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I am the crazy mom of five boys.  Four of my five boys are on the autism spectrum. Neuro-Diversity rocks!!!  I cook, I clean, I blog, I breathe.  Yup that is about it.  If you want to catch a glimpse of our crazy world you are more than welcome but don't say I didn't warn you.

Sunday, June 3, 2018

A Glimpse of the Cuckoo's Nest

There are moments in time or things we experience that have the power to forever change us; to define us and bring clarity to our callings.  Such a moment happened to me two weeks ago while in the midst of another family crisis.  It was one of the most heartbreaking, shocking and enervating experiences I have ever had.  It broke me in the best way possible.  I write this today because most of you will never have the chance to experience this moment.  Most of you will never see the reality with your own two eyes. Most of you will only get the sanitized version from the news or a story that you read online.   You will never have the privilege of seeing the truth or having your heart broken and your protective instincts fired.  Even after reading this, most of you will chose to go back to your sheltered existence; choosing to believe the experiences and sights I am about to share with could not possibly be as bad as what I am going to portray and even if they are......well those people had it coming.  I know this little blog post will have little impact in the grand scheme of things.  However, I would betray everything that I stand for if I did not speak out, if I did not use what little voice I have to scream from the rooftops how broken and dangerous our mental health system is.
Here's my story.  I swear to you not a stroke of this keyboard is an exaggeration or manipulation of what I have witnessed.   Sit back and read this with an open heart and mind.  If we don't make changes immediately I fear for the future of our most vulnerable children.

Two weeks ago my youngest son was slotted to start PHP (partial hospitalization program) at Cook's Children's Hospital in Fort Worth, TX. His behaviors had started to spiral again and he was experiencing side effects from one of his medications.  His psychiatrist advised that we change his medication under his supervision.  My son was to go to the hospital for eight hours a day where he would have group therapy and be observed as they set out to adjust his medications.  This was going to mean an extra 4 hours of driving a day for me (minimum) but I was glad that he would be in an institution I trusted with his psychiatrist, so the drive was worth it.  It took two weeks after the doctor wrote the order for the program to have a slot open for B.

His first day of the program we grabbed breakfast and started off bright and early. B was happy and chattering the entire hour and and fifteen minutes ride to the hospital.  We arrived just in time to do intake and start.  B and I were led to a private room by one of the hospital therapist to answer the intake questions. There had been a breakdown in their system; had they done things correctly they would have seen he had been inpatient in their facility in September and his entrance to PHP was ordered by one of their own doctors.  Had any of these facts been communicated as they should have been, we would not have had to do the full intake process and the rest of this story woukd not have happened.  But as is often the case in our healthcare system, the necessary facts were not communicated.  If you have never done intake for psychiatric purposes it is a little more time consuming than intake for your typical ER or hospital visit.  You have to answer a lot of questions concerning your mental state, thoughts, home life, etc. It can be overwhelming to anyone.  The process is especially difficult for my youngest son who struggles to discuss anything emotional without breaking down on the best of days.  I also had not given him his meds  because the entire reason we were there was to change his medications. He needed to see the doctor and start his new regiment.  Within  2 minutes of starting intake, my son was beginning to work up.  Within 5 minutes he was in a full blown meltdown, screaming, hitting his head on the wall, scratching his arms, trying to run off, swearing at the doctors and security officers. We gave him medication, hoping to calm him enough to complete intake.  Instead he worked up even more.  The therapist apologized because there was no way to admit him to PHP in this state ( a conclusion we all agreed with).  He needed to be placed inpatient.  It took two armed security guards to escort us to the special ER ( as I call it).  There a doctor looked at him and ordered the therapist to find him a bed somewhere.  Though we were already at the hospital, it was the children's hospital.  They do not take children over 12 in their behavioral (psychiatric) ward.  My son melted down for a full 2 hours.  We were in a room with a bed (with restraint hooks) that was attached to the floor,  a single chair, made of the same material as the bed and NOTHING else.  We spent the next 8 hours waiting as the hospital called every behavioral hospital with a teen ward in the area looking for a bed for my son.  We live between 2 major cities (Dallas and Fort Worth). There are more than a dozen behavioral hospital wards and hospitals in our area that matched the needed criteria (most of which I would not recommend but we will get to that later).  It took 8 hours to find a single  pediatric bed.  This is not unusual. It is a normal occurrence for people to be turned away from the hospitals when they go seeking help for their kids because there are no beds available. This is also a problem for the adult population but for the purposes  of this article, we are focusing on the pediatric aspects of our mental health system. After waiting for hours, they found him a bed at Dallas Behavioral Health in DeSoto, Texas. .  We have been dealing with mental health issues for a while now with our kids.  Because of this we have a working knowledge of the hospitals in our area.  I had heard some questionable things about the hospital.  When I told my husband where they wanted to send B, his initial reaction was the same as mine: not happening.  But we had already spent 8 hours in the ER, the therapist calling and re-calling every hospital looking for a bed.  This was literally the ONLY bed available .  My husband researched and found that the hospital had recently won a few awards for their behavioral unit.  So with reluctance and no other options, B was assigned the bed.  It was a voluntary admission but if I had not cooperated they would have admitted him under the Baker Act (non voluntary admission).  That would have severely limited the amount of control I would have had to make medical decisions for my son.  So though we had a choice, we didn't really have a choice.
  We waited for the ambulance to arrive to take us the hour and half to Dallas Behavioral in DFW rush hour traffic.  The entire ride B was chatting away, asking questions about all the equipment in the ambulance.  The paramedic asked me twice if he had received the right transfer paperwork. Was B really supposed to be transferred to DBH?  Yes, I assured him, the paperwork was correct.

We exited the ambulance to a different world from the one we left.  B had been labeled a flight risk because of his earlier flight attempts while melting down.  We were sent to the locked flight risk intake ward.  Before I begin, let me say I have gone through intake with my kids on several different occasions now.  I have visited the behavioral ward of different hospitals as a missionary and as a parent.  I am not easily shocked anymore.  This intake ward managed to shock and horrify me.  I will try to capture what the experience was like but I don't think even I can do justice to the absolute chaos that assaulted us as we were ushered through the large locked doors.
The first thing I noticed when walking in was the smell.  This is not new to me.  I spent years doing homeless ministry.  I lived above a homeless mission and worked there full time for my college internship.  The smell of un-bathed, inebriated individuals with dirty clothes and no access to hygiene products is not new to me.  It was new to my son, he immediately asked why it stank.  Milling around the narrow halls were adults waiting to be admitted. Some were rocking, others screaming, one kept trying to take off her shirt and have everyone feel her stomach and her "baby".  She would start screeching and yelling if you did not give her the attention she needed. She was demanding to leave so she could go have her baby (she was only a few moths pregnant and obviously not in labor).  There were about 5 police officers in the hallway with two patients they were bringing in.  One patient was a young teen girl ( I later learned she was 12).  She was in handcuffs between 2 officers. Several of the male patients tried to touch her or engage her.  I was grateful to the officer that was with her who kept them at bay while he was there. To our right was a large waiting room with more adult patients waiting to be admitted.  They were sprawled across chairs and  on the floor.  Some had blankets, others just sat on the floor talking to themselves.  They wandered in and out freely.  Wandering the halls with no visible supervision.  To our left was a room with teenagers.  Adult patients kept wandering in and out though the nurse kept telling them they were not allowed in the teen room when she was available, which was very rarely.  Most of the teens were unaccompanied, having been brought in by law enforcement.  We were told to stay in the hallway until the staff could "get to us".  They dealt with the patients brought in by the police. B kept pushing himself between me and the wall.  He didn't know what to make of the chaos that surrounded us. Then it was our turn.  All our belongings were locked in a locker (standard procedure at every psychiatric hospital), we were patted down and scanned with a metal detector wand.  I was then told to go bring B to the teen room and that I could leave if I wanted.  I did not want to. At this point I wasn't sure if I would be leaving him at the hospital at all, Baker Act be damned.  As we waited there for several hours, more patients were brought in by the police or nurses. Some were loud.  Some looked high; others looked completely beat down by life.   Some were violent. One began beating on the doors with so much strength he shook the entire ward.  The teens were terrified, one girl looked at me and asked if he would be able to break the glass windows of the room we were in.  I assured her we were safe and that security would deal with him.  It took nearly 10 minutes for security to show up after they were paged (several minutes after he became worked up).  One adult patient stripped down and fought keeping any clothing on.  All the while the teens were unprotected in an unlocked room with adults patients wandering in and out. When the nurse came back I asked that the door be locked to protect the kids.  She complied after asking who I was.  I explained I was a parent and that I knew that by law the teens should be protected from the general population.
I talked with the kids who were there, they were dying to be listened to.  Most of them had been inpatient before.  They began to compare the facilities; which facilities had good food, which had the best staff, which places had the best therapist.  One thin boy told the story of how he had been inpatient at a different facility over Easter.  The nurses had sneaked them Easter candy and a doctor had ordered the entire teen ward pizzas for dinner that night.  He said he had asked to be brought back to that facility when the officers had taken him from school, in handcuffs (he had been overheard threatening to hurt himself).  He explained that was the only facility where he had made any progress because the staff really cared.  But the officers said it was too far and they could only bring him to DBH.
Sitting in there my heart was broken over and over.  One beautiful girl was brought in by law enforcement in cuffs, her wrists bandaged.  She began to talk to me.  She had just been released from inpatient two days before.  She had tried to slit her wrists so she was brought back, in handcuffs after they bandaged up her wrists.  It is just standard procedure to handcuff our youth.  So standard in fact, the kids were all comparing their cuff bruises while we waited.  Most of the teens had been waiting 6-8 hours for a bed.  They were not given food or even water during the entire time they waited.  To get to the bathroom they had to wade through the sea of adult patients wandering the halls with no supervision,

After 3 hours, we were finally admitted. So for those of you keeping count, we drove an hour to the PHP program, waited 8 hours for a bed to become available, drove an hour and a half to the hospital and waited 3 hours to be admitted (and we were "rushed" through because he was transferred from another hospital and I was making waves about the lack of proper security or supervision for the kids alone with any number of adult mental patients).
Once I looked over the ward B would be on (well what I could see of it from the place I was told to stand), I was reassured that he would be completely separate from the adult population.  I signed the last of the paperwork, they did a full exam of B (again standard procedure for psychiatric wards) documenting any scratches, rashes, bruises etc.  The skipped any more intrusive exams as he had an ASD diagnosis and was transferred in from another hospital. I am grateful for that.  He would have been even more traumatized if they had done a rectal exam.
B was there for 8 days with limited visitation and phone calls.  The doctors there were able to get his meds balanced, which with B is no small feat.  However, the teens were allowed to put whatever they wanted on the TV after therapy. They chose horror movies.  My son had never been exposed to graphic horror movies before his time there and has had nightmares since returning.  I don't understand how it is healthy for teens who are in a mental facility for self harm or violence to be exposed to violent, gory, rated R movies with full nudity at the hospital that is supposed to be treating them.  The people on duty would watch the movies with the kids.  So they knew what was being played.

Eight days later B came home.  The doctors were able to balance his medications but the hospital experience was traumatizing to him.  I go to sleep haunted by the faces of the kids I waited in the intake waiting room with.  So many of these kids were obviously traumatized by things and situations in their lives.  They are crying out for help.  As a society our solution to that trauma is to slap cuffs on them, stick them in an unsafe and traumatizing waiting area, alone.  Then we admit them to hospitals with little supervision, medicate them and send them back to the very environments that traumatized them to begin with in many cases.   Kids have died in mental hospitals in our area.
We have a national mental health crisis with our young people today.  You have only to turn on the news to know that I speak the truth. How can we help them if the very institutions that are meant to help are so overcrowded that it takes 8 hours to find one bed in a huge metropolitan area ( and we were lucky to find that one, I was told repeatedly)?  How can we help them when they are dropped into traumatizing situations like the one I described, with no one to advocate for them while they are waiting?  How can we help them if while they are in the hospital they are exposed to more violence, gore and sexuallization?

Some of you are reading this thinking that this does not affect you so why should you care? Or maybe you think that those kids have it coming to them because they wouldn't be in this situation had they not earned it?  You are wrong.  How many school shootings and mass public attacks is it going to take before we as a nation wake up to the mental health crisis we are facing?  I want to be clear that the majority of people who suffer mental health problems are not violent (only 3% of violent crimes are committed by someone with a diagnosed mental illness).   You may be lucky.  Maybe you or someone you love are not affected by mental illness. However insulated you think you are, let me assure you that you know someone that struggles with mental health issues.  According to NIMH (National Institute of Mental Health) 1 in 5 adults has a mental illness.  That is 20% of the adult population. Of those only half receive ANY treatment at all. I am including a link to NAMI's statistics on pediatric mental health issues here: https://www.nami.org/getattachment/Learn-More/Mental-Health-by-the-Numbers/childrenmhfacts.pdf. T encourage you to click the link. There is a lot of important information there.
I know this is a very long article but I needed to share our experiences with you.  We need to make changes to our mental health care system in this country.  The only way those changes are going to happen is if we demand them.  The only way we can demand them is if we know the true state of the mental health care system in our country.  Unfortunately, many of the people in our society who need things to change the most are unable to advocate for themselves.  So we must be their voices.  I reported our experiences to the hospital and more importantly to our insurance company.  I am writing this blog.  I am purposely not obfuscating the institution that we visited because I want to see changes.  I demand better for the most vulnerable members of our society.
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