Against Medical Advice Read Free

already admitted,” the man says more strongly. “It happened when he came through that door. Seventy-two hours, no exceptions,” he adds, delivering what to him are just simple facts.
    To me the number of hours — seventy-two — is like a death sentence to be executed in slow motion.
    My father jumps up. “I want to speak to the hospital administrator,” he barks. When the supervisor still doesn’t react, he says, “Let me put it another way. I
demand
to speak to the administrator.”
    The supervisor thinks about it, then shrugs and picks up his phone. In a minute he hands the receiver to my dad.
    My mother and I look at each other nervously. Everything is riding on this next conversation.
    My father takes the phone and tells the administrator what’s going on. He listens for a long time, and my mother and I don’t know what’s being said.
    “There has to be a way,” he says finally, obviously very frustrated. “What if someone came here by mistake, like we have?”
    The debate continues, and he’s beginning to lose his temper, which isn’t like him.
    “Even a criminal can post bond and get out of jail. What do you want me to do, call a lawyer?”
    My father keeps going at the administrator. It seems hopeless. Then, all at once, he stops talking. “Yes, I understand. Thank you. I will.” He hangs up and turns to us. “Maybe” is all he says.
    Mom and I are both surprised when we hear who he’s calling next.
    “Dr. Meyerson! Thank God you picked up.”
    Dr. Meyerson is my current therapist. It’s an absolute stroke of luck that he has answered his phone this late in the evening. We usually get his answering machine.
    “We have an emergency here, and you’re our only hope,” my father continues.
    The two of them talk for a few more minutes as he explains the situation.
    After a while he lets out a deep breath.
    “Say it just like that?” he asks. “Exactly that way?” He nods to us, then thanks Dr. Meyerson and hangs up.
    My father turns to the supervisor and announces defiantly, “I request the release of my son
AMA
.”
    The man cocks his head suspiciously but doesn’t respond. Not a word.
    My father repeats the special code letters, this time as an order. “We are leaving the hospital with our son AMA. I’m told you understand what that means.”
    In a moment, the supervisor nods reluctantly, then gets on the phone again.
    While he’s talking to someone high up, my father explains, “
AMA
is an acronym for
against medical advice
. It’s a legal code that allows the hospital to go around the law. It means that we understand the hospital advises against it, and it shifts responsibility to us — the parents — and our therapist. It lets the hospital off the hook in case a patient . . . harms himself or something.”
    “You know I wouldn’t do that,” I reply, to reinforce his decision.
    “It’s the only way we have a chance of getting you out of here.”
    “And what if we’d never learned about AMA?” my mother asks. “Or if Dr. Meyerson wasn’t around or didn’t pick up?”
    My father shakes his head. “We were lucky. Very lucky.”
    I study my father’s face. He looks older than I’ve ever seen him. He’s worn out. It’s been as long a day for him as for me.
    “Sorry, Dad.”
    He nods, but he isn’t happy. “You know that we haven’t fixed what we came here for.”
    It’s not a question.
    A long time later, the nightmare is finally ending. The supervisor is still waiting for whatever approvals he needs. My breathing has almost returned to normal.
    Eventually someone comes into the ward with papers and the required signatures. The supervisor gets his key, and the thousand-pound door swings open again.
    It’s been five hours since we entered the hospital. I walk out the front door without looking back.
    The ride home to New Jersey is silent. No one has the energy to say anything, and nothing we can talk about seems important compared to what’s just happened.
    My