We sat in my father’s hospital room. He stared out the window at the snow outside blanketing the city of Saint Paul. He wouldn’t look at me.
He was angry.
I was angry.
This was hospitalization number ???? after nearly two years of going into and out of hospitals, clinics and group homes following his psychotic break.
My dad didn’t want to live anymore, which he kept reminding me of. And, quite frankly, after this last attempt I thought this was The End of the Line.
I was tired of constantly chasing him; of holding up marionette strings to force him to stay alive. Every time he disappeared, either by running away from a group home or simply going offline for days on end it meant putting everything on hold to try and find him.
Or, in this case, he had frostbitten fingertips after losing his keys in the snow while inebriated and even though his fingertips were black his case manager checked on him and said he “seemed fine” even though gangrene was setting in and he was clearly off his medications, something very dangerous to do for someone on so many different things.
It took me threatening to call news outlets to get the case manager to get him into the hospital.
So, there we were, two people furious at one another for opposite reasons. And I was at the end of my rope.
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