What If It Happens . . .Again?

What do you do when you wake up to find your best friend and roommate having attempted suicide the night before? I know exactly what you do. Panic. Open your mouth to let out a deafening scream and hope the ear-piercing noise wakes you up from what should be a nightmare. You want to run away - then a thought stops you. If I leave . . . will she die? Run back to your room, grab your cell phone and dial those three horrifying numbers, 9-1-1.

Just over a month ago, I awoke to that situation.

A clear Wednesday morning, I went into my roommate’s room to wake her up, knowing that she’d be ecstatic like me since it was the last day of class. Instead of finding her tangled in her down comforter as usual, she was slumped on the floor at the end of her bed. Knowing she had been sick with a sore throat I immediately thought she had gotten worse and was sick. However, in a second’s time I happened to look at her bedside table. Four empty pill bottles, bottles that had just been refilled two days prior. Calling my other roommate into the room we quickly panicked but in an instant I was dialing 9-1-1.

I remember the only word I could shout was, “HURRY!” Trying his best to calm me down the EMT on the other line tried to get basic facts from me: Where was I? What was my emergency? What did I need?

What did I need? A freaking miracle, I thought to myself. What seemed like an eternity later, the sirens wailed outside my apartment. My roommate was loaded into an ambulance and carried away. I wasn't allowed to ride with her.

Rushing to the hospital I had only one thought, ”Please, Lord, don’t let her die. I’ll do anything, just don’t let her die.” I know it’s a common plea, promising to do “anything” to have something go your way, but I knew this time I meant it.

I quickly thought of her mother. I was going to have to be the one to tell her. Shaking, I picked up the phone and dialed the out-of-state number. Explaining what had happened to her mother was horrifying. Would she have thought it was my fault? Did she think I should have stopped her? Hurriedly her mother said, “I’m leaving work and driving down right now.” Although to say I was happy seems horrible, I was relieved that I wouldn’t have to go through this alone.

After waiting an hour in the hospital’s cold, sterile waiting room I was ushered back to my roommate. A nurse gave me a curt warning: “Now don’t be alarmed when she looks, well . . . a little odd.” As we rounded the corner and a curtain was flown back, I saw what “odd” meant. My roommate’s mouth was bubbling with a thick, black paste (later explained to me as charcoal to absorb the medication she had taken: roughly 70 pills).

Sitting by her side she began to come to. Looking in my direction with a glassy stare, but not really seeing me, she kept repeating, “Who are you?” Trying to be the strong friend and not cry, I’d whisper, “It’s me, silly, Hayley.”

Seven long hours later, an officer in his uniform burst in the door and said to my half-conscious roommate, “Excuse me ma’am, you’ll have to come with us.” Not knowing what was going on I exclaimed, “Wait, wait! Where are you taking her?” The officer explained that since she had tried to harm herself she had no right to decide when she could leave, and would be taken to the psychiatric ward of the hospital. I wasn’t allowed to go.

Three hours after my roommate was led out of the hospital, and ten hours since the ordeal began, her mother called saying, “I’m outside your house Hayley, would you let me in?” Opening the door we embraced each other, crying together, sharing the pain. She hadn’t been allowed to see her own daughter at the psych ward and was still very worried.

Six days later my roommate was released and allowed to come back home. Her mother was still here, to take care of her. It was a long Christmas break, but I called every day to check on her, seeing if she was okay. Now that we’re back at school I feel as if she’s doing fine. She herself doesn’t know why she attempted the suicide. However, every day I can’t help thinking, what if tomorrow I wake up . . . to find it has happened again?