The longer he sits there in a catatonic daze, just rocking back and forth, uncommunicative and unfocused, the more worried I become. He’s been dealing with so much for so long, and he was already stressed out enough over his recent admission without this adding to the pile. I’m seriously concerned for his mental state.
When Mike returns with Noel’s bag, we share worrisome expressions while Noel performs a few quick tests. “Ryder, honey. I’m right with you. Can you let me know if you hear me?” I implore, waiting patiently for some kind of sign, but there’s nothing. Mike squeezes my shoulder in solidarity while Noel taps away on his cell.
“Zeta.” I look across at Noel. “I think we should consider referring Ryder to this place.”
I walk to his side, accepting the cell and swiping through images of a private psychiatric hospital about an hour away. “Do you really think it’s necessary?” I hate the thought of sending him someplace like that.
“Look at him.”
As Noel says that, Ryder jumps up screaming, and he starts pacing the room, grabbing fistfuls of his hair. “No! No! No!” He slams his fist into the wall repeatedly, and my heart is breaking. “Leave him alone. Just leave him alone!” When he swings around to us, his face is pale, beads of sweat dot his brow, and his eyes are manically searching for something we can’t see. “I said leave him alone!” he roars, running across the room and slamming into the glass wall before any of us can stop him. Falling to the ground, he curls into a fetal position, moaning and crying, and I rush to his side with tears pouring down my face. Blood trickles out of his nose, and a slight lump is swelling on his forehead. He holds onto himself, curled into a ball, rocking on the floor.
“Make the call, Noel,” I say as Mike drops to his knees beside me, barely holding back tears. He wraps his arm around my shoulder, comforting me as I watch helplessly while my husband falls to pieces in front of my eyes.
Several hours later, Ryder has been admitted for assessment at the psychiatric hospital on the south shore. Because he wasn’t lucid enough to sign himself in, I had to do it. It’s one of the hardest things I’ve ever had to do, but I don’t see that I have any choice. Ryder has spent the last few hours alternating between manic and catatonic episodes, and I’m at a loss how to help him, because he’s not in the real world right now. His mind is clearly crashing, and I’ve got to trust he’s in the best place to help him.
Over the course of the next seventy-two hours, I only leave the hospital to go home and grab a quick shower and some clean clothes, and then I’m back by my husband’s side.
They sedated him the first twenty-four hours, for his own safety, and since then, he’s seen a succession of different doctors and psychologists, who have all confirmed he’s in the middle of a mental breakdown. He’s going to need long-term intervention to deal with the symptoms and the causal effects and to help restore his mental health.
Although he’s a shell of his former self, his behavior has stabilized, and he’s aware of his surroundings now. But he’s crying all the time and clinging to me, and I hate to see him like this. Mike and I are the only ones who have been with him. Noel voluntarily went back to Boston, understanding that seeing his son now might trigger another episode. I took his contact details, and I promised to call him soon.
My own therapist has been a lifesaver. She flew down to meet me, and we’ve discussed the options for Ryder’s recovery. She helped me to identify a fantastic facility in Florida offering holistic and experimental residential treatment in serene surroundings especially tailored for patients in need of post-traumatic stress disorder recovery. They focus on the underlying issues, getting to the root of the matter, and help patients work through them via a variety of different programs. It’s set on an extensive estate with outdoor cabins, and there are a lot of physical activities and different therapy options on offer, which I think will suit Ryder.
I’m loath to leave him in a hospital like this where the approach is a combination of drugs and therapy. While that may work for some patients, with Ryder’s drug abuse background, I want to try an alternative method. The Florida facility seems perfect. The difficult part is the fact we’ll be separated while he’s receiving treatment, but I can’t be selfish. I just want him to get the help he needs. I feel guilty that I didn’t see he was seriously struggling and recommend something like this before he had a break, but all that matters is getting him the appropriate help now and supporting him in whatever way I can.
Ryder is hugely reluctant to agree, at first, but he eventually approves it, because he knows he needs the help, and I’m glad that he wants to get better rather than falling back into his usual addictive behaviors.
The day I drop him off is a horrible day. We’re clinging to one another. He’s crying, and I’m trying my fucking hardest not to. I feel like my jaw might break from forcing myself to smile so much. I won’t see him for six weeks, and I already miss him.
The instant Mike drives away from the center, I burst out crying, and I can’t stop. Everything I’ve been holding in the last few days is let loose, and anguished howls rip from the back of my throat. Mike pulls over to the side of the road, wrapping his arms around me. “You’re doing the right thing, and Ryder knows that too. He would never have agreed otherwise. This is the best way to help him.”
“I love him so much,” I sob. “And I feel so useless.”
“Just be there waiting for him, Zeta. That’s the best way you can help him. And make sure to look after yourself too.”
As we fly back to the Hamptons, I think of Mike’s words while I flip through the educational material the kind woman in the center gave me to read before I left. It outlines the four-day family week I’ll be allowed to share with Ryder once he’s gotten the first six weeks behind him. There are special educational sessions for family members to provide tools to enable us to support our loved ones when they return home. There are also group therapy sessions and various other activities we can do together to aid his recovery. The brochures discuss how looking after my own mental health and wellbeing is just as important, and I vow to do everything I can to ensure I’m strong enough to help Ryder through this.
One of the first things I do is organize Luc to come stay. Ryder had been making plans with his sister Kat before he had his breakdown. She travels with him on the private jet Rod organized, staying for a couple of days to help him get settled.
I love having Luc around, and it helps me feel closer to Ryder. I don’t feel as alone with him here, and he provides much-needed comfort. I never forget that Ren is still out there somewhere, and while this place is like Fort Knox, and I can’t imagine anyone getting in, I’d be lying if I said I didn’t wake up constantly during the night, feeling lonely and afraid.
Luc also offers me invaluable encouragement because he’s only just come out of a mental health treatment program, and he understands, to a point, what Ryder is going through. We spend hours trawling the grounds of Ryder’s vast estate, and I push his wheelchair along the promenade in town while we talk and catch up.
“I’m so happy you’re here, Luc. I think I’d be going out of my mind without your company,” I admit, as we sit outside on the terrace one evening. We’re both covered under a thick plaid blanket, sipping drinks as we watch the waves crash onto the shore in the near distance. Now that we’re into October, the weather has cooled down, and it’s no longer shorts and T-shirt season. The crowds have significantly died down around the town and a lot of the stores and restaurants have switched to off-peak hours. From what Ryder’s told me, he would usually be back in the city this time of year, only venturing down here on weekends when he had free time. But I don’t mind it like this. I love this house, and I feel very settled here.
“Glad to be of service, ma’am,” Luc jokes, chinking his glass against mine. “This is helping me too. It’s exactly what I needed, and it’s been great to catch up. I missed you.”
I lean in and kiss his cheek. “I missed you too, and I’m sorry I wasn’t there for you when you needed me.”
He swats my concern away. “Stop apologizing. There’s no need, and we’ve already discussed this. I’ve spent a lot of time in therapy trying to move past my regrets. It’s a negative emotion and one that has the potential to drag me down, so I’m trying to live more in the moment.”
“And you’re feeling good now?” I don’t want to pry or pressure him into talking if he doesn’t want to.
He nods, smiling slowly. “For the first time in ages, I’m actually focusing on the future. On all the things I can still do instead of fixating on all the things I can’t.” He squeezes my hand. “Please don’t worry about me because I’m good. Ryder should be your only concern. I’m here to ease your burden, not add to it.”
I kiss his cheek again. “You could never be a burden. Never. I love that you’re here with me.”
“You might regret saying that when it’s time for me to leave and I don’t want to go,” he semi-jokes, taking a quick slurp of his soda.
