The Only Way Out Was Through
Fuck anyone who says, " God gives you what you can handle."
*Trigger Warning. This post contains talk of suicide.
Popping up without warning, a Facebook memory from three years ago. It takes me back to July 2021, the ‘ring of fire’ of my rebirth.
I had no options. There was only one choice.
Here in Alberta, the children and I were in the middle of a heat wave, but in Saskatoon, he was experiencing the “best days” of his life. After almost losing him weeks before, when his mental health took a deep dive to rock bottom, putting us at risk, I encouraged him to go to the environment in which he thrived. There, with his extended family, was a place where his wife and children would not be, just as he desired it to be.
On June 17th, with a one-way ticket, I dropped him off at the bus stop.
I was overwhelmed, frustrated, and burnt out. Three days later, on June 20th, with five kids buckled into their booster seats, I drove six hours without A/C in my van to convince my husband he needed to come home.
Upon arrival at 2 pm, I reached my breaking point. I confronted my husband, who was in a deep sleep and sprawled across his cousin’s basement couch.
Trembling, the ground beneath me became eggshells—the floor on which our relationship was founded. “You need to come home immediately.”
With grog, he sat up and replied, “Breanna, what are you doing here?”
The conversation traveled outside. I yelled in his face, begging him to come home because five little humans and a wife needed him.
Taking his side, his aunt called me crazy. Though it was a wasted breath, I explained to his family that, in my desperation, I had closed my day home for two weeks and that he had walked out of our front door weeks before, leaving me clueless about his destination. After searching back roads, fearing the worst, scanning trees for ropes, I found him walking barefoot on the side of the highway, headed towards Saskatchewan.
I had exhausted the health services within my reach. My stepdad and mother cut their summer vacation short and drove 12 hours home to care for my children while I poured the last of my human tank into getting my husband much-needed help. Saskatoon was my last hope, or so I thought.
A mere couple of weeks before, with an ungodly amount of adrenaline, my 119 lbs body kicked in the bedroom bathroom door, where, on the other side, I found him in the middle of a suicide attempt. While five children played downstairs, I was witnessing the life drain from my husband’s body.
I cut him down.
We stayed in Saskatoon for six days. He begged me, too. He said he “needed me.”
Over the six days, I witnessed him in a way I had never seen before.
He was smiling.
Amidst the pandemonium, I miraculously managed to do interviews for local and national media outlets interested in our cult story. Another cause of horrific contention. With $5.00 to our name, I was doing everything I could to try to grow our financial situation to a healthy state. Apparently I was the problem for doing so.
I knew that if I wanted to keep our family together, I would have to uproot my life in Alberta, leave my support system and move. He did not find happiness with me or the children but through sickness and in health, right? I convinced myself that if he just stayed on his medication and was surrounded by his aunts, uncles and cousins, life would be my happily ever after.
Returning home with four children, we had set our plans as he kept our oldest with him. I would parent four while running the day home and packing up the house. At the end of July, he would travel back here with his cousins and rent a U-Haul, and we would wave goodbye, with a fresh start awaiting us in the flatland.
Eight days later, on July 3rd, my phone rang. It’s his Aunt.
“Good morning. I am concerned about your son. He is being carted all over. It is not good for him to be subjected to all of this dysfunction. We will meet you halfway so you can pick him up. Maybe don’t tell your husband about this.”
Simultaneously, my freshly celebrated two-year-old was covered from head to toe in a rash. Assured it was a heat rash due to the heat wave, I made plans to pick up my son.
Overnight, she took a turn for the worse. Now unable to walk or move her right shoulder, I knew something was wrong.
My mom took my place and drove three hours to the halfway point to pick up my son.
On July 4th, 2021, after dropping off 3 of the kids at my best friend’s place, with my toddler screaming in my lap and my 4 yr old by my side, at the local children’s hospital, we sat, secluded away from the waiting room, awaiting the blood test results. At 9:30 pm, when I didn’t think I could take on anything more, we were admitted for a hospital stay that would last nine days.
My stepdad and mom arrived at 10:30 pm to pick up my four-year-old as I sent text messages to my husband begging him to come home as our baby girl had just been diagnosed with a blood infection.
After writing a plea on social media asking anyone to step forward to help care for my other four children, he scraped $50 for a bus ticket home. The following morning, as I left my baby in the hospital, I raced home to pack backpacks, drop my children off at strangers' houses, and pick up my husband at the bus stop.
There was no time to get emotional. It was one foot in front of the other; what other choice was there?
As we approached the hospital, after twenty minutes of his anger attacks against his family and me, with the vehicle moving, he jumped out. Just a couple of blocks from, he headed towards a high-level bridge. I feared another suicide attempt was about to take place.
Parked behind an apartment building, I called my mom, screaming.
“ CALL THE POLICE BRE, NOW!!”
Six minutes from the call to my mom, a multitude of firefighters, police officers, and paramedics raced to the bridge where I feared my husband’s body would be found. A search and rescue boat launched into the river, too.
He wasn’t there.
My phone rang.
“He has been found in the hospital. All the best.”
The hallways on the floor we were admitted to were lined with police officers. I reached for the hospital ward doors, only to find them locked. I turned back to see a police officer sitting with my husband, deep in conversation. With permission, after making known who I am, the doors unlocked for me to enter my daughter’s hospital room. Cops filled the ward.
After speaking with my husband, the officer spoke with me. At the end of our conversation, he spoke words that changed everything.
“ Four years ago, I was in the same spot he is now. As hard as it is, he can only help himself.”
Following safety protocol, my husband was not allowed to stay at the hospital with us. Over the next few days, I had to beg, plead and prove that he would not be a safety risk to those around us.
Per the officer's advice, he walked down to the emergency room to check himself in. As I waited with him, he grew increasingly angry and up and left.
He drove home, and upon his arrival, as he sat down to play video games, the following text message I received from him was,
“ Breanna, this is the state you keep the house in????”
Even though my life had been flipped upside down and was disintegrating with every step I took, I wrote back,
“I am sorry. I will do better.”
So powerful...you are an amazing, strong woman. Only the best to you and your children ❤️.
Biggest hugs ❤️