In life, certain phone calls can drastically change your future. For instance, receiving news such as "Your husband has stage four cancer" is one of those calls I've received. However, there was another series of calls that profoundly affected my life.

The first call came from my daughter Emily's friend in Georgia, informing me that Emily had consumed a bottle of cough syrup and was behaving oddly. I feared she had attempted suicide, but Emily was unable to clarify her intentions. She also mentioned her will and urged me to care for her children should anything happen to her.

That night was sleepless for me, and Emily's friend Melinda was equally restless. By dawn, Emily's grasp on reality seemed to fade; her coherence had slipped away completely, and I became increasingly worried for her well-being.

What could I do? I relied on my knowledge in New York and reached out to Crisis Services, seeking their counterpart in Georgia. After several failed attempts to find the right contact, I finally reached an incredible team. I explained the situation, and they promptly dispatched a mobile unit to assess Emily, although it would take at least an hour to reach her in the Georgia mountains. I was impressed by their professionalism; they kept me updated throughout the process.

Emily was in and out of lucidity. Sometimes she acknowledged her father's passing, other times she didn't. Alarmingly, when she recognized his death, she expressed a desire to join him, even stating that her eight-year-old son should come along to be with his grandpa. Mike, a member of the mobile unit, informed me that hospitalization was necessary. The dilemma was whether she would agree to go willingly or if they would need to involuntarily admit her. Voluntary admission has its downsides; a patient can leave at will, which could complicate matters. Mike later contacted me, urging me to get to Georgia swiftly, as Emily needed a trusted family member to advocate for her.

This was particularly challenging because it coincided with my annual block party at my home, a tradition established since Tim, my late husband, became ill. I announced the family emergency to my guests, who assured me they would enjoy the party in my absence, easing my guilt.

I quickly booked a flight with Southwest for the following morning, pleasantly surprised it wasn't exorbitantly priced given the short notice. Summer and Karen, my supportive friends, helped me prepare for my trip. I even considered breaking professional boundaries by asking a client who is a pilot for assistance, and without hesitation, Summer encouraged me to reach my daughter as soon as possible.

Once I contacted my family, they mentioned a promising standby flight at 7 PM. With their help, I packed, canceled appointments, and made my way to Atlanta.

Spencer, Emily's husband, picked me up, and we headed straight to the hospital, arriving around 1 AM. This wasn't a psychiatric hospital, nor did it have a dedicated psychiatric unit. The plan was to transfer her to a mental health treatment facility. Upon entering Emily's room, I was met with security and had to pass through a security check. Emily recognized me and knew my name, but that was about it; her understanding of reality was severely distorted.

Emily has permitted me to share her story. Throughout this experience, I've gained significant insight into mental illness and the importance of advocacy within a flawed healthcare system. We believe our story might help others who find themselves in similar circumstances. Emily experienced a psychotic episode, meaning she lost touch with reality, marked by delusions and hallucinations.

Spencer had described it as if someone had taken over his wife's body, and I was about to witness this firsthand. While Emily recognized me, her emotional response was absent. She used familiar names but failed to connect them with accurate details.

At one point, she repeatedly insisted, “You gotta go,” while pointing dismissively at hospital staff, whom she deemed too heavy. She also expressed disgust at imaginary filth in her surroundings, demanding, “Don’t you see that?” Yet, there was nothing there.

She could recall her children’s names and ages, yet bizarrely claimed they were reflections of herself and Spencer. When I expressed confusion, I refrained from validating her delusions, opting instead to listen without correction.

One of the most heart-wrenching moments came when Emily was distraught over her dog, Henry, claiming he was being mistreated. She wept for him, believing he was being treated like a dog, despite the fact that he was, in fact, a sheepdog.

When the ambulance arrived to transport her to the treatment facility, Emily initially resisted. I learned they could not physically force her to comply without a police escort, which would have made for a traumatic situation for everyone involved. Thankfully, we managed to convince Emily to cooperate, and we bid her farewell in the parking lot. The treatment facility was an hour and a half away, and we were told we wouldn't see her until the next day, making it pointless to follow the ambulance. They promised to notify us once she was checked in but could not guarantee it.

We drove home, anxious and troubled for our beloved Emily. Unsurprisingly, the treatment facility failed to contact me. Later, I discovered from their website that they touted a robust treatment program but, in reality, their services fell short of that promise.

Emily was admitted to the facility at 2 AM on Monday. We made the drive to visit her, only to be told to wait in the lobby. A phone call came in, and Spencer attempted to handle the situation, but I ultimately insisted on taking the call. I spoke with Hilary, Emily's caseworker, who brusquely informed me that she was too busy to meet us. I firmly insisted that this was unacceptable, reminding her that Emily was supposed to have a treatment team of six to eight professionals dedicated to her care.

The struggle continued when I later spoke with the psychiatrist, who insisted that he could only communicate with me over the phone. I reiterated the importance of meeting in person, given the circumstances, and eventually had to escalate my request. After mentioning that I had contacted the Northern Alliance for the Mentally Ill and had connections to the Georgia Commissioner, he suddenly found time to meet us.

Despite being on the phone all morning, we were unsure if Emily had signed a release for them to discuss her treatment with me, but she had. This meant they were obligated to share all relevant information. Had she not signed it, it would have posed significant challenges.

The absurdity of the situation struck me: my daughter had been involuntarily admitted because she was deemed incapable of making sound decisions. Yet, the facility was required to ask her if she wanted anyone involved in her care. The system makes little sense; a person unfit to make decisions cannot designate family involvement, even when she had previously expressed her desire for me to be there.

Fortunately, Emily wanted me involved, but the hospital acted as if I had no right to participate. My attempts to gain information about her treatment were met with resistance.

Finally, we entered a conference room with the psychiatrist. I pointed out the absurdity of having my daughter for over 12 hours without anyone speaking with her. I shared the details of her situation and family history of severe bipolar disorder. He took diligent notes but mentioned that most of their patients lacked family support, which explained his disinterest. I emphasized that Emily had a loving family willing to support her, including a licensed mental health counselor—me.

When I requested to see Emily, we were told we could meet her for one hour on Wednesday. I expressed my disbelief that this was in line with their family treatment approach, given that she was isolated from her support system. He reluctantly agreed to allow us a 30-minute visit, but I learned that it would be a waste of time to stay nearby since I could only see her once.

The drive home was long and exhausting, filled with frustration over the numerous phone calls and the advocacy I had to engage in. I realized I was only scratching the surface of the ordeal we were facing. Each day brought new challenges, and I found it difficult to recount every detail.

After returning home, I discovered we were expected to provide Emily with toiletries and clothing, information the hospital failed to communicate. Spencer had packed some essentials per the mobile unit's advice, but the facility's strict policies meant some items were not permitted.

On Tuesday, I tried to clarify Emily’s treatment plan. The nurse was sympathetic and promised that the caseworker would reach out. However, we never received a call. Later in the day, the psychiatrist contacted me, and our conversation left me exasperated as he failed to grasp my inquiries regarding Emily's treatment and diagnosis.

He acknowledged her psychotic episode and prescribed Risperdal but had no plans to address her underlying condition. His lack of communication and understanding was infuriating. He also disregarded the need for a comprehensive treatment plan, insisting that an outpatient doctor would handle that.

His condescending remark, “Your daughter is not an imbecile,” only added to my frustration. I reminded him that I was not incompetent either and deserved to be treated as a knowledgeable advocate for my daughter.

To make matters worse, he subsequently told Emily to assert her independence against me, undermining my role as her support system. I was outraged that he would suggest she not trust me, especially given her recent mental health crisis.

Despite filing a complaint, I doubted any significant action would be taken against the doctor or hospital. The chances of change were slim, and I couldn't shake the sense of helplessness in the face of systemic failures.

Emily relayed that the hospital's financial staff kept pressuring her about paying a deductible for her treatment. This was absurd, considering she was still under their care and had no access to her belongings.

Spencer managed to resolve this issue with the insurance company, which confirmed that the hospital's procedure was inappropriate. We were disillusioned by the hospital's policies and lack of common sense, especially in dealing with a patient experiencing a mental health crisis.

This saga feels endless, but I’ll conclude here. I’ve received feedback that I seem bitter, but I feel more rage at the systemic failures I've witnessed. I'm frustrated that, despite my efforts, I cannot seem to effect change in a broken system that should be providing care.