have," the nurse tells me. Could I have a private room? This was not the Hilton or the Inter-Continental. This was the psychiatric floor - this was jail for crazy people.

Where are my things? "We have to lock them up here," says the nurse. What? Why? I thought of elementary school and the shoeboxes we packed for the prisoners at Christmastime. We had to buy the pencils without erasers because the teacher said they could use the metal to make weapons. Apparently they were very careful about what people in jail could have. In this place, they say we are dangerous to ourselves, not each other. They aren't scared of us breaking out or hurting people, but they are protecting us from suicide. Do they know I'm not suicidal? Do they know I just want my things? Do they know I just want to go home?

The grey is now beginning to fade into an odd translucency, sort of hazed over.

"We saved your breakfast for you in the dayroom," the nurse tells me. What time is it? They took my cell phone away, so I don't know. I later found out that there was one television on the entire floor, and only two telephones - all in the dayroom.

What choice do I have but to venture out? I can't stay in this room forever, especially with this roommate.

The hallways are quiet, and noise is coming from the dayroom. They're smiling and laughing. These people are my age, and only a few seem older. Are they crazy? Am I crazy? When can I go home? It is Sunday, and my new friends tell me no one goes home on weekends. There are seminars tomorrow, and they say if we go to them, the doctors will let us go home. They have all been here before, and they know the floor routine pretty well.

I approach a corded telephone hanging on the wall and call home to ask Mom what happened and how I can leave. I try not to cry as the room is full of people who can hear me, who can see me. What do I even look like? I need clothes, makeup, something to take a shower with. I give Mom a list of things I need from home and ask her for his phone number. My mind is so foggy that I can't remember it on my own. 330, was it 730 next, or 714? What were the last 4 digits? Wait, that is my cousin's phone number. I think Mom says not to call him, although I do. Do I eventually remember the number on my own or does she give it to me?

I dial the numbers. He isn't answering, but I know he is there. The fury restarts the downpour of tears. I leave a voicemail. Crying, I tell him where I am and ask him to come visit me. I tell him when visiting hours are. 6-8pm, that's all. I tell him they took my phone, and I am all alone. I beg him to come. I know he will, because he always comes. He had been in the hospital with me for my wisdom teeth, my car wreck, and all of my procedures at the Cleveland Clinic. I knew he'd be here for me now.

I tell him I love him and hang up the phone.

I need to cry some more, or rather, I cannot stop crying. Back in my room, frustrated at the sun shining in, I draw the curtain once my roommate leaves the room. I lay in bed and sob as my roommate comes back in and opens the curtains. I'm not going to protest. But what is my roommate thinking? Surely she can hear me. Surely the whole floor can hear me.

The nurse is nice to me. I don't remember her name, but can she give me some medicine? Something to take the pain away? Yes, Ativan is what I took. They won't give me what I overdosed on? I'm a nurse. I'm me. I'm not a drug addict, and I did not overdose.

But apparently I did. Last night.

"Your doctor ordered Xanax instead. Would you like that?" I beg for what she offers. Anything to take this away, please, anything.

I fall asleep.

It is 6pm as my nurse wakes me to say my mom is here. Finally, my mom! "Visitors are only allowed in the dayroom," my nurse tells me. My own mother can't come see me in my hospital bed? This place is getting worse and worse.

I start down the hallway. One look at her familiar face and I break down. My dad is here, too. He has just gotten home from Chicago. I wonder what he is thinking.

"Where is he?" I ask my mom. Mom hesitates, trying to think of how to ease the truth with those words only moms know, the words that make bad things seem less bad... especially if you're five years old. Which, unfortunately, I am not.

"Honey, I don't think he's coming." Right. I tell her that he is coming, though, just as I remember what happened last night, last night in that dream.

Oh, but wait a minute. That's what happened?

He isn't coming.

Mom and I join Dad on a bench. I sit by Mom and sob into her shoulder like I do when she knows I'm at the bottom line, at the last frayed end of my rope, ready to collapse into a million tiny pieces. The way that makes her cry too, whisper "Jesus," and run her fingers through my hair.

My nurse is trying to help.

Nothing can help this, no, not this.

Mom and my nurse talk, leaving Dad and I on the bench. I don't want to talk to my dad. I am embarrassed about what happened, about my new life, about where I am, what I apparently did last night. I snap at him about something and don't say anything else.

It is 7pm now. My nurse's shift is over. She isn't in a hurry to leave.

I am so tired, and I take my medicine to sleep. Mom brought it from home since the pharmacy at the hospital doesn't carry it. I ask my nurse if my mom can come put me to bed. "I need her to tuck me in," I explain, "I need my mom." She agrees but says she will have to come along to supervise, and it can only be for five minutes.

Next I am in bed. My roommate is chanting something, yelling obscenities to no one, and I am scared. My nurse sees my face, disappears between the curtain, and somehow calms her down.

Mom is arranging my few "allowed" things around me, everything else locked in the cabinet. She lays my Bible beside me and pulls my blanket up as I cry. She can't leave. I can't stay in this awful place alone. Mom prays with me, and then my nurse appears to realize something, and as if this is her cue, she says she will be right back.

She is here with some photocopied papers - poems, articles, encouragement. My nurse is a Christian, too. I feel safe with her, and she tells me she will be praying for me. We talk about God. I can tell my mom feels relieved.

I think we are far past five minutes, and my nurse has to go home. I ask if I'll see her the next day, and she tells me she is going on vacation. I am falling asleep, but I still cry harder when both she and my mom have to leave. Mom tells me to make sure I go to the sessions the next day. "Do well, honey, so you can come home." I make her promise to come at visiting hours. Weekdays only have one visiting time per day, while weekends have two. "Keep your phone on, Mom," I plead, "As soon as they'll let me go home, I have to get out of here."

Fade to black, and now morning.

A man is in my room checking the hospital bands on my wrist. Where is my nurse? She had to go home last night. It is tomorrow. This is my new nurse. He explains that the doctors want labs as he draws blood from my left arm. Ah, nice flash. (Yes, I approved of his phlebotomy.) I wonder why in the world they want labs. I don't care. Back to sleep.

Breakfast.

The sessions begin at 8am, and everyone is excited for their chance to talk to the doctor - it's the only chance all day of getting released. One wrong move, and you have to spend another night in lockdown.

When can I see the doctor? No one knows. They call your name when your doctor comes. Mom had called my psychiatrist to tell her I was admitted to the psychiatric floor. Surely she wouldn't be able to believe it. I was probably one of her easiest patients, and now this? I knew she'd yell at me for taking too many pills. At each visit, she would always ask about different things and never forgot to ask, "And how are you and your fiance doing?" Each time, I'd gush over how wonderful he was and how much joy he brought into my life. How could I tell her what happened? This didn't even make sense to us, so how would it make sense to her, to strangers?

We have a student nurse from Walsh University on our unit today. I find this weird, almost embarrassing. She goes to the sessions with us, and I tell her I am a student nurse, too. Finally, someone normal. Wait, am I normal? I'm here, so maybe not.

In the sessions, we learn about positive thinking and coping skills. Nothing I haven't heard before. A new social worker or psychologist or counselor leads each one, and in one session, we make a craft where we tie ribbons around a donut shaped piece of cardboard. We are supposed to write our hopes and dreams on each ribbon. The craft supplies aren't much to talk about, so I find some sort-of pretty flowers and glue them onto my circle. I fill it with other things, but no ribbons. I don't have any hopes and dreams anymore. My entire life is gone, and it will surely take the rest of my life for me to figure out what to do without him.

The rest is a blur of filling out lunch menus, sleeping off more Xanax, and crying in bed. At the start of a new session, I finally hear my name. The doctor is here to see me!

I have no idea who this doctor is, but I answer his questions. Yes, I'm fine. No, I don't want to hurt myself. Can I please go home? I look at the diamond on my finger and beg to go home. Yes, I have an appointment to see my psychiatrist in a few weeks. Yes, I feel safe at home. Yes, I have support - my family and so many friends. I try to seem as normal as possible, as sane as can be. I cannot mess this up and spend another day in this place.

Finally he tells me, "Then great, we will write up the papers and you can go home. It will probably be about 3:00. Do you have someone to come pick you up?" I tell him my mom will definitely come, and I run to call her.

Finally, I am leaving this place! Once while working as a student nurse technician at another hospital, I had to float to the psych floor, and it was the absolute scariest four hours of my life. These two days have been just as bad, and I'm almost dreading my psychiatric rotation even more now (next Fall). Words cannot express how good it is to be leaving or my desperation to never end up here again.

Mom came and drove me home. With no idea what I was going to do for the rest of my life without him, I had a meltdown that lasted a good month or two. It's been awhile since that night that started it all, and I think I'm doing better. Just a little bit, but at least it's something. Sometimes things overwhelm me, and I have a bad day, or cry myself to sleep, or remember him and break down, or I'll think something mean and then get mad at myself, but God has been so good. My mom prays with me when I can't sleep, my friends make sure I'm always doing all right, school and my kiddos keep me super busy, and there have even been a few (very) random people who have called to say God put it on their hearts to pray for me. Throughout it all, I've seen God work in some absolutely amazing ways.

I never thought I'd be able to say it, but lately, more days are better than worse. Two months ago, I didn't see how I could live beyond a few certain bottles of pills. Several weeks ago, I was living one-step-forward, twenty-steps-back, and now? Well things are starting to get different now. I've dealt with loss, anger, bitterness, blame, hindsight, realizations, fear, sadness, grief, jealously, hate, and so many terrible things over the past endless weeks, but I think I'm nearing the other side now. Or at least I'm trying. Getting there. Sure, the days hurt (a lot sometimes!), but these days, they hurt differently. I finally see a little glimmer of hope and can feel significant growth.  I have reflected enough to know this is where God has brought me. It's by his grace and mercy alone that he has given me another chance on making the biggest decision of my life. He saved me and someone else from what many people thought was best for two people, only to find out those two people could have been so miserable 5, 10, 20, 30 years from now. That's pretty unbelievable to me still, but trusting is more important than understanding. We obey before we know why. Just like a toddler approaching the stove has to obey Mama's "NO!", we can get into trouble sometimes until our Father draws the line. Sure there is screaming and crying (and trips to the psych ward!), but we always grow up and look at things later, thinking, "Wow, can you believe what almost happened? Can you believe how our God had mercy on us, saved us from ourselves, and even helped us deal with it when there was no hope in sight?"

Life can be treacherous, but through God's grace, mercy, and love, we endure. Journeying one day at a time on a path full of not just trials, but surprises, treasures, and victories.

I'm hurting, yes, and the empty space inside me doesn't seem to be going away, but still, I journey on with a truly grateful heart. No matter how I feel, I know God has a higher plan, and he continuously gives me enough grace and strength to keep going.