Learning to Cry

by Christopher C. Payne

  If your daughter is drowning, you can jump in the water and save her. If she is in a fire you can run through the flames and pull her out. If she, if she, if she. What do you do when your daughter is having trouble handling things emotionally, and you are lost in the darkness flailing your hands wondering what the next step is? Where do you go from there? What is next?

  Melissa had a bag with her. We had stopped, much to the chagrin of the hospital staff, on the way here from the first hospital to pack her bag. I had helped throw some things together and noticed that she had almost no clean socks. She had no socks at all really. I told her as we were getting settled in her room that we would have to go shopping as soon as she was out for some socks. It was ridiculous for her not to have a clean pair every day. My daughter was being admitted to the psychiatric ward of a hospital, and I suddenly became preoccupied with socks. My stability was about as shaky as it had been in any point in my life.

  With that, I was ushered out. It was my time to leave. The staff escorted me through the locked doors, pushed me out without another word, and watched as the door closed and latched behind me. I was now outside, and I had no idea what was going on within this facility that now housed my daughter. What could they do to help her? Did she even need help? What happened today? How had I gone to work a few hours ago like I have done a hundred times before on any normal day? Jesus Christ, was this all for real?

  I pushed the elevator button, and as the light came on I cried. There were people coming out as I entered, and I didn’t even care. I just kept crying, daring them to say something. I am not sure what I would have done or said because they quickly went down the hall. Maybe they sensed they should leave me alone, or maybe they had been in my shoes a few days before. Who knows, but they went their way, and we shared no words.

  I drove back to the house in a daze. I should have been hungry. I hadn’t eaten today, yet I felt nothing. I walked inside, poured a glass of scotch, sat down in my chair, and realized it was dark. I hadn’t even turned the lights on yet. I got up and flipped the switch, and as I did so I saw a sock in the middle of the floor. It was Melissa’s sock. It fell out as we were shoving clothes in her bag. I picked it up, sat back down in my chair and cried some more. I cried as I held her sock, rubbing it against my cheek, cradling it like I had done with her so many times when she was growing up. I fell asleep in my chair, holding her sock next to my heart. I slept an hour or so, woke up, cried some more and fell back asleep.

  I kept this up throughout the entire night. For a time I watched my glass of scotch. I didn’t drink any, but I sat and observed as the ice slowly melted. The scotch and the ice swirled together. Bonding into one liquid over time as it sat all alone on the black side table pushed against the wall. I would glance over now and then and see how a little more ice was gone and the scotch was a little lighter color than it had been only 30 minutes ago the last time I looked.

  At some point the two were no longer separate. They were one liquid. Joined together forever. I sat holding her sock, looking at my ever-changing glass of scotch and cried. I cried more that night than I have cried my entire life. Maybe it was bottled up and once the dam was broken there was no going back. I have no idea, but I knew that my little girl was in trouble, and I had no idea how to help her. I was as lost as she, and it scared me beyond what I had ever imagined fear might be like.

  I cried.

  One night is enough!

  Father

  I awoke the next morning very early. I guess saying I woke is a little misleading. I got up around 5 a.m., after sleeping very little. Visiting hours started at 11 a.m. You had an hour at 11 a.m. and then one hour in the evening to see the inhabitants of Hell House. Since today was my daughter’s first day and she had so many tests occurring, I figured I would hang out with her more than the allotted time.

  I spent the morning cleaning her room. It just seemed like the thing to do. I made her bed, dusted, washed off the TV screen, and hung up all of her clothes. For some reason I left the sock out. In some strange way, I think it somehow represented her, and as long as the sock was still with me, she was still with me. I know you might find this surprising, but during the entire time I cleaned her room, I cried. There really was no stopping the tears anymore. I was too far gone to left field. I might have just transformed in one fell swoop over to a blubbering idiot. I was no longer a rock.

  The minutes crawled along, but they eventually became hours. I jumped in the shower and headed out to see Melissa. I wondered how her night had gone. I envisioned crazy things going on and her lying there under her covers, shivering in fear. I wondered if she slept at all. It must have been so unnerving being force-fed all of those strange sounds.

  I remember once when I took the girls camping at the San Francisco Zoo a long time ago. They had a program for a few Friday nights in the summer that allowed an overnight visit. Everyone brought their tents, and we all huddled together in one designated grassy area. There were animal shows and excursions to pet the giraffe. It was an amazing time. The best part was waking up and hearing the lions roaring as an alarm. I guess they were hungry and voiced their concern over not being fed. All of this was before the lion ate that kid who fell over the fence. I am not sure if they still have the camping weekends as part of the program now.

  Those noises were pretty crazy, but I am sure they were nowhere near as unnerving as sleeping in that prison hospital. Judging by some of Melissa’s cell mates, it was a very long evening, indeed. I drove as fast as I possibly could without killing anyone, even though I knew that being early would not guarantee I would see her earlier than 11 a.m. This was not a place that broke the rules often, I was sure.

  When I arrived I still had 20 minutes before visiting hours began, so I sat and waited in the hallway. I was in another one of those brown chairs with the fake wooden arms. I played Brick Breaker on my BlackBerry. It was one of my addictions. I missed the damn little ball as the game geared up to a higher speed on an advanced level. As it disappeared, the little sign popped up, saying try again, and I cried. Jesus, I was turning into a little girl.

  It was just the thought of trying again that sank me. Was all of this my fault? Should I try again, and if I were given the chance to try again what would be my options? What can you do besides giving opportunities to your children? Giving them the best chance for success? You lay your cards on the table, and play what you have. I longed for my daughter of the past – that little girl who sat on my knee, as I bounced her back and forth. This was not her, and never would be again.

  The door opened, and a nurse escorted me in. Interestingly, I was the only parent there. I guess most parents visited at night, but I couldn’t miss any opportunity. I had to see her. I walked down the hallway to the recreation room where all of the patients hung out. There was a young man screaming at the TV as he flipped the channels randomly nonstop. None of the other kids even attempted to watch. I guess he must control the television, and everyone else just steered clear.

  Melissa saw me, ran directly to me and hugged me harder than she had in years. She cried, and I cried, as well, again, or still. I am not really sure.

  She whispered in my ear, “Please take me home, Daddy.”

  I cried a little harder. We sat down and talked about her night. She hadn’t slept much. It was not because her roommate wasn’t nice, it just was not a place that instilled a peacefulness conducive to sleeping. She attended a couple of group sessions, met with the doctor and talked with the in-house counselor. Everything was on a very tight schedule.

  The coordinator tapped me on the shoulder and asked to speak with us, so we went to the little meeting room. My God, had this all be initiated just 24 hours ago? Talk about a warped perception of time. It seemed like years since we had first entered that sterile place. I know I was only there a short amount of time, dropping Melissa off and coming that morning, but still, it was overwhelming. The coordinator said Melissa had requested to go home today, and they were not opposed to this
.

  They wanted to do an MRI to see if there were anything physical causing her headaches, she needed to have an exam, and she still needed to have an appointment with the psychiatrist. After that, if all went well, she was welcome to go home, and we could enroll her in the outpatient program. The staff scheduled her MRI to occur immediately, and I accompanied her. I was required to leave after her exam, but I scheduled to pick her up later that day. I felt relieved and back in control, so I agreed immediately.

  Melissa cried again and said softly, she just wanted to go home. She didn’t want to stay here any longer. She asked if she could just leave. I cried again. Jesus, it was like a stream of non-stop salty tears that just kept coming and coming. I told her we were almost there. We had come this far. Let’s get through the day, and we would not have to do this again. We hugged, long and tight, clinging to each other, not wanting to let go. She tentatively agreed, and we headed down for the MRI. It didn’t take long, and within 30 minutes we were back in our little cell block. I had to leave as instructed. I hugged my daughter, again, and left.

  I walked down to the elevator bay and pushed the button. As with most elevators they were in a little alcove with two windows overlooking the parking lot. I walked up to the windows as I waited for the doors to open, and I just broke down. I don’t even know if you could call what I did crying anymore. It was wide-open hysterics. Luckily, this time when the doors opened, nobody exited. I stumbled in, pushed the ground floor button, and headed to the street below. I felt myself breaking inside. It was like little pieces of me fell to the floor with each step. I wondered to myself, how many pieces I could lose before I became irreparably lost.

  The day crawled by, but soon enough it was time to head back. I spoke to Cheryl a couple of times on the phone to update her on Melissa’s status. She was distraught, as would be expected, and still blamed me for not being allowed to attend. No matter what I told her, she still somehow felt I was to blame for her not being there. I finally gave up even trying to explain the situation. I gave her the names of all the doctors and the phone numbers. She could talk to them directly.

  Melissa was packed and ready to go the second I arrived for my second visit of the day. Unfortunately, for her, we had to meet with the psychiatrist who was not yet present, and we also had to sign all of the forms. You have to fill out a shitload of paperwork to get into this place and a shitload of paperwork to leave. Seems like they can’t make their minds up on whether they want you there or not.

  The psychiatrist was a middle-aged German lady. Very factual, not touchy feely and was systematic in her explanation. Melissa, she felt, was well enough to go home. She didn’t have any problem with that. She felt she was strong and with the help of the outpatient program would get back on track rather quickly. As with anyone, we all get to a point in our lives when things are overwhelming. She felt Melissa had a lot on her plate, and it was nothing more than that.

  The outpatient program was pretty intense. It was five days a week, five hours a day and it consisted of one-on-one sessions, group sessions, parent-child sessions, and there was even a session for parents only. It was a support group for those of us who had come to the end of our ropes. They were smart enough to realize that families undertake these endeavors together. It affects everyone living in the household, not just one single person.

  There were only two more days of school that week so I decided to let Melissa skip, and we would start back fresh the following Monday. We left the hospital, stopped at In and Out for a burger on the way home, and I watched her devour it before ever stepping foot out of the car. She dropped her bag in her room, took a shower and after giving me a hug, said goodnight and went to bed. No TV, no radio, just curled up in her bed and went to sleep. I sat down in the living room, in my overstuffed leather recliner, with the lights out and yes, holy shit, I cried some more. I think this episode was more from the relief of stress than anything.

  It seems that our bodies get so geared up for facing traumatic events that we lose track of how exhausted we are until the event concludes. Not that this was over, by any means, but it felt like the worst had passed, and I could actually breathe. The weight lifted from my shoulders, and I slumped in my chair, again, in the dark, bawling like a little baby.

  A few years before, I had nasal surgery for a deviated septum. The simplest explanation I can think of is thinking of a pipe that becomes broken or bent. The doctor takes a drill, drills out the side, and straightens it back out again. I don’t have any idea if that is completely accurate, but it is the gist of what happens. The surgery is simple, and you are out within a few hours. Damn, those hospitals again. They don’t want you there any longer than you have to be to keep the costs down.

  After the surgery the doctor packs your nasal cavity to ensure the surgically repaired area heals. It is so moist up there, making the recovery process difficult. Interestingly the pressure that occurs from this packing is more severe than the surgery itself. It feels like somebody took your head, placed a funnel in your nostril and shoved about three tons of gauze up there. Pushing and pushing until they couldn’t fit anymore, and, then, they shoved additional shit up there after you thought they were done. It is insanity.

  A couple of hours after I arrived home from the surgery, I called my doctor and told her I would be puling this shit out of my nose myself. She was welcome to do it, as well, but it wasn’t staying up there. My head felt like it was going to blow sky high. She convinced me to take the valium she prescribed me, relax, and try to make it through the weekend. I could come in on Monday instead of Tuesday, and she would remove it then. I reluctantly agreed, shoved some pills in my mouth and stayed comatose for the weekend.

  On Monday I was at her office at 9 a.m. ready to remove the stuff. She warned me that the relief of pressure would be so severe I might pass out or become nauseated. I chuckled and requested she get the shit out of my nose right then. She removed a white cotton strip of gauze that must have been 12 miles long. Unless you have had the surgery or have seen somebody who has had the surgery, you would not believe me. It just kept coming and coming and coming. There was no end.

  Finally, when she pulled the last piece out, she reached up and pulled out a plastic glove. Out of my nose! She told me the powder on the glove and the plastic helped keep the gauze from sticking to my nasal cavity while it healed. OK, whatever, I was now ready to get up, but interestingly, she was still not done. She took these long needle nosed pliers, placed the tip of them about 8 inches up my nose, grabbed onto a plastic piece and pulled this 6 inch by 1 inch wide contraption out of my nostril. If I hadn’t felt like I was going to throw up, I might have laughed. There was more shit up my nose than I could fit into a medium-sized suitcase and carry on a plane.

  I tried to stand, but fell back in my seat. I asked for a trashcan as it was everything I could do not to vomit. The change in pressure was so intense, it was overwhelming. I felt like a different person than a few minutes ago, before she removed the packing. I guess at the time of surgery I understood how the process worked physically, but reality freaked me out. Interestingly I felt that same intense feeling now that my daughter was safe at home. Feeling such intense stress when your child faces potential harm is overwhelming. While I had adjusted, I now released 36 hours of pent-up muscle tension that I hadn’t consciously noticed before. It was all-consuming as I sat there thanking God for her safety. She was at home and for now, everything was fine. I could rest tonight and see what tomorrow might bring. It was a new day, and with new days come new possibilities.

  The next day we hung out, went shopping, and had sushi for lunch. We stopped at the mall, and she got the cartilage in her right ear pierced. She had wanted to do this for a long time. I didn’t care. It wasn’t as far reaching as getting her belly button pierced or getting a tattoo. I would later find out that her mother adamantly disapproved. But it was done, so life goes on. As the day moved onward, our introduction to the outpatient program loomed. We ventured back to
Millbrae and checked in.

  It held all the appearances of a youth center. There was a pool table, meeting rooms, some games on the coffee table, and TV hooked up with a Nintendo over in one corner. It actually looked like a fun place to hang out. We met with Melissa’s counselor and figured out the game plan. It didn’t take long to adjust, and by the second day she was well on her way to getting acclimated. I think I had a harder time figuring things out than she did.

  Day two was the allotted time for our parent-daughter meeting, and coincidentally, it was also the parents’ group night. Cheryl stated she would attend, but she didn’t show up for either one. I guess there were more important things to do in her isolated world, but I couldn’t imagine what that might be. We discussed the groups, the goals Melissa would establish, and most importantly, we talked about how to help her develop coping skills. Skills for dealing with stress, interacting with teachers and, as you might imagine, parents, as well.

  By week two we were in a routine, back at school, and heading over to group every day. I quickly got to know another couple, and it sounded like they were dealing with many of the same circumstances we were. Troubled child, outbursts, depression, aggression. The mother told me on the second day I met her how she talked with the police for the 20th time again just last weekend. It seemed her daughter wanted to leave for a party, her husband blocked the door, and 911 was dialed. Her daughter had felt it was abusive to block the door, so she had called in the reinforcements.

  I remember she said she knew most of the officers by their first names. I kept thinking how lucky we were not to be in that position, yet. Things could have been so much worse. When we sat in the parents’ group, they spent most of the time talking. Since Cheryl hadn’t bothered going and I was a little more reserved in the beginning, it was easy to let them have the floor. We learned more specifics about the previously mentioned incident and a few others, all of which occurred over the past few days. It sounded like they had their hands full.