One Big Fat Wad of Spit

A wet glob of saliva gathered eagerly in my mouth as I seriously contemplated sending one fat lugie straight into the counselor's face.  What I wanted to call her wasn't a word I normally used. The crazy woman, without checking with me or even my husband, had called all of my extended family - mom, dad, sisters, brother, brothers-in-law, etc. - everyone into her office for what she had deemed an "emergency" meeting.

"Do you know why we've all called you here today?" asked the face that was begging for my spit.

You're a total moron? I replied inside my head.  It was, after all, a rhetorical question.  She wasn't expecting an answer.

"We are all deeply worried about you."

Wow.  What a face! So sad, so sincere, so totally insensitive!  Did this lady really have a license to practice psychology?

"We think you should admit yourself into the hospital."

Oops.  The bombshell was dropped.  The room exploded with a sudden burst of wide-eyed, protesting, silent emotion.  No one could have been more shocked than that audience.  I imagined my wad of spit flying through the air, meeting perfectly with it's target, smearing frothy ooze across the woman's smug face.  Clearly no one other than the counselor had remotely considered sending me to a mental hospital.

My husband, who was already livid over being grossly underinformed of this meeting by phone via my sister of all people, reached a whole new level of anger.  Anyone could have told you, based on my dad's shocked, perplexed expression, that he had been caught completely off guard.  People shuffled uncomfortably in their seats, unsure of what to do.

Instead of allowing my spit to fly I chuckled.  The situation, the entire day, had been so unbelievably bad, the only thing left to do was laugh.

"You know I just came from admitting my newborn into the hospital for pneumonia."  I retorted, "Less than two hours ago I find out my daughter is on the brink of death, and this is why I'm here?"

My husband was already up.  He'd had more than enough.  Then, I shocked everyone.

"To be honest, I was going to admit myself into the psych ward anyway."

Silence.  Wide eyed stares.

"But you're not that bad off are you?" commented someone.

"We had no idea she was going to put you up to this." came someone else's terse response.

"I only wanted to help."  it was the sister who had started it all by calling the counselor.  I knew no one in that room was to blame but the one so-called 'professional.'  What kind of confidentiality code had she been taught in school?  The smug look on her face made me sick.

My husband took me by the arm to lead me out of the room.  The second we were outside, my dad began trying to talk me out of the move I'd announced.  I wasn't crazy.  His daughter couldn't possibly be out of her mind.  Others were dead silent, full knowing they'd just witnessed a major breach of privacy.

"I'm so sorry!" pled my sister, "I had no idea that was what she was going to do!"

"It's okay." I mumbled.  It was my fault, not hers. What kind of idiot gets their sister to take them to the store to buy a box of sleeping pills, then jokes about how easy it would be to down the whole box?  They all needed to shut up and go away.  My sweet baby was in the hospital with a severe strain of pnemonia which was already well known for killing small children.  More than anything I believed I'd truly failed as a mother.  Calling me suicidal at that moment was, quite frankly, an understatement.

"You don't have to do this." said my husband once we were in the car.

"Yes, I do." I replied wearily.  Oddly enough, I probably wouldn't have been so determined if I'd known exactly what I was getting into.  But, all I knew was that I needed help, drastic help.  In the end, however, going to the hospital was undoubtedly one of the smartest moves I've ever made.

January 1990