Wanzo2

For 28 days, we did everything we knew how to do to keep my daughter alive and get her somewhere safe. On Thursday evening, she left the hospital against medical advice. I’ve typed that sentence a few times now. I still don’t know what to do with it. My daughter is 25. For four days after her overdose, a machine helped her breathe. All I wanted was to hear her voice again. Then I got to hear that voice asking for help, and there we were in another ER, begging for a bed where someone could care for her heart, help her through withdrawal and take her mental health seriously at the same time. I keep thinking about that part. She asked for help. Whatever happened Thursday, please remember that she asked. Somewhere in those 28 days I had to say something I never imagined saying about my own kid. “She can’t come home with me.” I have a granddaughter to keep safe, too. I meant what I said, and it broke my damn heart to say it. I’m her mom and I’m somebody’s Nana, and both of those girls are counting on me. I know some people will read “left against medical advice” and think they understand my daughter. I don’t know everything that was going through her mind Thursday night, and I’m her mother. What I do know is that she’s still the little girl whose voice I could pick out in a room full of kids. She’s 25 now, and I would give anything to hear her say, “Mom, I’m okay,” and believe she’ll still be okay when we hang up. If you know our family and you’re wondering what to say, ask me about my girl. Say her name. Tell me something funny you remember about her. I’ve spent so much time lately telling people what she took, what happened to her heart and what kind of bed she needs. God, I’d love to talk about who she is. And baby, if this reaches you, I love you. I meant it when I said I couldn’t bring you home. I meant it just as much every time I said I wanted to help. If all you can manage right now is two words, “Hey, Mom” is enough. I’ll be glad to hear your voice. 💜