This past month I received a blow – I found out that the residential facility my son had spent nearly 2 years at was closing its doors due to a string of negligence. The reports of negligence toward the children living there began while my son lived there, but since his departure (which was thankfully just before COVID lockdown), not only had 4 children broken into the med cabinet and nearly died from overdose (they all needed dialysis), but one child had been hit by a car while “on run” and died as a result. No doubt we knew at least one of these kids, and no doubt had my son still lived there he would have been caught up in all of it.
If you are like me, residential treatment never crossed your mind as you held your newborn baby in your arms for the first time and rolled through the list hopes and dreams you imagined for your child. My dreams for my firstborn included sleep overs, dirt and sweaty play outdoors, team sports, hitting developmental milestones and so many other “normal” things you think of in childhood. Yet, that has not been our story. Rather, ours has been one of struggle, years filled with doctor and therapy appointments, and along the way an unexpected placement out of our home.