Sad Day

I usually don't talk about personal things on this blog, but after yesterday's events, I'm making an exception.

My husband voluntarily checked himself into the hospital yesterday.

The day started out well: He was listening to some soothing music while I got washed up. We went to the post office, then went off to the supermarket. The big deal was supposed to happen later in the day: Someone was supposed to come by from the county crisis clinic to discuss options with my husband.

Options as to what to do about his mental illness.

Someone was supposed to come by around 1:00/1:30pm. Normally, I don't turn on my cell phone, as it's used strictly as a phone ahead if I've run into traffic going home (and to work as well). Well, that bit me in the butt somewhat. I finally remembered to turn it on (as my husband smashed our home's cordless phone) at about 1:00pm.

For an hour, no one called. At two o'clock, my phone vibrated, but I couldn't remember how to answer it. I checked and saw the last phone call had been from the crisis center. Why hadn't anyone come by? Because they were working with a patient. All well and fine, and I was boneheaded in not turning on my cell earlier. But by this point, my husband was agitated; I mean, we were both nervous.

Couldn't they have sent out someone for just twenty minutes or something? I just don't understand how any entity can do this, esp. when they know my husband's recent events.

He'd already jumped into his car (which doesn't have a bumper, and he stuck the license plate on the front dash). I motioned for him to stop, which he did. I convinced him to bring his car around and that I would drive.

We drove off to our local bar. Things went fine for a little while. He had a mug of fairly low alcohol brew; I think he ordered another one. I was finishing up my mug and finishing off whatever the heck I'd ordered (nothing too heavy, as I wasn't that hungry). As the clock ticked toward 3:00/3:30pm, he became more and more withdrawn, berating me for various and sundry.

My stomach twisted.

My husband is usually a gregarious guy; trying to get him out of the bar is something else, as he talks and hugs all our friends before we leave. This time, he finished his beer, slapped the mug on the bar, put on his jacket, and said a quick "Goodbye" before dashing for the door. I dashed after him. I drove home, and he said he was just going to rest quietly upstairs, maybe take a nap.

I stayed downstairs, kicked off my sneakers, and settled in to read. After reading for a few minutes, I turned on the TV.

I heard him come downstairs. He had put on his dark blue jacket (think Gore-tex). His tone of voice sounded terrible, horrible. I jumped up and raced after him. Unfortunately, I was in my socks and there's a lot of gravel around. I ran back in and out the front door, wondering if he'd go toward the bridge.

I didn't see him after about two or three minutes. I called 9-1-1.

There's not much more to say here except that the State Police found him (thank God) and brought him to the local hospital's emergency room. He's now resting comfortably, peacefully in their behavioral unit. He was quite accepting of being there; no anger, no tears. He told me last night, as I waited for his paperwork to be finished, that he felt as if a burden had been lifted from his shoulders.

I told him I did, too.

Now I'll go on and deal with stuff here outside the hospital. There are a number of calls I'll have to make today, and a number of calls tomorrow. Life's going to be hell for a while. But I'll rest better knowing that he's being cared for.