Lydia Part 5: Understanding Mental Illness

When Paul got home from his Black-Friday shopping we put our heads together. The County Crisis Team was at our door in under 15 minutes. Talking to us and Lydia separately, they determined it was in her best interest to go in on a 51/50: suicidal ideation. I was in shock.

How did this happen? Lydia was in a euphoric state as we drove down to the hospital. It was strange for me to see her like this. I was probably at the lowest point I’d ever been in my entire life, and she was riding on Cloud 9.

No beds were open at Loma Linda University, so I drove her down to Canyon Ridge. It was a holiday weekend, what I’ve come to know as busy times in the mental health community.

After I dropped her off, I called or drove down to visit every day. She needed to know that she wasn’t alone.

When the doctor was finally able to see her (five days after her being admitted, one hour after I spoke to someone face-to-face at the front desk), they called, talking to me as I drove through the winding roads of a mountain overpass, for my permission to start administering the medication he prescribed.

During her time there, Lydia was diagnosed as “Bipolar” and prescribed Depakote. I wondered how a doctor could determine this after one short visit and no conversation with her parents.

Having no knowledge of psychiatric medications, I wanted to research it. I immediately called people I knew had experience, and I could trust to give me good advice. After they seemed in favor of the doctor’s recommendation, I slept on it, Google searched more in the morning, and called Lydia during open phone hours.

“The line is very busy. I’m not sure she’ll have the chance to talk with you this morning. By the way, I see some notes here that you were ‘researching’ the doctor’s recommendation. Have you made a decision?”

Quite perturbed by his tone, I tried to gather my thoughts before I spoke. Up until this point I had not been denied the opportunity to speak with my daughter. “Talking to Lydia is a part of my research. So when the line is free and she does have a moment, can you have her call me?” Just under two minutes later, she called.

I quickly learned that the mental health professionals (unlike physical health) often fall short in their efforts to involve parents through their child’s diagnosis and treatment. The only influence I held in my child’s care was consent for treatment, agreeing to any medications they felt were necessary.

Learning to be an Advocate

Lydia was treated and released to us five days later, after a ten-day stay in the hospital. We had to have a plan for after-care but it took two to three months to get in to see either a counselor or psychiatrist. Desperate for support and medication refills, I scheduled an appointment with her primary physician.

“Why are you so sad?” the doctor asked Lydia at her appointment. “There are many things you should be grateful for.” As she listed the good things in Lydia’s life, I saw my child shrink into herself. She did not know why she struggled so much. To everyone else, it was incomprehensible given the life she had. Their misunderstanding of her condition only worsened the effects.

Uneducated myself, but determined to find help for my child, I called and then showed up at the Loma Linda Mental Health Facility daily. They offered SHIELD, an intensive out-patient program for cutters. But patients exiting their own hospital had priority registration; with each release, Lydia’s name kept getting bumped to the bottom of the list.

Refusing to accept “no” for an answer, I persisted, and Lydia was eventually admitted into their program — 2 ½ months after her release from Canyon Ridge. It was here that I learned what it would take to help Lydia and find the support she would need for the rest of her life.