Yesterday, I had probably one of the worst days of my life. I received that phone call from school that I have feared since my boy started preschool. "Mrs. R, your son tried to commit suicide in class. We have called the police. Please come now."
I drove to the school, of course wearing paint splattered pants, one of those ridiculous tank tops with the built in a bra, a sweatshirt and flip flops. I showed up after the police, and they had my son in custody. He looked confused, annoyed, and had blood on his face.
Apparently, *someone* (we don't know who) put nails in his pants during PE, possibly as a joke? Instead of turning the nails over to his PE coach, he put them in his mouth. Then he was tackled during football, and that is where the blood came from. When the coach approached Liam for what happened, he made a smart-aleck comment. At that point, the counselors were called in, and they decided this was a suicide attempt, called the police, and then called me.
They handed me paperwork stating that Bucket wasn't allowed back until he had a psychiatric evaluation. The cops intended to take Bucket to the psych ward in Daytona, and I begged them not to take him. The psych ward near us is in Daytona, and it was the site of a murder recently. (One pysch patient killed another patient.) Yes, my minor child will NOT be going there. I had to promise Bucket would be treated that very night by someone else. So I ended up driving all the way to Altamonte, having to go through the emergency room, for him to have an emergency psych eval. By the way, I have real insurance...it was a $500 deductible. I only had $40 on me.
I don't tell you this story to garner pity, or to get anyone to send me cash. It is simply, that our special children are not understood. I could tell right away he wasn't suicidal, simply making a stupid judgement in error.