What does a heart look like when it splinters into a million little pieces? What sound does it make when it hits the floor?My baby is having problems. Problems that I cannot fix. It’s been going on for a good deal of time now. I’ve been trying like hell to get him help to no avail. Incidentally, did you know that if you live in the Cincinnati area, you cannot get mental health services for your child if you earn above a certain figure or have private insurance? Case in point: We have tried over the past year to get Evan in with the behavioral health department at Cincinnati Children’s. Four separate referrals from our doctor, to be exact. And you simply cannot get in with them. I’ve tried and tried, starting all the way back when I was on bedrest with Zachary. Frustrated, I started to call other places that offered children’s psychiatry and psychology. There are two of them. One literally told me that, yes, they could se Evan and likely help him. And we were starting the intake process over the phone when they got to my income level. Apparently they work on a sliding-scale fee. Great, I’ll just pay the top amount, then. No dice. Because we have insurance. Seriously. Since when is income and insurance a hindrance to getting medical care of any type? You have got to be fucking kidding me. The other one I made an appointment for and we are going to see them Tuesday.
Have you ever heard your child wail and moan in mental anguish? I’m not talking about screaming or crying. I mean wailing. The only time I have ever heard something comparable was when we told a mother we were unable to resuscitate her child in the ER one night. That low, painful, guttural wail that escaped involuntarily from her toes up through her entire body. That is the sound my child makes countless times a day. He hurts. I want to fix it. I’m trying, baby. Mommy’s trying to fix it all. I’m here. Just hang on. We will make it through this together. And we will be better. And stronger. And wiser. But for now, just hang on.