I Lied...

I lied.I had no choice.But I felt guilty.

Guilty for having to lie to him — just so I could get him to the emergency room. My son wouldn’t suspect anything if I told him I was taking him to work with me at the hospital.

On our drive there, I remember looking at him out of the corner of my eye, praying to God that he wouldn’t figure out my plan.But what if he did? What if the voices he was hearing told him I was lying — and he jumped out of the moving car on our way to the hospital?

Panic started to set in. I took a deep breath and reached down, turning on the radio just enough to hear the music lightly coming through the speakers. I thought to myself, “Talk. Say something. Anything. Keep him preoccupied.”

I began asking him questions about school, and I could tell he was struggling to respond. He would pause, a look of confusion crossing his face, before trying to piece his sentences together. Most of the time, I could get one or two sentences out of him before he’d stop again. During psychosis, his conversations were delayed — as if the voices in his head and the outside noises were fighting each other to be heard.

My son would stop mid-thought, look away, and laugh. Then he’d go back to speaking, only to get stuck again before continuing his answer. The conversations were choppy — they reminded me of when he was a child first learning to talk.

We made it there safely, without any hiccups. The “joy ride” to the hospital had come to an end.

When we pulled up to the emergency room, we were met by a colleague who walked us through the back door. She began talking to my son — gently, reassuring him that he was safe. Not long after, a physician came in to evaluate him. It was clear my son wasn’t well.

We sat in the emergency room for several hours before he was taken to the psychiatric unit for further evaluation. I remember sitting there thinking to myself, What if he walks out of this hospital? I would soon learn that if he chose to, there was nothing anyone could do to stop him.

My nerves were shot. I hadn’t slept in days. My heart was racing. I was terrified that my son might walk out of that hospital — never to return, and never to trust me again.

As the hours went by, I had to keep him calm. I reassured him everything was okay, that the doctors were just waiting on lab results. But that wasn’t true. I was lying again. The doctors were clearly concerned about his mental and physical state — he was unstable and had lost so much weight from being too afraid to eat. I knew they were working on an involuntary hold.

I wanted to make sure my son was safe, that he could get the care he needed. So I kept lying. I was terrified that if he realized what was happening, he’d walk out — and never trust me again.

After hours of waiting, they were ready to take him to the psychiatric unit. My son, unaware of what was about to happen, sat quietly in the wheelchair as they took him across the units and up the elevator to the psychiatric doors.

When we arrived, he stood up. I hugged him tightly and told him I loved him. He had a look of confusion on his face as he walked through the locked doors. Of course, I couldn’t go with him.

I tried to hold it together, but the tears came anyway. Before I knew it, a flood of emotion crashed over me. I turned away quickly, trying to keep him from seeing me like that — screaming silently inside while crying uncontrollably on the outside.

The cry sounded like screeching tires pressing down on the brakes, trying to stop an accident. It was a mother’s cry — full of pain, guilt, and shame.

I stood there, alone, on the opposite side of the locked door, staring at my son. His eyes pierced back at me from the other end. He looked confused and scared, so I yelled through the door, “It’s going to be okay. I love you!”

I held my hands together, as if to pray. “They’re going to help you. They’re going to get you better.”

He looked at me and nodded — as if to say he understood.But did he?

Did he understand the guilt I was carrying?How I’d wrestled with whether this was the right thing to do?How I wished I didn’t have to do it at all?

As I was getting ready to leave, the nurse looked at me, paused, and gently said, “Go home and get some rest. He’ll be safe here.”

I must admit — I was exhausted. I hadn’t slept in days, and I’m sure I looked like it. I was wearing two-day-old jogging pants, a wrinkled blue t-shirt, and my hair was tied up in a lopsided ponytail.

I thanked her and headed toward my car.

On my drive home, I thought about how my son used to love painting and reading books when he was younger. I thought about his love for music, his smile, and that quirky giggle. I thought about how quiet and gentle his soul has always been.

And I asked God, Why?

It was in that moment I realized how angry I was with Him.Why did my son have to suffer from mental illness?

But God didn’t answer me.He left me in silence.

And I grieved again.