Admission

Each weekday morning I make coffee, pack a lunch, and send my husband off to work. I have a short break and then I wake Garret up and get him ready for school. Then I have an even shorter break before I wake Braden up (assuming he's slept through all of the above).

Today marks day four of this school year that the last step has been removed, and this is the first of those four days that I haven't retreated to my bed to avoid the change. Shortly after midnight on Tuesday, Braden was admitted to an adolescent psychiatric unit for observation and treatment. Happy Valentine's Day, right? This is his third hospitalization in four years, but it isn't any easier than the first.

His bedroom door has been closed since I got home from the hospital. I have avoided doing laundry because I can't stand the thought of folding his clothes, or worse, having a load that now doesn't have anything of his in it. It hurts so much to be in this place again that I can barely breathe. So why did I voluntarily call the police department and ride in the back of a squad car with him to the emergency room? Why did I sign consent upon release to allow him to be admitted?

11 1/2 years ago, I gave birth to a 6 lb. 7 oz. baby boy. He had a full head of dark hair, huge dark eyes, and beautiful olive skin. Over the years I have poured more of my heart and soul into him and his well-being than I'd have believed I had to give. I love him more than life.

But he is now a young man, 5'3" tall and 120 pounds. He has surging hormones and a short fuse. And the heart-wrenching reality is that those factors, when paired with his cognitive impairments, make him a danger to himself and to those around him.

It doesn't get easier for him to be away from me. No, the reality is that it gets harder. Each time I agree that I cannot handle his behaviors, therefore him, I am admitting a little more that I cannot help my baby. That I cannot in and of myself be what he needs. That the unconditional, limitless love of his mother cannot "fix" what is broken in him. Each time I make that admission, my head tells me it's not failure, but my heart...well, it breaks.