The house is quiet. No ''Call of Duty'', no Slipknot, no boy-noises...just an unanswered cellphone that seems to be buzzing constantly...a reminder of the fact that my son did have a life with friends who, whatever they were involved in, care about him and wonder where he went. Most of the names I know, but there are a fair number of strange names, and phone numbers without a name assigned. Are these innocent numbers--or evidence of the dark life that led us to make this drastic choice?
I talk to a friend of a friend who says when her son was taken, she hid all the baby pictures, as looking at his smiling-toddler-face made her cry. She reassured me that they are "all back now"...but it took several years and multiple placements for things to work out for them. The thought that this may be the beginning of a several year process terrifies me.
My son's therapist calls from the facility, to reassure me that he's doing okay, ate breakfast, and is continuing with his writing assignments. I get a second call after dinner from another staff member, reassuring me that he's eating, and finishing up his writing. Its cool in Maine this evening, so he's made himself a fire, and is sitting by it finishing up his assignments. They expect him to be ready to join the community tomorrow. Is that good news? I guess we're on track with the "normal" progression of the program.
I've sent off two letters so far-- both full of inane details about things that are irrelevant to what he's going through...I know he hates me now...and I wonder if I've severed that mother-child bond finally and irrevocably.
I alternately cry, and feel numb.
Entering his room I find marijuana and a scale. Does this mean we acted too late? Or just in time?
Showing posts with label drug rehabilitation. Show all posts
Showing posts with label drug rehabilitation. Show all posts
Saturday, April 18, 2009
Friday, April 17, 2009
Day 1
Our son's therapist called around 8:30 am to let us know that he had arrived safely, and had participated cooperatively during the intake process. When I asked how he was doing, the therapist responded that if 1 was out of control, and 10 was perfect, he was "about a 9"...not happy to be there, but interested in checking the place and the other kids out.
He was given writing materials, brought to a circle of stones, where he was given his first assignment: write letters to his parents, his therapist and himself, write a statement about "why I am here", and write an autobiography that is at least 15 pages long. When these assignments are completed, he will join the rest of the community. Although he'll be sleeping in the bunkhouse with the rest of the boys, no one is allowed to talk to him until he's finished his assignments. The process can take 2-3 days, and we'll be notified when he moves on.
Another staff member called me later in the morning to let me know that although he'd been very tearful when he arrived, he was being compliant, and had written two of the letters so far. He also had questions about when and how often my son used his asthma inhaler.
Mid-day, I got a third phone from his unit leader letting me know that he'd completed all the letters, as well as the "why I am here" essay, and was starting on doing some drawings and autobiography. She also let me know that his urine did test positive for marijuana, but he was negative for all the other substances they test for during intake. Good news of sorts. The bad news was that he was refusing food. This is not uncommon when he is depressed--but what had always happened at home was that he would not eat all day, then get high and eat voraciously.
His therapist touched base with me again at 4:30, to let me know that he was writing prolifically. A few hours later, I got another phone call from his unit leader. She said he had written a second letter to us, and had begun eating. She also then mentioned two "non standard" things that had been done for him. He'd asked for a tent to use in the contemplation area, to give him some privacy. They provided one, and he set it up. And, despite the usual practice of not allowing new arrivals to talk during the reflection days, they had a peer mentor who was almost ready for graduation come out to talk to him.
I must say that the constant communication from the facility today has been awesome. And the fact that they are not afraid to modify their usual practices to meet the needs of an individual child demonstrates that they are truly concerned with what best serves each child. I'm still extremely depressed--and hoping I did the right thing--but I'm reassured that the caliber of the people that are looking after him is first rate.
He was given writing materials, brought to a circle of stones, where he was given his first assignment: write letters to his parents, his therapist and himself, write a statement about "why I am here", and write an autobiography that is at least 15 pages long. When these assignments are completed, he will join the rest of the community. Although he'll be sleeping in the bunkhouse with the rest of the boys, no one is allowed to talk to him until he's finished his assignments. The process can take 2-3 days, and we'll be notified when he moves on.
Another staff member called me later in the morning to let me know that although he'd been very tearful when he arrived, he was being compliant, and had written two of the letters so far. He also had questions about when and how often my son used his asthma inhaler.
Mid-day, I got a third phone from his unit leader letting me know that he'd completed all the letters, as well as the "why I am here" essay, and was starting on doing some drawings and autobiography. She also let me know that his urine did test positive for marijuana, but he was negative for all the other substances they test for during intake. Good news of sorts. The bad news was that he was refusing food. This is not uncommon when he is depressed--but what had always happened at home was that he would not eat all day, then get high and eat voraciously.
His therapist touched base with me again at 4:30, to let me know that he was writing prolifically. A few hours later, I got another phone call from his unit leader. She said he had written a second letter to us, and had begun eating. She also then mentioned two "non standard" things that had been done for him. He'd asked for a tent to use in the contemplation area, to give him some privacy. They provided one, and he set it up. And, despite the usual practice of not allowing new arrivals to talk during the reflection days, they had a peer mentor who was almost ready for graduation come out to talk to him.
I must say that the constant communication from the facility today has been awesome. And the fact that they are not afraid to modify their usual practices to meet the needs of an individual child demonstrates that they are truly concerned with what best serves each child. I'm still extremely depressed--and hoping I did the right thing--but I'm reassured that the caliber of the people that are looking after him is first rate.
Transport
They arrived promptly at 4 am. Two tall young men who were to escort my unwilling son into his new world--ripping him away from all he had wrapped around himself for comfort.
My husband and I had spent a restless few hours tossing and turning, not really sleeping, as we anticipated their arrival. At 3:52 we were standing in the cold in our driveway, each looking at our part of the speech that our son's therapist had helped us craft earlier in the morning--the words we'd use to explain to him why we were sending him off with strangers in the middle of the night.
The woman we had booked the transport with had assured us that she was sending her "A Team", who would be able to get our son to accompany them without resorting to physical force. The two men who appeared were tall, likeable, and young. We gave them envelopes with paperwork for the facility and the transport agency, and another smaller envelope containing letters we'd written to be given to our son while they were on the road. We explained the layout of our house, and brought them inside.
Our son was sleeping, but woke immediately when we walked in. I gently touched his head, and told him that I loved him, and because of our concerns for his health and safety,and his refusal to get help, we felt we had no choice but to send him to a program that would help him get well. My husband introduced the escorts, and we left the room.
We'd been advised to leave the house, but were concerned that our 18 year old daughter would wake up while this was going on, so we chose to sit in the dark living room downstairs while the escorts convinced our son to go with them. We sat apart, not touching, each lost in our own world of grief. I wept silently while listening to my son plead with them not to "rip me away from my life", "please let me talk to my parents", "why would they do this to me?", and "I'm getting myself together...things are going well...I'm exercising, I have a girlfriend...I've quit smoking...please don't do this."
I have never done anything harder in my life. The school guidance counselor, who has tried valiantly to help our son over the past two years had called what we were contemplating doing "barbaric"...and as I listened to him cry, I felt that she may have been right.
We listened to him progress through anger, denial, and negotiation...all the while the escorts stayed calm, but firm, got him up, down the stairs and out the front door. It seemed like an eternity, but probably only took about 10 minutes.
This was either the most courageous, or the most horrendous, thing I have ever done in my entire life.
My husband and I had spent a restless few hours tossing and turning, not really sleeping, as we anticipated their arrival. At 3:52 we were standing in the cold in our driveway, each looking at our part of the speech that our son's therapist had helped us craft earlier in the morning--the words we'd use to explain to him why we were sending him off with strangers in the middle of the night.
The woman we had booked the transport with had assured us that she was sending her "A Team", who would be able to get our son to accompany them without resorting to physical force. The two men who appeared were tall, likeable, and young. We gave them envelopes with paperwork for the facility and the transport agency, and another smaller envelope containing letters we'd written to be given to our son while they were on the road. We explained the layout of our house, and brought them inside.
Our son was sleeping, but woke immediately when we walked in. I gently touched his head, and told him that I loved him, and because of our concerns for his health and safety,and his refusal to get help, we felt we had no choice but to send him to a program that would help him get well. My husband introduced the escorts, and we left the room.
We'd been advised to leave the house, but were concerned that our 18 year old daughter would wake up while this was going on, so we chose to sit in the dark living room downstairs while the escorts convinced our son to go with them. We sat apart, not touching, each lost in our own world of grief. I wept silently while listening to my son plead with them not to "rip me away from my life", "please let me talk to my parents", "why would they do this to me?", and "I'm getting myself together...things are going well...I'm exercising, I have a girlfriend...I've quit smoking...please don't do this."
I have never done anything harder in my life. The school guidance counselor, who has tried valiantly to help our son over the past two years had called what we were contemplating doing "barbaric"...and as I listened to him cry, I felt that she may have been right.
We listened to him progress through anger, denial, and negotiation...all the while the escorts stayed calm, but firm, got him up, down the stairs and out the front door. It seemed like an eternity, but probably only took about 10 minutes.
This was either the most courageous, or the most horrendous, thing I have ever done in my entire life.
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