Day thirty-five: how much longer?
On Sunday 9 August I spoke with my mother for a good ten minutes — the first direct contact after a week of unanswered attempts. She was clear-minded, her breathing heavier than before. Her question was the same as in the first week: how much longer are they going to hold me here?
After a week in which the ward telephone rang without being answered, direct contact came about again today: a good ten minutes, on a Sunday, within the standing arrangements.
She was clear-minded. She knew what day it was, she knew how long she has been there, and she said exactly what she meant. Her breathing sounded heavier than in the earlier calls — she suffers from severe COPD; that has been stated on this site from day one.
And she was deeply unhappy. She asked me again the question she has been asking since the first week, now on the thirty-fifth day without an answer: how much longer? How much longer will she be held in the closed facility against her will? She wants out — not someday, not in due course, but as soon as possible. Those are not my words. It is what she herself said to me, clearly and unmistakably — as she says it to everyone who speaks with her.
I had to answer her that I do not know. After thirty-five days, neither she nor the family has been shown on what grounds, or on whose authority, she is being held. The detention order and the medical statement have not been provided. Requests for information are refused with an appeal to privacy legislation. I told her that every available route toward her return is being pursued, and that it is going more slowly than hoped — more slowly than she deserves. What else is under way is in the file.
One thing I promised her, and I repeat that promise here, in the place where everything is recorded: I will not stop until she is out. Back to her own home — or to a place of her own choosing. Not a place chosen for her.
This conversation, too, has been recorded in the file: date, time, course, and her own words. Earlier this week the facility was asked in writing to safeguard the daily calling moment; today the line opened. Whether it does so again tomorrow remains to be seen — and will be recorded.
This is day thirty-five. A woman of eighty-three, clear in mind and heavy of breath, is asking how much longer she has to wait. I write down what happens, because my mother cannot — and because a day will come when people ask how this was allowed to happen.
We are not done.