Just in Case…

It didn’t seem necessary to keep my phone within view, just in case. It was only the first week of school and thus far, it had gone well.

Last Friday I was at a women’s writers luncheon. My phone was on silent and in my purse…because, well because it was the first week of school and usually the struggles slowly ramp up in the beginning of the year. And candidly, I was a bit out of practice of having my phone out and within my line of sight…because, summer. He was within my line of sight most of summer, so I didn’t have to worry.

Maybe fifteen minutes into this luncheon, after mingling and networking, we were seated at the large table. Maybe twenty or so. One by one, around the table, we stood up to share the latest projects we were working on. Suddenly, I felt a tug at my heart and a bit like I was needed. A familiar feeling I’ve had numerous times before. The feeling that tells me, perhaps I should check my phone. Just in case.

I quietly pulled my phone from my purse. My heart dropped and my breath skipped when I looked at it.

Missed Call and Voicemail from Junior High.

Shit.

I hate it when these feelings are right.

I pressed the voicemail button.

“Hi Heather, this is Sara from the nurses office at the Junior High. N’s had a bit of a rough day I’m afraid. Can you call me when you get a chance? He thinks he may have forgotten to take his medicine and he’s just really struggled. Thank you.”

My heart beat faster, my palms started to sweat. I didn’t want to disrupt the meeting or be viewed as rude, but this call was priority. My hands shook a bit as I placed them on the edge of the table for leverage to gently slide my chair backwards, trying to be as inconspicuous as possible.

As I walked to the back of the room, I dialed…or attempted to dial…the school. I think I had to dial that damn number seven or eight times before I got it right. I was starting to freak out a little bit; making up stories in my mind about what ‘he’s had a rough day‘ may have meant.

Voicemail. I got her voicemail. So I left a message and sat back down.

This time, I kept my phone in plain view, on silent. And perhaps every other half second, I glanced down at it, looking for an incoming call. A few minutes later (although it felt like a bazillion minutes later), she called. Again, gingerly pushing my chair away from the table, I tried to inconspicuously step outside of the room.

“Hello? This is Heather,” I answered.

She proceeded to tell me that Noah had a tough day, he was pretty sure he’d forgotten to take his meds. He’d acquired a lunch detention for Monday, she wasn’t sure why. He was really struggling in classes and a teacher had walked him down to her. But now he was back in class…

Deep breaths. I wasn’t clear on what ‘struggling’ and ‘rough day’ meant. I didn’t ask. I didn’t think to. Because frankly, my mind was still a jumbled mess of thinking my baby was in trouble. Trouble as in suffering, struggling, having a hard day. Then it turns out, he was also in that kind of trouble and going to have to pay via lunch detention. Sigh. This life.

Even just rewriting this experience has my heart racing a bit. Because when you’ve been through what we have, receiving countless calls and messages that drop your heart into your stomach with worry and fear…well, you get conditioned to respond that way. Calls and messages like:

“Heather, N is curled up in a ball in the back of the room, covering his ears and rocking back and forth. He won’t look up, or acknowledge anyone or speak.”

or

“Heather, I think we’ve got him calmed down now, but can you call me as soon as you get this message? I’m really worried about what he might do next…”

or

“Hi, Heather…N is having really rough day. He’s refusing to do anything, he’s withdrawn. We got him in the OT room and so and so is with him, but we’re worried. He’s hitting himself in the head and won’t stop.”

“Heather, please call me as soon as possible. He’s really struggling. He had tied his shirt around his neck, attempting to choke himself. He says he doesn’t want to be here anymore…”

And so on.

When you get calls like this. Repeatedly. You can’t help but have a somewhat visceral reaction, each time the school number comes up on your phone. And you worry. And fear. And scramble. And hold back tears. And sit on the edge of your seat. And wonder, what if…what if this time…

There’s no peace in this.

When you’re a mom of a child living with mental illness and your child is often in the care of others, you never really ever let your guard down or feel completely safe with the situation. And not necessarily because you believe you could avoid the situation if you were there. But you might see it coming. You might see the slight nuance in the speed of his speech, or the lack of cadence in his walk. You might see the slightly turned down corners of his mouth or the light lost in his eyes.

As his mother, you see these things before others do. Yet…at times…you don’t see it at all. There is no fool proof action to avoid any of this. But as his mother, if anyone can see it coming, it’s you. And you can be there. To hold or restrain. To stand on the other side of the room and calmly ask how you can help. Or to crouch down next to him, without touching him, just so he feels your presence.

I didn’t expect to get a call like I did last Friday, that soon into the school year. Thankfully, it wasn’t as severe as many other calls I’ve gotten. And thankfully, we think his struggles that day were due to him missing his medication. He didn’t self harm. He didn’t shut down. On the ‘scale of days’ we’re used to, it was minor.

But it was still a blip on the radar. Still a reminder of the delicacy of his brain and the medication it needs to balance it out.

When he got home that afternoon, I was waiting, breath held, hoping his mood would be okay. Sometimes, when he has a bad day, it sets off a fast and rolling motion down the hill to bigger, harder problems. So I waited. Sitting on my blue chair in the living room. Looking out the window.

As soon as I saw him walking down the street, I looked for that cadence in his step. He had it. He even had a little bounce. As he got closer. I looked at his mouth. The corners turned up when he spotted the dogs wagging their tails with fervor at the sight of him. And his eyes. I saw light.

And I let out the breath I never realized I was holding.

I cried tears of relief, but wiped them swiftly before he was close enough to see.

As he stepped in the door, I put my arms around him, squeezed him tight. And didn’t give a damn if any of his bus mates saw. My baby was here. With bounce in his step and light in his eyes.

And I felt blessed.