all, the launch of Joey off to college was sputtering, at best.
Maybe I should have.
But I didn’t.
Joe is awake now and sits up, his face twisted like the confusion of sheets and blankets around us. I want him to turn the lamp back off so I won’t have to see his face when I tell him his firstborn son just tried to take his own life.
As dawn takes its first groggy peek at today, I’m airborne, squashed between bulky shoulders and behinds on my way to Joey’s suicide-attempted side. To the gurney where he lies retching against long, rubbery tubes—the poison from his belly more easily sucked away than the poison in his spirit that will be left behind.
Why is life so hard for my child? So damn hard?
Yesterday Joey called to tell me about his first week of college, but he didn’t tell me about the desperation right underneath his cheerful veneer. Why didn’t he know I could handle—and could help him to handle—the truth? Why didn’t he know I would want to know he was hurting? And why didn’t I already know?
There have been signs Joey is struggling. I’ve seen them. I’ve felt them. But I didn’t know what to do with them. Between the reentry from India and the send-off to college, summer was wedged like a contented sigh—full and pleasant. Lured, lulled, and giddy, I wanted to believe Joey was one happy and productive adult-child, ready to launch.
I wanted to believe that the end of the eating disorder episode meant the end of all problems forever. But then he was arrested for driving 103 mph (with marijuana in his pocket) while driving from East Coast to West, on his way to San Diego University (SDU) in California. He took anger and manipulation to a new and hideous level when Joe and I put his car into storage. And he quit and un-quit college several times over the days we were there to help him move into the dorm. Yes, the college send-off-from-hell was full of signs. So maybe I shouldn’t be stunned that my child tried to commit suicide. But I am.
Later this morning, Joe will serve up the latest bad news to Rick along with his toast. It was only last week that Rick started his sophomore year at his new high school (in a new town, state, and country) and Joe started his new job. While yesterday seemed off to a good, solid start, today begins on shaky ground. We’ve moved so frequently that we’re adept at adapting, but that’s because we lean on each other, and now I won’t be there, for I don’t know how long, to help smooth kinks and soothe worries.
The plane curves in for a landing, tilting its wings over the sparkling San Diego Bay, a view Joey would see from his dorm at SDU this morning if he weren’t comatose in some emergency room.
Except, it turns out, he’s not.
It is Joey’s lanky form that unfolds from the backseat of the green SUV idling at the curb. Somehow, he’s here at the airport to meet me, sprouting a single row of vacuum-cleaner-like bristles from his otherwise hairless head. I’m oddly struck by the thought that Joey’s gray pallor, his stubble, and his bruised-looking eyes suit his new Mohawk quite nicely. As quickly as I grab him up into a tight squeeze, I push Joey away for inspection. A scrap of bloodied gauze is taped on his arm; there’s a bit of yellow crud stuck in the corner of his mouth; his eyes have no spark.
“Thank God you’re alive and standing here. But what the hell?”
I’m furious.
My son’s cry for help was bounced out of the hospital in less than twelve hours.
“Where’s the diagnosis? The prescription? The plan?”
“Mom, I’m fine. I was drunk. Trying to kill myself was a mistake. I’m glad you came, but I don’t want to talk about this.”
“Well, Joey, that’s not an option.”
Whether it’s to please me or shut me up doesn’t matter—Joey agrees to be evaluated by a doctor at a nearby psychiatric hospital. With strings attached, of course.
“I will talk about what happened, but I will not go to the loony bin.”
I have no way of knowing what the doctor will advise, but I look Joey straight in his trusting blue eyes, and I lie. Because, as with the eating disorder, Joey has to get through the door to get the help. Whatever kind of help that may be.
“Joey, this appointment is for you to talk through what happened. Nothing more.”
Rebecca—the old family friend who’s been sucked into our drama—drives us to the appointment, and as she pulls her SUV into the parking lot I can see Joey appraising the big granite block of a building that looks uninvitingly cold even in the late-summer heat. As she eases the car into a tight space, Joey flings open the back door and runs across the asphalt with the long, swift stride of a hunted deer. He’s gone, up and over a grassy berm, out of sight and heading toward the freeway before the keys are out of the ignition. Gone. I start to fumble at my door handle, ready to give chase, but Rebecca, still behind the wheel, reaches out for my arm.
“Wait! Driving after him will be faster!”
One . . . two . . . three times the engine will not start.
My heart stops. The world stops. Nothing exists except the utter stillness of this moment.
And the turning of the key.
If the car doesn’t start now, right now, with this turn, Joey will truly be gone. Killed. Frantic and afraid, he will surely dart into the high-speed traffic. My breath is ragged. I pound the dashboard with my fists; I yell at the car.
“Go, go, go!”
And suddenly, it does.
Lurching out of the parking lot—in stuttering slow motion—we catch up with Joey running along the freeway’s edge. Pulling up beside him, we’re matching his pace—the frenzied pace of the terrified—but we’re still moving far more slowly than the traffic whizzing past us on our other side. Eyes wild, the whites bigger than the blue, Joey’s face is streaked with tears and he’s gasping for breath. Yet he’s still able to scream.
“You tricked me! AGAIN! I’ll never be committed to another hospital. NEVER!”
I do what I must.
As Joey stumbles and swerves, I lie.
Full of fear and out of options, I beg, beg him to get into the car. Leaning through the open window, I reach out to Joey, hollering over the wind and the traffic and the pounding in my ears.
“Joey, I promise, the doctor is waiting for you, but only to talk. Please, please, get in the car!”
The truth is: If the expert on suicidal behavior tells me Joey needs to be locked up, I’m locking him up. I know Joey won’t care that I’m trying to save his life—because from his perspective, I’m not. But right now I can’t worry about that.
Joey slows down; a sweat-lathered bronco that’s run out of buck, he gets into the car.
