And So It Goes...
I got the call yesterday morning at around 9:45--damn near a record even by Bob standards. It was the "school counselor," who I have concluded is good for teaching classes about "stranger danger" and just saying no and precious little else. She was obviously exasperated when she spoke to me, and had that tone that clearly indicates she does not regard Bob as a kid with a serious problem, but just another spoiled pain in the ass. The principal and VP, of course, were both out of the school, and since she is #3 in charge, she made the decision to ship him off. Oh, and she had called the district officer, who was on his way to "contain" Bob.
Fuckin' A.
She had him in a full body lock when I arrived. He was wearing his very typical Bob Glare, and snarled at me as I walked into the office. I told him "let's go." The district cop showed up and stood at the door to watch as Bob went limp on the floor. "Okay," I said, "either you can get up and walk, or I'll have him--" (motioning to the cop) "--pick you up and carry you out." He decided to walk, and walked to the car, and climbed in, and said "I hate you," and put on his seatbelt, and said "I hate seatbelts," and then he was quiet.
Not knowing what else to do, I drove straight to the ER. Because that's what all the psych offices I've called in desperation have told me to do in the event Bob loses control--take him to the ER, and the staff psych can evaluate and treat him there.
By the time we arrived, he was nearly catatonic. Didn't say a word and appeared ready for a very long nap. Until we got into a room and I started talking about him, then the anger came back and we were shuffled to a room with a security guard. Bob relaxed, took his place on the bed, and started watching t.v. I relayed the story to no fewer than 3 people, including an osteopath who looked at me and asked, "what exactly are you hoping to gain from coming here today?"
Gee, I don't know, you fuckers are the ones who keep telling me to come here, so you tell me.
After 3 hours, Bob was hungry and bored and I was getting pissed. The recommendation was for him to be admitted to an acute care unit. Because of our sucky insurance, our choices are limited to 3 facilities--the one he was in last month that didn't do shit for him, another one run by the same shrink who hasn't done shit for him, or one that "may or may not" have a bed available in another 3 hours.
Yeah, fuck that. Here's my $50 copay. Thanks for nothing. Get us the fuck out of here.
I opted not to go for another inpatient stay--not yet. The last one was useless, and he has an appointment with the new psych this evening. Admitting him now seemed like jumping the gun.
So help me, I'm handcuffing myself to this bastard until he writes a script for a different mood stabilizer.
Fuckin' A.
She had him in a full body lock when I arrived. He was wearing his very typical Bob Glare, and snarled at me as I walked into the office. I told him "let's go." The district cop showed up and stood at the door to watch as Bob went limp on the floor. "Okay," I said, "either you can get up and walk, or I'll have him--" (motioning to the cop) "--pick you up and carry you out." He decided to walk, and walked to the car, and climbed in, and said "I hate you," and put on his seatbelt, and said "I hate seatbelts," and then he was quiet.
Not knowing what else to do, I drove straight to the ER. Because that's what all the psych offices I've called in desperation have told me to do in the event Bob loses control--take him to the ER, and the staff psych can evaluate and treat him there.
By the time we arrived, he was nearly catatonic. Didn't say a word and appeared ready for a very long nap. Until we got into a room and I started talking about him, then the anger came back and we were shuffled to a room with a security guard. Bob relaxed, took his place on the bed, and started watching t.v. I relayed the story to no fewer than 3 people, including an osteopath who looked at me and asked, "what exactly are you hoping to gain from coming here today?"
Gee, I don't know, you fuckers are the ones who keep telling me to come here, so you tell me.
After 3 hours, Bob was hungry and bored and I was getting pissed. The recommendation was for him to be admitted to an acute care unit. Because of our sucky insurance, our choices are limited to 3 facilities--the one he was in last month that didn't do shit for him, another one run by the same shrink who hasn't done shit for him, or one that "may or may not" have a bed available in another 3 hours.
Yeah, fuck that. Here's my $50 copay. Thanks for nothing. Get us the fuck out of here.
I opted not to go for another inpatient stay--not yet. The last one was useless, and he has an appointment with the new psych this evening. Admitting him now seemed like jumping the gun.
So help me, I'm handcuffing myself to this bastard until he writes a script for a different mood stabilizer.
posted by Mitzi Green at 7:23 AM
2 Comments:
I am shaking my head in wonder, Mitzi. Let us know how the session goes this evening. I hope it is good. I hope you are successful in acquiring a new / different rx for Bob. I hope the Bob you know emerges again.
(((HUGS)))
I hope the session with new Dr Psych is a good one, it's so hard on all of you, not just Bob. My heart cries out for you
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