I Had to Dial 9-1-1 on My Son During His Mental Health Crisis
“Hello, 9-1-1. What is your emergency?” The operator’s business-like monotone was exactly what I needed so I could focus. “I need an ambulance,” I gasped into my cell phone. “My son has symptoms of manic depression. He’s not violent, but I need to get him emergency psychiatric care.” After I gave the operator the address, I ran the rest of the way to my mother’s house. Khari, who was usually friendly and cracking jokes, was seated at my mother’s dining room table, frowning and rocking rapidly in his chair with his hands tightly gripping the sides. He was talking nonstop about my father who had died from multiple myeloma eleven years earlier. “Nothing has been the same since we lost Pop-Pop. Nothing. Nothing. Not for me, not for Nana, none of us. Nothing!” he said. My mother, sister, and I gathered around him. “It’s going to be OK,” I said and tried to hug him. “Don’t touch me,” he yelled. We backed away slowly and watched him silently, unsure of what else to say as we waited …
