The Road to Rehab
If anyone has ever experienced dropping their child off at a Residential Facility, I need not write more. They’d get it. The desperate feeling of having no other choice, the complete relief accompanied with guilt, the hesitance to even let yourself believe that it is all going to be okay.
It was a three hour drive, not counting the hour we spent at Urgent Care for COVID-19 clearance. The sight of waves lapping at the beach comforted me as I drove the last stretch of the highway before turning east.
Eucalyptus groves lined the road as we headed deeper inland, and it was difficult not to see the beauty in it all, the multicolored trunk and peeling bark. But I was cold (possibly from the windows being down the whole way to avoid possible cross-contamination, despite the thick smoke), laser focused (avoiding all detours), determined to get there just as quickly as possible. “Do you want to stop for lunch?” No, Lydia felt the same way.
We wanted to unpack, settle in, and have the assurance that it wasn’t all a dream. Just 24 hours prior, we had contact with eight different facilities, each with a promising three- to four-week waitlist. The situation felt helpless.
And then this facility called back. The whole process was so smooth. She conducted our intake interview over the phone that day, instead of scheduling an appointment a couple days out. They ran our insurance and it was 100% covered (others running a $40,000-60,000 out-of-pocket expense). A spot was open at their beach/equine residence the next day and all we had to do was say yes.
It felt surreal. Almost too good to be true. We had been researching, doing intake interviews (1-2 hours a pop), and managing withdrawals on our own for the past week (that along with working, teaching, and raising three other children).
Over the course of one week, I had a three-hour stakeout (and subsequent two-hour talk), an overnight stay in the Emergency Room parking lot (conversing with doctors at 2:00am over the phone), and countless sleepless nights as I worried about the physical safety of my daughter and family as she navigated a substantiated paranoia. Even though a couple friends helped out, the task was daunting. Then this happened, and there was hope.
Heading Out
We left our house that morning. The first stop was L.A.. They gave us an address where we could go to get a rapid response, COVID-19 test done; it would have to be negative in order to move forward.
Urgent Care. We saw the sign from the street and pulled into their parking lot. Handing her our insurance cards, Lydia went in on her own (being high-risk, I had to avoid possible exposure). A few seconds later she came back out. I would have to be there for testing
I don’t know if it was the lack of sleep or the last straw, but I flipped. “What?! You can get an abortion without my knowledge, let alone my presence or consent. And now you can’t get a Q-tip shoved up your nose without me there?”
Resigned to the fact that rules were rules, and there was no way around them, I conceded and went in with my mask and glasses on. I spoke with the receptionist at the front desk. “I’m high risk and can’t be indoors. Is there any other way we can do this?” She assured me there was not, and if I wanted Lydia tested, I would have to stay with her the whole time.
I saw my life flash before my eyes, but knew there was no other choice. What mom wouldn’t willingly give her life for her daughter?
Medi-Cal
“Do you have Medi-Cal?” Her question was clear and direct. Yes, Lydia had it since birth being a fost/adopt placement. “Then we can’t do the test.” What?! I let her know that Lydia had another insurance, Aetna PPO, dual coverage. “We don’t accept insurance. The rapid results test costs $125.” Okay, fine, we’ll pay it. “Sorry, we can’t accept any cash because she has Medi-Cal.” But she needs to get into a facility today. She needs help. I don’t have Medi-Cal! Let me pay you. “Sorry, you can’t.”
It was one of those moments when I wasn’t sure I’d be able to hold myself together. My mind raced, searching for a possible solution. Taking a breath I calmly asked her to proceed with the test that would take 2-3 days for results. While it would take more time, at least it wouldn’t be a closed door. “Sorry, I can’t do that.” I’m sure the look on my face said it all. That was not an acceptable answer.
Getting my Mama Hat on and digging my heels in, I insisted she run that test. “She has insurance through me, double-covered, Aetna PPO. Covered, as my daughter, she needs to get that test today.” I think she could clearly see that I was not going to accept “Sorry, no” as an answer. “Well, I’ll try.” Thank you.
Anxiety X2
As she pecked away at the keyboard, a girl came out of the room with her mask on her chin, Z-pak and steroids in hand. As she checked out my thoughts spun out of control. I shouldn’t even be here! The few minutes felt like an eternity.
“Okay, we’ll take her now, but you’ll have to stay with her.” I had already wrapped my mind around that reality — there was no wiggle room. As we walked down past the front desk and down the hall I couldn’t help but think that the young lady with meds in hand had just been here. My anxiety got the better of me. I took shallow breaths through my mask until we entered the room.
As soon as the nurse came in, I repeated myself. “I’m high-risk. I shouldn’t be inside a building, and I haven’t been since March.” Undeterred, she repeated their policy. If I couldn’t stay, she couldn’t be tested.
With that she closed the door and left. Five minutes passed. Counting them I realized I had been indoors for over 10. Opening the door one more time, I asked someone else if we could wait outside. Feeling pity, this nurse took my phone number and let us go. “You’ll have to come back in when I call you.” I agreed.
Outside, Lydia and I discussed the possibility that she wouldn’t get into the facility today. We talked through options for moving forward and navigating the next two days. “They might not be able to hold the spot for you.” I tried to be frank. It was better for her to process the reality of the situation right now.
By the time we saw the doctor, I was emotionally spent. “Will this be the rapid or 2-3 day result test.” In a last-ditch effort, I begged him to run it as rapid, stating the details and my case. “I’m just the doctor. I don’t deal with any of that.” And with that he washed his hands of the matter.
Problem Solved
We left defeated. We had given it everything we had and still fell short. I texted our contact trying to provide the details. Paul was one step ahead of me; he had already filled her in. Seconds later she was on the phone with Urgent Care, paying for the rapid results test. We would have to go back in.
At this point in time I did not care. Again, there was hope, and that was enough for me. As we walked back in, Lydia laughed at their response; the look on their faces was comical. They were not happy to see us again. Ushered to the back, they swabbed her nose, and released us to wait outside.
Within 15 minutes we had the results: negative. WAZE gave us an ETA of 1:47pm. I could not wait to get back on the road. Masks on and windows down, we drove the second half of our journey through dense smoke. At times, it even made me cough, but that didn’t matter. We were on our way.
Residential Treatment
If anyone has ever experienced dropping their child off at a Residential Facility, I need not write more. They’d get it. The desperate feeling of having no other choice, the complete relief accompanied with guilt, the hesitance to even let yourself believe that it is all going to be okay.
As I drove away my mind swarmed with thought. I had been here not long ago. Five months, to be exact. It was toward the beginning of California’s lockdown for COVID-19. Lydia asked for help. The stress was too much for her. We found a place and checked her in virtually; all paperwork was done through the computer. Paul drove her down and dropped her off.
We didn’t get to tour the facility or meet the staff. It was a blind-drop. In the end, Lydia didn’t have a good experience. She wanted to come home the first week she was there. She threatened to run (if she did, the facility wouldn’t take her back). We would be forced to bring her home.
It was an empty threat and she stayed the whole five weeks. We had recurrent individual/family therapy and group training sessions. She finished the program and came home. It was then that we heard about all of the mishaps during her stay there. She was harassed repeatedly by a sex addict and tried to steer clear of the active cutters.
I was hesitant to drop her off this time. I had thoroughly researched the facility, but I had done that for the last place. Lydia wanted to go, but I wondered if she’d want to stay. The couple days of respite were tempting, so I jumped. Tossing caution to the wind I went for it, but as I drove away I couldn’t shake the subsequent guilt.
All the way home I carried it, all the way until my head hit a pillow, and then I crashed. A week of broken and minimal sleep will do that to a person. As my eyes closed, I let go.
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