The elevator ride to the seventh floor felt interminable. Clutching my son’s favorite stuffed dinosaur, its vibrant blue fabric gleaming against the dull grey walls, I was overwhelmed. Just the night before, my four-year-old son, Leo, had been admitted to this psychiatric facility. After 13 hours in the ER, my head throbbed with exhaustion. Though this building was technically a hospital, its bleak exterior reminded me of old Soviet offices, and the sterile interior offered no comfort. Gone were the cheerful murals and whimsical names of hallways that often mask the anguish held within. Here, pain lingered visibly in every corner. Whenever I stepped outside, tears would flow; inside, I felt nothing but shame, guilt, and profound sadness.
As I stood in the elevator, a man in his forties stood nearby, holding a pink and yellow tie-dyed blanket and a small tote bag that seemed nearly empty. We both stared at the floor, avoiding each other’s gaze, too burdened by our shared reality to offer even a glance of understanding. I couldn’t help but think that he was not just a stranger; he was someone’s father, likely a good one, caught in the same heartbreaking narrative that so many parents of ill children know.
Leo, who was still in diapers and spoke only a few fragmented words, was three hours away from home in the only psychiatric facility in the state willing to take him due to his persistent seizures. The hospital’s website touted it as a premier institution, yet the lobby felt more like a breeding ground for the failings of the American mental health system—underfunded, understaffed, and chaotic. A month after Leo’s discharge, there had been a shooting in the lobby.
Despite the well-meaning words of those who hadn’t walked in my shoes, I often felt judged as a parent. If only I had tried stricter discipline or the right therapy, perhaps this situation could have been avoided. I carried the weight of self-recrimination, often drowning in thoughts of how my greatest tragedy was my inability to meet my children’s needs.
Leo had been born with deletions on his 15th chromosome and, tragically, had suffered severe abuse in his infancy. When he was admitted, he presented with multiple broken ribs, two broken legs, a broken arm, and bleeding in his brain. My partner and I became his third foster home when he was 15 months old, eventually adopting him a year later.
When the elevator doors finally opened, a small group of families waited to enter the unit for the one hour a day we were allowed to see our children. We were a diverse mix—different ages and backgrounds—all bearing the invisible scars of our shared experiences. The stark lighting and identical black plastic chairs served as a reminder that this was a place of legitimacy, yet every moment felt wrong. We engaged in awkward small talk, never making eye contact, caught in our own grief.
At one o’clock, security staff ushered us forward, reminding us that personal belongings had to be deposited into coin-operated lockers. Nothing, not even my son’s beloved stuffed dinosaur, could go into the unit. As I locked away my purse and phone, the atmosphere felt increasingly prison-like. I couldn’t shake the anger that my son, suffering from a chronic illness, was being treated this way. The brain is just another organ, yet it felt as if institutions like this one were a last resort for children like Leo, abandoned by the systems meant to help them.
The metal detector slowed my entry, with each passing minute a reminder of the limited time I had with my son. Once inside, I rushed down the hall and finally spotted Leo. He wore only a blue t-shirt and a soiled diaper. I immediately sought help to change him, my frustration mounting. I didn’t want him here, in this bleak place. I fantasized about whisking him away in a Volkswagen van, escaping to the serene forests of Canada, living a simple life filled with homeschooling and hand-washed clothes. But those thoughts were just a way to dodge the harsh reality of our situation.
I attempted to change Leo’s diaper on the bed, only to find dried messes clinging to his small body. I asked for directions to a shower, my voice filled with disbelief at the conditions he was enduring. When I inquired about a one-on-one caregiver, the staff expressed their confusion, further deepening my sense of failure.
A nurse eventually informed me that the administration had denied my request for a dedicated caregiver due to costs, and suggested I view this hospital stay as a necessary respite for myself. I met with a psychiatrist who dismissed Leo’s seizure disorder, proposing to change his medication without understanding the complexities of his needs. As I left the hospital, tears streamed down my face, knowing that the impact of this “treatment” would be felt immediately.
Over the next ten days, I visited my son for that one precious hour, cleaning him up and fighting against the chaos that surrounded him. Each day, I shed tears on the way out, feeling helpless and unheard. By the end of his stay, they discharged him back to me, having made minimal adjustments to his medication that ultimately fell short.
I’ve been urged multiple times to consider institutionalizing Leo permanently. The suggestion to abandon him in a facility, all while being told not to feel guilty, weighs heavily on my heart. Would the options be the same if he were battling cancer? The idea of survival for any parent should never mean relinquishing their child. Despite my gratitude for the staff who helped during Leo’s acute care, the system often feels fraught with challenges that could be navigated with more compassion and understanding.
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In summary, my journey with Leo has been a tumultuous ride through the complexities of mental health care for young children. The experience has been marked by moments of despair, frustration, and a quest for understanding. As I continue to seek help for my son, I urge others facing similar struggles to advocate fiercely for their children and to seek out the resources available to support them.