A Day in the Life

No one could’ve really known that retrieving an overthrown frisbee-like disc from the waist high weeds would have set off what’s called a mixed episode or state (mixed states happen when a child is experiencing both mania and depression together).

He was barefoot, enjoying  a game of catch with Grandpa on a warm late summer evening.  Earlier, they’d agreed upon a rule that if the disc lands in the weeds, whoever threw it, has to go get it.  They’d been playing for a while when Noah overthrew it.  Into the weeds.  He was so firm in his response and immediately defiant in attitude, refusing to get the disc.  “No!  There are ticks in there.  I’m not going to get it!”  Gentle reminders from me and Grandpa only seemed to fuel his determination to NOT go into the weeds after the disc.

I started to see it building, the anger, rage and mania.  I suggested I grab his flip flops so he wouldn’t have to wade three feet into the weeds barefoot.

“No!  I’m not going!”

I went into the house, grabbed the flip flops and joined him outside.  I found him in the back yard, hose in hand, fervently spraying the house.  Here we go, I thought.  I’ve become practiced in reading his body language, facial expressions, verbal communication and overall demeanor.  Much of the time, I can see when an episode is in the early stages and about to erupt.  And he was about to erupt.  Big Time.

“Can you turn off the hose please?  C’mon, I’ve got your flip flops.  Let’s go get the disc”.

“NOOO!  I don’t know how to turn off the hose!”

“I will figure that out Noah.  C’mon.  Let’s go”.

Reluctantly he followed me to the edge of the weeds.  Still refusing to enter.  “There are ticks.  I’m not going.”

“It’ll be okay Noah.  I will check you for ticks the moment you come back”.

Both firmly standing our ground, I’m unsure how long our feet were planted in our respective positions – 3 second or 3 minutes – before he grudgingly walked through the weeds and grabbed the disc.  On his way back he shouted that something ‘got him’.  He came out and had some dried weeds stuck to him.  I picked them off, checked him for ticks and told him he was okay.  All was good!

So I thought.

“Good job buddy.  Thanks for getting it”.

This part is a bit of a blur, but at some point, he took off running towards the front of the house.  Refusing to respond to my calls after him, not making eye contact, and running away from me as fast as he could.

He ran.  And this means trouble.  This means he’s in a full fledged episode.

If I chase after him, he will keep running.  But I can’t ignore him either.  So I do the best I can to muster up a calm and collected appearance, walking casually the direction he headed.  Calling his name occasionally.  Hoping to land my eyes on my sweet boy to confirm he isn’t harming himself or putting himself in danger.  Every time he runs.  This is what I worry about.

I spotted him, across the street, standing behind a tree.  When he is in a state, he needs his time alone, but this is the very last thing that feels natural to me.  I want to be near him, hold him, see him…know he is okay.

“Noah, can you please come here so we can talk?”

“NO! I need time alone.  I’m walking to the creek!”  And he turned around and headed the direction of the creek.  It wasn’t far.

“Okay.  You can walk to the creek and then come right back, okay?”

“No.  I will come back when I’m ready!”  And in that split second, I had to decide if I could trust that he’d be okay.  I had to decide if I could grant him the time he needed to cool down.  I let him go.  I silently prayed for God to bring him back to me.

I went back into the house to gather our things.  It was time to go home.  Several minutes passed and he came back.  But he wouldn’t come inside his Grandparent’s house.  I met him on their porch and we sat down.  I could see in his face that he had gone from the manic/rage state to a more depressed state.  Sadness poured from his eyes, his mouth turned down, lips quivering.  He reached for my hand.  I held his.  Relief filling my heart and mind.  I had his hand in mine.  He was safe.  For the moment.

Holding my hand, his upper body rocking forward and backward, “I wanna go home.  I wanna go home.  I wanna go home”.

“We can go home Noah. We can go.  Can you come in the house and say goodbye?”

He shook his head from side to side.  “I wanna go home, I wanna go home, I wanna go home.  I’m not okay. I’m not okay. I’m not okay.”

“Can you wave to them through the window?”

He knocked on the window and waved.  I went inside to grab our things, while he darted for the car.

“I wanna go home, I wanna go home, I wanna go home,” he cried, still rocking in his seat.

“We’re going home buddy. It won’t take us long”.

“I don’t wanna go home, I don’t wanna go home, I don’t wanna go home”.

“You don’t wanna go home now?”

And so this went for the first few minutes of our drive home.  But these minutes felt much longer to me.  In those minutes, I’m assessing all of the possibilities of how to keep him safe.  If we go straight home, he’ll likely run the minute I part the car.  He’ll throw the door open and run.  He’ll run to escape the sadness and pain in his mind.  If I keep driving, I risk him trying to open the door while I’m driving or him banging his head repeatedly on the window.  Over and over again.  I know this because it has happened before.  So in these moments, I do the best that I can to quickly assess his state of mind, potential for hurting himself or possibility of running.  And I hope.  And I pray.  That I’ve made the right choice.

We ended up going home.  We pulled into the garage and I turned off the car.  I turned and looked over my shoulder at him, reaching for his hand.  Hoping that I could calm his mind and send peace to his heart.

“I’m not okay, I’m not okay, I’m not okay. I’m sorry Mommy, I’m sorry.  I’m not okay.  I’m not okay”.

“It’s going to be okay Noah.”

“No…I’m not okay.”

We made it into the house.  He laid down on the carpet and continued crying, “I’m not okay,” repeatedly.

“Noah, why are you not okay?  What are you feeling when you aren’t okay?”

“I’m sad, I’m mad.  I want to go up,” as he pointed to the sky.

I knew what up meant.  “You want to go up…you mean to Heaven?”

Tears streaming down his face, “Yes…I want to go up, where it’s peaceful and not sad.  Where it is always happy. I want to go up.  I want to run.”

I laid down next to him, putting his face in my hands, “I know Noah, I know.”

What else could I say?  In that moment, this was the only place he knew he could feel peace.  And have no pain.  In Heaven.  We laid there for a bit.  As his rage had ebbed into sadness and sadness melted into apathy.  And apathy turned into exhaustion.

We made it through the episode.  He was winding down.  And I know how this goes, soon he would likely ask to play video games or swim, as if nothing had ever happened.  As if the last 60 minutes were completely imagined by me.

“Noah, why don’t you go take shower.  You’re all sweaty from playing outside and the cool water may help soothe your mind and calm you down.”

He headed upstairs.  Ten minutes later he came down.  Showered and PJ’s on.  His mood was leveled and he seemed to be back in a regulated state.  I could tell from his relaxed eyes and the upturned corners of his mouth that he was in a better place.  The torment had left his mind.  For now, he had Peace of Mind.

“All done?  You feel better now Noah?”

He looked at me, almost confused as to why I would ask him if he feels better, and says, “Mom, can I play some Mario before bed?”