Bringing Home Baby
A Black Eyed Story
Me: 33 years old. Max: 6 Months
When we first brought Max (they/them) home from the hospital, they were barely 7 pounds—6 pounds, 9 ounces to be exact. Their dad and I felt that we’d just stolen treasure. We couldn’t believe that no one tried to stop us. In fact, they helped us to the car. We expected they’d at least send us off with a few pamphlets. But nope. They let us take a human being home with us without writing down any instructions – without even signing a contract! It was easier than buying a house.
The wildest thing about being a parent is they let anyone do it. There’s no application process requiring test scores, an interview, and written essay. There are no rules of the road to prepare you for the journey ahead. If I remember correctly, you don’t even have to show your ID.
Fast forward 21 years, and we can’t believe we’re bringing our child home from a state psychiatric facility with no instructions, no pamphlets, no rules of the road to help us travel this new terrain. There’s not even a send-off. Max meets us at the front door carrying a plastic trash bag filled with their belongings. We all get into the car and drive off. None of us look back.
The first night home with a baby is so bewildering. You spend a lot of time just watching them and asking one another, “Is this normal… should we be worried… are they breathing…?”
The night we brought Max home early from college because they hadn’t slept in days was so bewildering. I asked myself the same questions I’d asked when they were a newborn baby refusing to sleep: “Is this normal… should we be worried… are they breathing…?”
When Max was only three or four days old, I noticed that their eyes were slightly yellow. I asked everyone who visited if they noticed the slight tinge. No one did. Everyone told me to relax. I was just tired and Max was perfect!
One day while holding them I felt them go limp in my arms. Everyone assured me that Max was only sleeping. But I knew better. So I slid on flip flops and pulled up my nursing bra straps, preparing to walk to the hospital if I had to! I could see that something was wrong. My mother-in-law didn’t agree but offered to drive me to the hospital to make me feel better.
Turns out I was right. Max was lethargic and jaundiced. It wasn’t life-threatening, but common. They had elevated levels of bilirubin. The cure? More frequent breastfeeding and basking in their bassinet under the sun.
Two days before Max’s 21st birthday, I noticed that my child had a wild-eyed look about them. They were their usual lovely self but slightly off. Max was suddenly calling and texting me three of four times a day, which was unusual. Max was suddenly up with the sun even if they’d been out late. They had dark circles and bags under their eyes. They were jittery and talked incessantly as if running a race against themselves.
I emailed their therapist for help. She couldn’t speak to me without a release of information from Max. Max was in no condition to find the email, fill it out, and send it back. I called a number of mental health helplines. They all said because Max was an adult, all I could do was call 911.
The cruelest thing about being a parent is once that kid is 18 years old, no one cares that you’re their parent. Cops don’t care. Doctors don’t care. It doesn’t matter if they’re on your insurance. It doesn’t matter if you’re the one paying their tuition. It doesn’t matter if your address is their permanent residence. They’re now an adult and you’re no longer the gatekeeper. Everyone now has access to them but you.
Is this normal? Should we be worried? Are you breathing?
For the past 21 years—24/7—it seems like I’ve done nothing but be a parent first and foremost. Then suddenly, I was let go. There’s no closing ceremony or exit interview for parenting. You’re just told to sit back, smile, and watch your child take whatever life hands them. You can cheer from the sidelines. You can observe the whole drama of their adulthood unfold from the nosebleed seats.
I don’t know what to make of my role as a parent these days – let alone caregiver of a child whose mental illness could be disabling. Only time will reveal what will be.
There’s a scene from movie Terms of Endearment where Aurora Greenway asks a doctor for an update on her adult daughter’s cancer:
Aurora Greenway: “How is she?"
Dr. Maise: “I tell people to hope for the best and prepare for the worst.”
Aurora Greenway: “And they let you get away with that?”
Doctors have been getting away with these empty answers since they day we left the hospital bringing home baby. They give us no promises and no explanations. Once they’re sure we’ve properly installed the carseat, we’re good to go. No papers. No guides. Only a brief non-encouragement to “hope for the best and prepare for the worst.”
And so that’s exactly what we do. We hope and we prepare. Is this normal? I don’t think so. Should we be worried? How could we not be! Are we still breathing? Inhale. Exhale.
Barely.
I just had a conversation in passing last night at the end of a fun dinner, just a little "how is _____" and the next thing I know, all three of us are revealing the absolute helpless terror of supporting our children through mental health crisis. One of those women? Is a doctor. Not a mental health professional, but a doctor. It was so sobering to realize there are so MANY of us fumbling down this path, none of us know what to do, and we gasping for light, for directions, for instructions, for HELP.
Life is so surreal when it's slowed down to, as you wrote - inhale, exhale, keep breathing. One moment to the next.
The comparison to those newborn days is so painfully accurate. Thank you for writing from where you are right now. I wish there was some way I could help but please know, I'm holding you so close in my heart tonight.
Thank you for articulating how fraught and frightening parenting can be. Holding you and yours in my heart.