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Under the Stunning, Useless Stars
Visiting my child in the psych ward over the holidays
The suicide sitters are the shepherds who keep watch through the night. Their names are Ace and Dee. Dee thinks the way the management crucifies her if she is even a minute late for her shift is utter bullshit. I arrive to hug my child, and ensure that he is able to take a shower. He tells me about the latest “South Park” re-run he has watched since this morning. The suicide sitters sit sentry and they never stop keeping watch over the baby I birthed at a hospital across the street nearly 14 years ago.
And now here we are, nearly a full week in the ER. We have not come full-circle but rather full-tilt toward a terrible hellscape. I have seen the scary underbelly to parenting a child who is not scary, but who is scared of what he is capable of doing to himself. I hold close the baby the nurses handed me in swaddling cloths, the dumpling human I could not believe I got to keep. I wait now in hope for an upgrade from this frenzied ER to a med floor or an inpatient program, but so far there is no room at the inn. The suicide sitters yawn and I hold out hope that the evil voices this baby hears will hush for a long season.
My child’s friends send letters and cards; one even bakes him a cake. The ER nurses inspect the items for sharps or any contraband…
