Dear Mr. Thomas:

Earlier this week, I read the news story about the murder of your son, Kelly, at the hands of the Fullerton Police.  After reading the story, and viewing the video of the witnesses account of the incident, I felt physically ill.

I spent part of last week at the National Alliance on Mental Illness Conference in Chicago. It was a phenomenal three days where I learned a great deal, met some amazing people, and enjoyed playing tourist in my hometown.  On the opening day after the keynote speech, I was having dinner with several BringChange2Mind folks including Jessie Close and her son, Calen Pick.  Jessie and Calen had given moving and thought-provoking speeches earlier in the day and we were lounging at a local pizza joint, recapping their talk, and discussing our families and the convention. I don’t remember exactly why, but the talk turned to meds and side effects and I mentioned that Tim was on 600 mg of Clozaril a day.  Jessie’s eyes about popped out of her head. She said her son – diagnosed at 15 and now a man of nearly 30 - had never been on a dose above 375.

Do you ever tune out the world around you? This is a skill that helps me get through busy, crowded, stimulating days; one that I often take for granted. When it comes to my son Tim, however, it's a different story...

Photo by Roman Skrada

My son has been in residential treatment for two years this month. I can’t believe he’s been living away from home for that long. It seems like it was just a few months ago we were sitting at the kitchen table, making the decision on the residential programs we wanted to look at as options. It’s been difficult having him away from home so much, but we are lucky that the program isn’t too far away (although with gas prices they way they are right now, it seems farther), and we talk on the phone several times a week.

I’ve spent the last several hours reading the saga of Maryanne Godboldo, the Detroit mother who had her 13 year old daughter removed from her care and was taken into custody by police after a long stand-off between her and the police. She wasn’t being pursued because she was a criminal or was abusing her child.

My son Tim turns 17 this summer, and I’m terrified. 17 means just one more year until the Government says he’s an adult. And I know, if “the Government” knew my kid, they’d know he’s not ready. I know what it’s supposed to look like. My oldest child turns 21 this year, and he’s settled in to being responsible for himself and self-reliant. He moves out in just four short weeks to spend a year in Europe, interning in his chosen profession, and I know he’ll thrive. But Tim’s not quite ready.

   photo by Clicksense

I've spent the past two weekends taking all the paperwork we have about my son Tim and putting it in chronological order in three ring binders. Twelve and a half years of paperwork, comprising every evaluation, every IEP, every page of every inpatient stay of Tim's life, from Pre-K through last week. It took four, three-inch binders to hold it all. As I sorted through it all, I saw the progression of Tim's illness in stark black and white.  

I'll be a parent forever. 

Of course, my children will always be my children, but I will have a child at home, living with me, dependent on me, relying on me to keep him safe and housed and clothed and fed until the day I die.  

I called my doctor last Monday morning and got his answering machine. Most people who don’t have urgent care near them and aren’t sick enough for the emergency room wait with scrapes and sniffles and coughs over the weekend to see their primary care doctor on Monday. So I wasn’t surprised I had to leave a message. My case wasn’t urgent to me. I just wanted to make an appointment to talk to my doctor about some pain in the back of my head, an eye twitch that had been going on for a week and numbness in the right side of my face.