Reading · Fullness of Joy Letter with Lisa C. Qualls

Welcome to today’s issue of Fullness of Joy. Most Saturdays, I send out a newsletter you can read in just a few minutes. Would you be willing to click the ❤️ like button? It helps others find my work. Thank you from the bottom of my heart.

This is a tender story from a very difficult season in our family’s life. It’s heavier than what I usually share here, but it’s also honest, and part of our journey. I hope some of you find comfort in knowing you’re not alone.

I was devastated. How was I going to tell her that in a few moments I would walk through the heavy, metal door and she would stay behind?

It’s been many years, but when I reflect on the experience of my daughter’s hospitalization on an inpatient psychiatric unit, my chest aches a little. I don’t like to linger on the memories for long.

The inpatient unit may be the right place for a child who is a danger to herself or others.

Keeping my daughter safe was exhausting, and at times, terrifying. I was traveling to Seattle when it all fell apart. All of my young children were with me, and I feared we wouldn’t even make it safely. We did arrive, but I knew I couldn’t make the long drive home and keep her safe at the same time. She was admitted that evening.
I felt grief and relief in equal measure, and guilt showed up as their companion.
The purpose was not treatment, but stabilization.

I didn’t realize this until well into my daughter’s hospitalization. I thought the medical professionals would have answers and brilliant insights. I thought the treatment would be therapeutic. Maybe it was, but I was too exhausted to notice. I recall a behavioral program involving a frog and choices, but it didn’t work for my child, who couldn’t have cared less.
Looking back, I wonder if parents should be given 24 hours to rest and sleep before being expected to absorb training or guidance. They may need to recover from the severe circumstances that led to the hospitalization.
The demands on the parents were unrealistic – at least for me.

I was stuck in Seattle, 300 miles from home, with five other children for many days. Thankfully, my sister lived less than an hour from the hospital and she cared for them when I couldn’t.
I was expected to attend a meeting with the doctors and staff each morning, another in the afternoon, and mandatory classes and trainings in between. I also spent time with my daughter.
There was no time to see my other children. I missed my husband. I missed my kids.
The day Russ finally arrived, I walked out of a meeting and into the hall where I saw him. I nearly ran into his arms, and the tears I’d been holding back for days came pouring out as I sobbed in the hallway. I was no longer alone in this very unfamiliar, difficult place.
My daughter was content there.

It was a strangely familiar environment for her, not unlike an orphanage, albeit smaller and much more controlled. There were rules, and she enjoyed following them. With her history of complex developmental trauma and attachment challenges, family life was much harder for her than structured institutional life. Living with people who loved her, parents who were committed to her, and siblings who shared her room, her life, and her school felt scarier than being hospitalized.
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It was a step along the way.

While inpatient care didn’t provide lasting benefits, it served as a helpful step toward residential treatment, where she eventually found deep healing.
You can always find good folks.

No matter what road of suffering you walk, there are always good people along the way. We met a couple whose daughter shared a room with ours, and the girls became friends. It meant so much to have someone meet our eyes with compassion and shared sorrow. Their path was harder than ours, and our hearts ached for them. We’ve since lost touch, but I still think of them.
Shame was my companion.

I felt shame that my daughter needed this level of care and I hadn’t found a way to keep her safe. Could I have done something differently to keep her from getting this sick? I didn’t want anyone to know how bad things really were – even as I write this years later, some people will only now realize the severity of her challenges.
I told very few people that I was nearly living at the hospital. There were no visitors, no cheerful nurses, no volunteers, no Seahawks players like the ones who brought joy to other units.
There was only a heavy, locked door, that slammed shut behind me. It sounded like isolation, loneliness, and fear.
Well-meaning professionals wanted to teach me how to be a better parent, never mind that I had many healthy children and didn’t meet my daughter until many years after her severe trauma. Parenting any child with mental illness is very hard. Parents first need to feel safe with professionals before they can be open to learning new skills.

This experience was one of the lowest points in our journey as adoptive parents. I wish I had understood my nervous system back then and had even a few of the tools I now use when I’m overwhelmed and scared.

But I want you to know this: our precious daughter fought for wholeness and she won that battle. I’m certain she would want others to know healing is possible.

If you’ve experienced anything even remotely like this, I want you to know you’re not alone. There are many parents just like us.

This is a heavy post and I’m not sure how it will be received. But just like in the old blogging days, we can share right here in the comments. This space can be a slice of beauty in the world.

Does anything in my story, maybe even something quite different, resonate with you? I’d love to hear from you. Please leave a comment or just say hello.

When the Door Slammed Behind Me

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