When You Have to Leave Your Children to Take Care of Yourself

The day my life forever changed was the day I left my children to go into inpatient treatment. My daughter was 2 and my son was just 7 months. I had been struggling with severe relapse into my eating disorder, bulimia with anorexic tendencies.

A couple days before, I had gone to the doctor because my lower back was killing me. She weighed me, and I had dropped to 89 pounds. She immediately drew blood work and sent me downstairs to the emergency department because she could tell I needed IV fluids. Not long after, people rushed to my room, gave me IV potassium and rushed me to a nearby, bigger hospital. I was informed my potassium level was 2.0 and my heart could have stopped at any moment.

The pain in my lower back I initially went in for was because my kidneys were failing. I told my husband and the doctor I wanted to sign a do not resuscitate (DNR) order. I was so tired of living with my eating disorder. I wanted to die. I felt that I’d caused my family enough pain and they would be better off without me.

My husband spoke with the doctor, and they decided that at this point I was not capable of thinking right, that it was the eating disorder talking. I stayed at the hospital for five days to get my potassium up. I was only able to leave because I had been set up to go straight into an inpatient treatment facility.

Being a military wife at the time (we are now retired), I had to leave my husband and two young kids. The thought broke my heart, but I knew I had to, for them. My husband drove me to the Seattle airport, where I flew to a treatment center in southern California. I had no idea how I was going to survive being away from my children. My son was born at 30 weeks, and I spent every moment in the NICU with him for 45 days. My daughter was my mini me.

How does a mother leave her children? To live. I chose to live for them and my husband. I knew they needed me. I could not imagine life without either one of them. So how could they grow up without a mother because I didn’t want to live because of my eating disorder? I went into treatment with the condition I could video talk with them twice daily.

When I arrived at the facility, I instantly regretted it, but I was already checked in. It had only been about nine hours since I left my children. I wanted to call them, but it was late at night. I was not allowed to until the next morning.

My morning consisted of 6 a.m. vitals and blood work, followed by getting showered and joining the rest of the eating disorder unit to line up. Then, the worst part, the first meal. My body was physically at a point where I was unable to keep any food down.

I remember like it was yesterday. All I could think about was my children. I wanted, needed, pleaded with the staff to let me call them. No. Not now. After three different group “sessions,” we had a 15 minute break before lunch. They gave me my phone, and I finally was able to see them and talk to them. All I could do was cry. I told them mommy was sick, but as soon as I was better I would be home.

Hanging up that phone call was one of the hardest things to do. After lunch, we had more groups, then dinner. I couldn’t even think. I couldn’t eat. I had to sit until I finished two Ensure drinks and then joined everyone else in the last session of the day. From 7 p.m. to 9 p.m., we had free time. This was the best part of my day. I could talk to them as long as I wanted, as well as my husband.

After about a week of that routine, things were about to change. I couldn’t keep anything down because my body was so used to getting rid of food the second I ate. They informed me if my blood work changed even the slightest bit, I’d be transferred to the eating disorder unit at UCLA, where I’d be given a feeding tube. They did not allow video calls.

The thought of not seeing my babies must have flipped a switch. I slowly started to keep some food down, followed by an Ensure. My blood work and vitals began to stabilize. I went about the program, followed the routine, day by day. I started participating in group and was able to keep more food down.

About seven weeks into the program, I came to a standstill. The heartache of not physically being with my children started to take a toll on me. I begged to leave the program. My husband wouldn’t let me, kept telling me to think of the kids. I reluctantly stayed a little longer.

I was no longer doing it just for my kids and husband, but for myself. I began to believe in myself and value myself. I worked so hard, taking in as much as the inpatient program had to offer. When I was able to keep all my meals down and put on some weight, I was able to leave. They came to the decision to let me fly back home, under the care of my doctor, and she had set up an outpatient program for me to go to.

I will never forget the moment I saw my daughter running to me at the Seattle airport. I grabbed her and held her tight, never wanting to let go. I held my son and looked in his eyes. He fought so hard when he was born. Now, I had fought so hard to stay alive. To choose health. To be there for my family.

Making the decision to go inpatient was not easy. It’s not easy for anyone, but, with kids, especially being so young, it made it all the more hard. Know that it can be done. You can do it. Do it for yourself. Do it for your children. I’m forever grateful I chose to fly two states away and take those two months away from my children to work on myself. It seemed impossible, but two months away from them is well worth a lifetime spent with them.

Image via Thinkstock.

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