Today was bad. Really, really bad. I had to do something that ripped my heart out and it still hurts. It was necessary and I hope, someday, my son will forgive me and realize that this had to happen.
Let me back up a bit.
*deep breath*
WARNING: Very long read.
Back in February 2019, I received a call early in the morning. Anyone that knows me knows that I hate being awakened. The caller ID readout didn’t register as one I recognized and I almost didn’t answer it. When I did, the woman on the other end confirmed my identification before telling me that my son had been involved in a car accident. He was in the trauma center with a severe scalp laceration and loads of road rash, which didn’t make sense if he was in a car. She reassured me that he was ‘okay’ and they were intending to release him and could I pick him up?
Still half asleep, I had questions, but figured I’d ask when I got to the hospital. I was stunned when I saw him. How the hell did he have road rash from head to toe? The back of his head was held together with staples–we counted 28. What the fuck was going on?
Warning, some may find these images graphic.
Here’s the story I got from the hospital:
He somehow fell out the passenger side door of a friends truck landing on the back of his head.
That’s it. Nothing more other than to say that he came in as a Level I Trauma, but hey, they were planning to release him to my care.
What the fuck?
Later, he told me that he and his … female not-girlfriend friend had gotten into an argument. They had both been drinking, something neither should be doing anyway because they are both alcoholics. He didn’t fall out of the truck–one of those raised 4x4s with the huge tires that you need a step ladder to get into. He jumped out of the truck….in an attempt to commit suicide.
The hospital recommended counseling, alcoholics anonymous, therapy; all the things they’re supposed to do, but did not deem him a danger to himself; therefore, they could not hold him if he wanted to leave.
Now, fast forward some. Over the past five months, he has been a raging asshole. I’d love to blame in on brain damage, but I know that it’s a combination of stoner mentality and a plethora of mental illness. I’ve been trying to track down all the help and support care that has been recommended, and I admit, maybe I haven’t put as much effort into it as I probably should or could, but this isn’t my only child and I have other commitments as well. I’m not a professional at this. Just a mom that tries really hard and probably fails more often than I’m comfortable with.
Moving forward to yesterday.
At 6:40 AM, shortly before my alarm was set to go off, my phone rang once again. This time there was no mistaking the caller ID: Pomona Valley Hospital. Hello rhetorator, I’m calling from Pomona Valley Hospital to let you know that your son was involved in a car accident early this morning and will be released from the hospital in about an hour if you’d like to pick him up.
Seriously? Again? Is this what my life is becoming?
This time when I went to pick him up, he didn’t have the road rash or staples. Instead he had a severely broken “distal fracture of the right ulna and radius,” i.e., a badly broken right wrist. (More on that in a bit.)
Apparently, earlier in the evening, he had broken into mine and my husband’s bedroom and stolen a bottle of tequila. He and his not girlfriend, yes the same one, proceeded to get absolutely hammered with a friend, who started making advances to not-girlfriend, which weren’t exactly fought off. This resulted in my son becoming angry and insisting on leaving. The two left the friend behind and (drunk) got into the car with my son driving. At some point, she grabbed the wheel and started pulling on it putting them up the curb and into a fence and/or a tree. Airbags were deployed. I’m unclear as to whether or not she went to the hospital, but that’s how he broke his arm.
Or at least that’s the story I got. I don’t know how much is true and how much is imagined. I’ll never know.
The police arrested him for a DUI and confiscated his license at the scene. I found out all of this when the hospital handed me his belongings, of which there were no shoes. I have no idea why he didn’t have shoes or a belt on and I commented on how odd that was. (They were in the now-towed car.)
When I arrived at the hospital, he was sound asleep from the morphine they had given him. It wasn’t until a bit later that I smelled the alcohol on his breath. He was still drunk.
On the recommendation–and based on the look of concern on the nurses face–I loaded him in the car and immediately took him to see his primary care physician, who never actually saw him, but had ortho/x-ray review the CD of his X-rays that I had brought. As they were reviewing the X-rays, the boy came absolutely unglued in the waiting room, threatening to kill his friend and beat his girlfriend for what happened. No amount of conversation of calming method seemed to work. Other patients began to complain about his offensive language and we were told that he needed to calm down or they would need to call security. That’s when I took him outside. There, he proceeded to essentially tell me that I wasn’t helping him and pointing fingers at me, accusing me of making things worse and not understanding what he was going through.
It was a bad day.
After, literally, four hours of waiting for someone to tell us what was going on, a nurse finally took us aside and let us know that they were trying to get him an appointment with a hand specialist. They had been on hold for more than 40 minutes. She suggested we go home and they would call to give us more information.
Mind you, he’s been in a soft cast for more than 12 hours and his wrist has not been set yet.
Not 10 minutes after we left, the specialist called to say that she could get him in Friday at 11:00…or in three weeks. Really? Three weeks? No. That doesn’t work. In the meantime, he’s screaming in both pain and anger in the front seat of the cart–I’m sure Burger King will never let us order at their drive-up window again.
Fast forward again, about an hour after we got home, the specialist called to say that she can squeeze him in Thursday at 2:00. Perfect, that gets this handled faster than expected. Of course, I still don’t know why a hand specialist is needed.
Thinking everything was good to go, I got up this morning and went to work with the intention of leaving around noon to make sure we arrived on time to complete the necessary paperwork. Instead of waiting for me to come get him, he came back to the house–his dad had already told him he wasn’t welcome there and he had stolen from him for the last time. Therein began a downward spiral of messages and phone calls, my husband angry that he’s there, my daughter livid that he came into her room and took here phone while she was sleeping and repeatedly waking her up to unlock it.
It wasn’t even 10:30 in the morning yet.
Against my better judgement, I left work to try to defuse the rapidly degenerating situation. When I got there, I had to nearly force him to get in the car. Once I did, we got around the corner and he opened the door and jumped out. The car was still moving.
Again, I had to coax him back into the car. Once I finally got him in, the two of us began arguing. (I hate it when he calls me ‘dude.’) We got about a mile or so down the street, right in front of the sheriff’s department and, again, he jumped out of the car while it was moving. There was a sheriff’s vehicle at the light. I was quite surprised that he didn’t stop.
After arguing a bit more, he insisted that I leave him. So I did.
By this time, my husband and I are in full debate mode (re: fighting like cats and dogs). I went to the house, grabbed a suitcase, and started packing with the intent of staying in a hotel for a couple of days. I threw the suitcase in the car and decided to give the boy-child one more chance to let me take him to the doctor. I found him walking toward the house so I picked him up with the intention of taking him to the doctor. We would be early, but I was okay with that.
All the way there, we fought and he made several attempts to jump out of the car. He hit me with a barrage of I should have just killed myself when I had the chance and other niceties. The kind of comments that just gut a parent. He also popped the top on a bottle of hydrocodone and started dumping them in his mouth. We finally get almost to the freeway–I was literally in the turn lane to get on the freeway–and he jumped out of the car (just about to hit the gas pedal) and walks–no, saunters–diagonally through the intersection to the other side of the street. Of course, I can’t cut across three lanes of traffic or make a u-turn from where I was. After a particularly long left turn to find someplace to turn around, I realized that I had no clue where he had gone.
Then I see an ambulance at the gas station near where he crossed the street. I had intended to just ask if they had seen him when I saw a man in a law enforcement uniform (not a street cop, but a cop nonetheless). I asked if they had seen him when I suddenly see him walk out of the gas station with a cup of water in his hand. When the cop saw how agitated I was, he immediately call the local police department.
Once the police arrived, they talked to him and then talked to me. Based on what had happened, they deemed he was a danger to himself and placed him on a 72-hour hold (5150).
He’s now a guest of the local mental health facility, calling me from the intake lobby about every 20 minutes to tell me how I had just fucked up his entire life. His arm still hasn’t been set or casted and he hates me more now than he did before. The whole reason he was being referred to a specialist is because the hospital was concerned that the break could be resting on a nerve or an artery, which if not treated could result in permanent nerve damage.
It was a bad day. A really bad day.