(Quiet Me is the latest book by author Leigh Macfarlane. In the book, Leigh discusses what it is like to be the mother of a son who is struggling with suicidal depression. With her son’s permission, Leigh tells the story of battling for her son’s life, and some of the tools available — both within the Chrisitan faith and the health care and psychiatric fields — to others facing the same fight. Quiet Me is now available for sale on Amazon and as an ebook on Kindle.)
Excerpt from Quiet Me by Leigh Macfarlane:
This plastic chair is hard and uncomfortable. I sit anyway, watching the scene unfold around me, looking for any distraction.
To my right a young couple hold a baby who, I overhear, has been feverish through the night. Across from them an agitated man talks in obnoxiously loud tones to anyone who will listen. On the left side of the room sits an older man in a wheelchair, his leg propped up on one of those steel plates that passes for a footrest. He doesn’t wait with us for long before he is whisked away by the slender twenty-something in scrubs. She briskly guides his chair through the doors on the left, buzzed in by the chubby man and the teenager whose job appears to be to guard the door. To their right is a window carved into a cubby, and the woman who has been sitting across from me suddenly marches to that window. “How much longer,” I hear her demand. I don’t hear the response of the woman behind the glass, but it can’t have been positive, since the woman returns to take up her place across from me.
There is a line up of people at the front right of the room waiting under the large red ADMITTING sign. All kinds of misery stands in that line – all forms of fear. I watch them proceed through the same interrogation of forms which my son and I have just traversed. Man in workboots. Fat girl holding her stomach in pain. Old lady in stylish boots. I glance away from the show of human misery to the suspended TV screen in the corner. There is absolutely nothing interesting playing, but I watch anyway as the actors silently mime their parts.
We have been sitting on these chairs and waiting long enough that my mother, whom I paged for the moral support – has driven the forty minutes from her home in Vernon to wait with me in this overstuffed hospital emergency room.
“I want a coffee,” she says. She looks from me to my sixteen year old son who sits vacantly beside me. “Want anything?”