Nothing Is Ever As It Seems

Chapter 1

I sat motionless except for my eyes, wandering across the 8 by 6 grey walls, pausing to gaze in disbelief at the holes. Holes punched in the walls. Looking down at the folding card table covered in dust and grime we waited without speaking for a nurse to appear to admit our son. Whataburger, someone's late night dinner, permeated the air—onions and grease filling my nostrils making me silently gag.

The nurse's eventual appearance indicated the dispiriting reason for our presence. Her smile and weary demeanor as questions were asked only accentuated the fact that my husband and I were preparing to leave our 16 year old son in a psychiatric hospital. Somewhere in another room I could hear a television playing quietly as I silently ruminated over the longest day of my life. It was now 11:30 p.m., and I was exhausted. My inability to process the events of the morning had much earlier given way to dull acceptance but then became dread as my husband and I followed behind a silent ambulance transporting my son to Camden Hospital; this dilapidated building with a cracked tiled floor and admittance desk that could have been in the corner of anyone's garage.

To my right, my son, Cameron, yawned loudly, seemingly unconcerned that he was about to be left behind in what could only be called a prison. His casualness at that moment baffled me. While I was terrified at what was about to transpire, his demeanor intimated he could have been waiting for us to drop him off at summer camp. His thin tooth pick arms hung at his side as he slouched in his chair, his mop of dirty blonde hair hanging in his eyes. "Why haven't I taught him to sit up straight?" Looking at him, a mix of anger, shock, fear, empathy and love overwhelmed me and left me asking the same basic questions I had asked myself a hundred times already that day—what had happened to my son? How had we missed this?

Nothing is ever as it seems. So many times, bumps appear along the meanderings of our lives, and we in the routine of every day muddle through, complaining about the inconvenience. Maybe it's not our fault. Maybe we are born with blinders because otherwise the knowledge of what is to come would prevent the living at hand. Perhaps lack of awareness when what had seemed trivial will explode into catastrophe is for our benefit. But the inevitable looking back is unavoidable—the puzzle pieces falling into place that before had merely been oddly shaped pieces of cardboard and laminate serving as our lifeboat.

What had only been one day felt like years as I again mentally went over the day…flicking through the events that had transpired like watching an old black and white talkie in slow motion.

It was first period as my class buzzed around the library tittering in 11 year old fashion. I was still drinking coffee as I joked with a fellow teacher about incontinence every time I sneezed. Just another normal day. A day like every other day. We take those for granted you know; we complain about them when we get bored. We sigh at the end of them silently wishing there was something exciting to look forward to. How I now wish April 9th had been just like every other day.

Standing with my back to the library door, I was unaware of a person approaching. At the sound of my name, I turned to see my grade level principal. However, my smile was not returned. "Cameron is at home with a rope around his neck. Get your keys and go home right now."

I repeated these words quizzically, "Cameron is at home with a rope around his neck?" I know my eyes squinted and my head tilted slightly sideways as I looked at him not comprehending.

"Go home right now, Libby."

I remember seeing the clock—7:50 a.m. My mind and body operated in slow motion. I have to move. I have to get to my classroom and get my purse. How can Cameron have a rope around his neck? He had stayed home from school that morning because of a bad stomach ache. I had just talked with him an hour earlier before I left the house. He had called to me from the bathroom to have a good day and he'd text me later to tell me how he was doing. This can't be real. I have to get my purse.

My i phone rang jolting me from my thoughts. "Mrs. Bell? This is Officer Taylor from Taylor High School."

"Yes?"

"Do you know what is going on?" By this time I was in the hallway.

"My principal just told me my son is at home with a rope around his neck?"

"I need you to call 911 right now and go straight home. How far away are you?"

I realized I had stopped walking and willed myself to continue forward giving answers while panic mounted, a sob escaping with my breath. Somewhere in my mind, a thought fluttered through my consciousness that I shouldn't be so loud because classes might hear me, but my self-control at that moment had evaporated. Suddenly, arms were around me holding me up as I sobbed. It was Claudia. Steering me through the hall, I managed a jumbled account of something, strangely aware of the echo my voice made between the cafeteria and gym while punching 911 at the same time. Bright sunlight blinded me as I stopped, realizing after repeating myself twice to the 911 operator, I was incoherent.

"Mamm, I am going to have to transfer you to the sheriff's department since your address is not inside the city limits."

Time stood still as I waited, thinking, "How long at it been since I left the library? How am I going to drive myself home? What am I going to find?"

A colleague drove while I counted seconds, minutes in my head, every stop light and stop sign taking hours. Half way there, I called Cam on his cell phone not knowing if he could answer. He answered immediately. "Hello?"

"Cam, what is going on?"

"Nothing."

"What?" This didn't add up. "Cameron, you texted a picture with rope around your neck to someone at school. The police officer at Taylor called me. I've called 911, and I'm on my way home right now. How can you say nothing is going on?"

"No, Mom, I didn't. Everything is fine. You don't need to come home."

What kind of game was he playing? How could someone not understand that attempting to kill yourself wasn't inconsequential? How could he say everything was fine? "Cameron, I am coming home, and police officers will be at our house any minute."

"O.K."

Silence. Disconnect. Confusion. Disbelief.

When we pulled up to my house, two silent patrol cars were parked along the curb, the only thing out of place on our street. Sunlight filtered through the massive oak trees in the yards. And there on our front porch, an officer stood a couple of feet from Cam while he sat looking up at her. Walking toward them was surreal. Immediately, I looked for rope marks on his neck; there were none. I heard myself barking, "What is this about, Cam? What is going on? Where is this picture? What do you think you are doing?"

"It's on my phone upstairs."

"Then go get it; I want to see it." The officer held up her hand. "Let's just stay here for right now." I instantly realized she didn't want to let him out of out of her sight, triggering guilt that I hadn't rushed up and hugged him, whispering everything was going to be alright. Motioning to me, we stepped away, and she discreetly held up her phone. Her calmness contrasted markedly to my upheaval. What I saw contracted everything inside me. One end of a rope was tied to our upstairs banister, and the other end was tied around Cam's neck, his face blue. This was no joke. "Oh, my God."

"He texted this to a girl in his 1st period class who took it immediately to the principal's office. Has he ever talked about suicide before?"

How could I answer that? It made me sound like a bad mom…an out of touch mom…I had just been harsh in my interaction with him seconds before. "Yes, he has…"

By now, 4 more sheriff's deputies had arrived, their cars lining the street while they milled around the front yard. The picture flashed one deputy to the next as they relayed the situation to each other. I hit speed dial to Cameron's psychiatrist, but he didn't answer. My message was hurried, begging him to call me back ASAP. The officer had indicated an ambulance was on the way and Cam would have to be taken to the emergency room as was protocol for this situation. I didn't want that. I wanted his doctor to tell me to bring him directly to his office so he could sort this out. Why hadn't he called me back yet? I felt alone and inept in this unfolding nightmare.

"Mamm, we need to either transport him by ambulance or you take him to the emergency room."

"Let me call my husband first." This I dreaded. I knew my husband would be unsympathetic and down play whatever was going on. After listening to me for a few minutes, he interrupted, "Is all this really necessary?"

"I don't know, but they are insisting that he go to the hospital. I don't know what else to do."

"Should I leave work and meet you there?"

For the third time that day, my stomach dropped. How could a father even ask that? How could he leave me to face this alone? What message would that send to Cam? It was déjà vu; nothing had changed. He would be no support. "Yeah, I think you better."

To my left, I saw my colleague, Dan, standing by my car, patiently waiting to see what else I needed. He agreed to drive us to the emergency room and wait until David got there. Again I dialed Cam's doctor; again no answer.

The only time I saw any real emotion from Cam was in the car while we waited for Dan to talk to the officers. He broke down, hiccupping through sobs saying, "I know you and Dad love me, and I have Karina, and Bubby, and lots to live for. I just got really sad this morning because no one had texted me to see why I wasn't at school. Then I looked at my grades online and saw how bad they are. Everything just seemed so hopeless. I'm sorry."

"It's going to be ok, Cam. I'm here. I love you."

And my heart breaking for my little boy, I held his hand from the front seat, and Dan drove us to the emergency room.

Chapter 2

Cam had talked about suicide before. The previous spring, shortly after the dismissal bell, I received a call from the 9th grade counselor. She asked me to pick up Cam from her office because he told some students he wanted to commit suicide. A safety net had been turned in by two girls, and a father called concerned because his son had received a text from Cam talking about suicide. When I arrived at her office, Cam sat opposite from her, waiting quietly. I knew he was continually distressed and perhaps depressed from a lack of friends in high school. He occasionally shared with us that he really wanted friends to do stuff with on the weekends, but no one ever texted or invited him along. I sat tense and bewildered as the counselor relayed what had happened and then assured her that we would not take this lightly and understood the severity of the situation. I shared with her that Cam saw a psychiatrist, whom I would contact immediately. But in my head all I could think was, "How can he be so depressed and show no outward signs of anything?" In fact, we had just seen his doctor the previous week; Cam expressed no feelings of depression or anything else. But then a conversation flashed through my mind—a conversation that I handled very badly. He came to me asking if he could go back to see Dr. Love and talk to him about feeling anxious. "What? We were just there! Why didn't you talk to him about it three days ago? That's what he is for!" The costly office visits were already an item of contention with my husband. I didn't need him griping about taking Cam in every time the mood hit him.

As we left the counselor's office, Cam acted perfectly normal; no outward signs of depression; no, "Mom, I feel so sad and don't know what to do." But in the car, he shut down. My prodding questions were met with monosyllabic answers. He said he didn't mean any of it. And he didn't want to talk about it. My frustration level rose rapidly. How could he act like nothing was wrong? What was going on inside his head? But nothing I said penetrated his wall. "I've got to call Dr. Love. He will want to see you."

"OK."

But that was not to be the most frustrating element of the episode. When we did see Dr. Love, Cameron denied he had talked about committing suicide. He acted like he didn't know what Dr. Love was talking about. Feigning confusion, "Oh that. I didn't mean it." The wall.

"I can't treat what he won't talk to me about." My mind reeled. But isn't that your job? Aren't you as a psychiatrist supposed to treat people who are suicidal? Is he suicidal? We left with no questions answered. This was to become the pattern for the next year.

Perhaps this was his immature way of trying to evoke sympathy from peers. Maybe if they were worried about him, they would reach out to him; be his friend. But I knew people who said these things were crying out for help. Bewildered by his refusal to admit his actions or the implications of it, I searched for a therapist to take him to. If he didn't want to talk to Dr. Love, I had to find someone he would talk to.