I'd like to start by saying how overwhelmed I am, but it is the best way to feel right now: I am overwhelmed with the lovely responses received on my previous post regarding my mother. The community of you all that love Dina and want nothing but the best for her... my gratitude can never be expressed. Thank you for reaching out, and thank you for understanding that she is NOT her illness. We all see that her illness and addiction are creating a monster through her, but that doesn't make Dina an evil human. She is still there, trapped in the foggy nightmare of relapse.
My second point I'd like to make before continuing: If you're not caught up, go back to my last post, "The Elephant in the Room." You'll get a full summary there.
While the situation slowly got worse with Mom, I tried looking for solutions. The ideal outcome would be to get her into a rehab facility or into a psychiatric home. However, every place I called turned me away due to her health insurance. This frustrated me for obvious reasons, but especially because Mom had moments of clarity. Moments where the fog lifted, her eyes cleared, and she was painfully aware. She asked me for help and I told her that I was looking. The rejections continued to roll in, and Mom would slip back into her nightmares.
One day I received back-to-back calls from Mom while I was at work. I stepped outside to answer, only to be greeted with crying. Not just crying, but heaving sobs. "I just needed to hear your voice. I can't listen to these other voices anymore," she hiccuped in between gasps for air. "Please make them stop. I can't get them out."
"Mommy, I think I need to call an ambulance. Is that okay? Please." I was on the ground in the employee parking lot. Curled over, knees scraping against the hot pavement, I shook. I trembled while I called the police, while I tried to compose myself enough to go back inside. Hands were shaking as I wiped away the gravel from my clothes. I walked back to the office with a stone-cold expression, as if nothing eventful had occurred on my "restroom break."
Twenty minutes later, dispatched called.
"There was nothing we could do."
"...What does that mean? You left her at home??"
"Dina was able to tell us what the date is, who the current president is, her address, what she ate for lunch..." His voice sounded farther and farther away as I floated out of my body. Disconnected from reality, because his words didn't make an ounce of sense.
"...she was not a danger to herself or anyone, and as she's an adult, we could not force her to go anywhere if she was unwilling."
This scenario repeated three times with the same results. I also contacted two more facilities, stressing the severity of this emergency. When the financial counselors listened to my pleas, they both gave the same suggestion in the same concerned tone: "It sounds like this is serious. I think you should either take her to an emergency room or call 911."
Have you ever had a dream where something horribly scary is happening, so your dream-self tries to call for help, but nobody will answer or the phone keeps ringing? That's how I felt for two months, functioning on the anxiety of waiting. Waiting for disaster to strike so the police could help. Waiting and waiting.
Last week my phone screen lit up with my grandmother's contact. Answering the phone, I knew I was about to hear one of two things: either Mom had hurt herself, or been arrested.
"She finally made an outright threat, so the police were able to take her in," Grandma said.
I sagged into my desk chair, feeling as if a weight had been lifted, while simultaneously feeling heavier.
Dina is in jail. But more importantly, she is safe. How messed up is our system that this is the outcome I've been praying for?
People like my Mom are sick, and they need medical attention. But this kind of sick isn't perceived as sick by professionals or the authorities, especially when the sick people are able to act so normal in the presence of police or doctors. But I compare that situation to an underage teen being busted drinking: They are terrified of being in trouble, so they are able to put on an act for a brief period of time.
So the solution? Jail. Mom will get her medication, but she won't get proper support or care. They'll force her to endure the detoxification process alone, which makes me nauseous to think about. She won't have her meetings or access to her team yet.
Last week I went with Grandma to Mom's apartment to clean it out, and take what I wanted. Sorting through boxes of our memories, carefully packing her favorite coffee cup, folding her cozy blankets, looking through her candles and notebooks...what a strange, morbid task. Like she died, but she didn't. Bouts of crying flared, but we kept calming down and getting back to the task at hand. Going through the motions. Robotic.
But I'm not a robot.
I am angry.
I am relieved.
I am devastated.
I am heartbroken.
I am confused.
I miss her so much. She's here, but not really. I can't find the Mommy that I know, that's gentle and funny and curious and passionate and would go to the ends of the earth for her loved ones.
But she's in there. And we'll find her. All of us. Together.