My daughter, London Izabella-Ryén Gadd, was only 12 years old when her life was taken by a series of failures — medical failures, mental health system failures, social media failures, and human failures. She tragically died from an overdose of pills, shortly after being prescribed an SSRI.

London was a bright, tender, artistic, deeply empathetic child, attuned to the feelings of those around her. She saw the world with an intensity that made her special and vulnerable at the same time. London loved her family deeply and cherished our time together, especially family trips — Mexico held her heart in a way few places ever did. She dreamed of the future, wanting to join the Air Force one day and become a commercial pilot. She was loved immensely.

London loved to read and draw, to create, to make people laugh. Soccer was a constant in her life; she played year-round, giving her whole heart to the game. London loved so deeply. She felt so deeply. And because she felt so much, she struggled.

But she tried. My God, she tried. And every time she reached for help, the very systems meant to protect children either pushed her aside, misled us, or made decisions that put her in danger.

This is London’s story. This is the truth of what happened to my little girl.

Before Everything Changed

Early in 2023, London began struggling with anxiety and low moods, so her doctor prescribed Wellbutrin. London immediately told me she didn’t like how it made her feel. We stopped it together and turned toward vitamins instead. Even then, she knew her own body better than the adults prescribing to her.

By October, she was overwhelmed. A note expressing hopelessness fell out of her pocket at school, and within hours she was admitted to Pine Rest for crisis care. I believed she was safe. But the first cracks in the system were already showing.

Pine Rest told me London “had to be on something for a few days” before they could release her, a statement that felt less like medical guidance and more like a threat. In the days leading up to that, Pine Rest called me every day, pressuring me to start her on medication. Each time, I refused. I told them we were focusing on vitamins and nutritional support, and that they appeared to be helping.

It wasn’t until I was told she could not be released without being “on something” that they placed her on 5 mg of Prozac. London took it for five days before telling me she hated how it made her feel. I trusted her, and I stopped it.

The next day, Pine Rest sent her to the Department of Human Services for counseling — despite their knowledge that our insurance would prevent DHS from treating her. We waited two hours only to be turned away. I panicked, desperately calling everywhere until we found a counselor in St. Johns. Accessing care had already become a maze of dead ends and contradictions.

Still, London tried. Still, she asked for help.

The Beginning of the End

In July of 2024, London told me she needed help again. I contacted Pine Rest, and they confirmed bed availability. However, they suggested we take her away for a family weekend up north first, to try and do a “reset.” It didn’t help.

On July 8th, London texted me on the ride home from the family trip, asking to go back to Pine Rest. She was admitted that night. Within twelve hours of her arrival, the Pine Rest psychologist called me, repeating the same line: “She has to be on something for a few days before we can release her.”

He wanted to prescribe her Prozac again. He talked me into giving it to her, saying it was the safest drug out there and it was an “extremely low dose” of only 10 mg. But the truth recorded in her medical file was 20 mg — double what I was told.

Her counselor had also told me, a week prior, that it was “time to put London on something,” and they coordinated with Pine Rest. No one discussed safer options. No one warned me about the black box warning for suicidal ideation. No one explained the well-known risk window in the first 3-4 weeks. Instead, I was reassured at every turn.

I trusted them. I wish I hadn’t.

London’s Last Weeks

When I picked London up from Pine Rest on July 16th, she seemed happy. She wanted sushi. She laughed. She hugged her friend Amanda at dinner. But her father aggressively demanded she leave with him, even waiting in our driveway without my knowledge. That environment was already contributing to her distress.

Still, there were moments of connection — and I cling to them now.

While we were up north at our property preparing for my wedding, London asked to cuddle with me for three nights straight. She even wanted to sleep next to us on our wedding night. My heart aches knowing now what she was silently needing: protection, connection, reassurance. I would give anything to go back and keep her right there beside me.

When we returned home after the wedding, she was full of life — jumping on the trampoline, shoes kicked off, laughing. It felt like a turning point. It wasn’t.

The Night Everything Broke

On July 30th, London stayed at her father’s house. She had pills (a bottle of Wellbutrin and some baby aspirin she had found) and plans to take them. She Snapchatted friends until late into the night, telling them what she was going to do. At 1:20 AM, she even reached out to her counselor for help, but the counselor never told us. Never called, never intervened.

This was three weeks to the day since London had started Prozac — the exact timeframe where suicidal thoughts are known to emerge or worsen in children.

The next day, London laughed and played with her grandparents, seeming completely normal and full of joy.

That evening, around 8:15 PM, London hugged me tightly, telling me how much she loved and missed me — a precious moment I will forever cherish. I didn’t know she was saying goodbye.

When I returned to her room a little while later, I found her lying on the floor, in pain, sobbing, “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it.” She told us she had taken pills, but said she wasn’t trying to hurt herself — she just wanted to hurt her stomach. A 12-year-old doesn’t understand the magnitude of actions like that. She didn’t understand that pills could kill her.

I was told later that she had waited to come home from her dad’s house because she knew she would be safe with me — that I would react, protect her, that her mom would keep her safe. I tried, but I couldn’t. It’s hard when you and your child walk into a hospital believing she will be safe, and instead, they let her die.

The ER That Failed to Save Her

In panic, we rushed her to the Owosso Memorial Hospital, arriving around 10:07 PM. We informed the staff that London had taken pills, but they told us to wait in the waiting room, which felt agonizing.

After what seemed like an eternity, they began to assess her condition. I repeatedly asked if they were going to pump her stomach or administer activated charcoal, but I was told they no longer did that. “Pumping stomachs is considered ‘old school,’ but doing nothing is ‘new school’,” the doctor said, adding: “I don’t even think we have charcoal in this hospital.”

These statements were not just callous, they were medically negligent. Stomach pumping and activated charcoal are standard, time-critical treatments for pediatric overdoses.

An ambulance arrived at 11:05 PM, yet they never placed her in it. They kept saying they were getting her ready, but nothing was happening. Staff never told us she was in danger. They never acted urgently.

London asked me to get in bed with her, and we cuddled as I sang “You Are My Sunshine” to calm and comfort her.

Shortly after midnight, London began to hallucinate, seeing bubbles in the sky.

At 12:29 AM, she started seizing and went into cardiac arrest. The medical team administered anti-seizure medication but informed us that her condition was critical. Despite my desperate pleas, they insisted that pumping her stomach was unnecessary. I felt helpless as I argued with the medical staff, but my cries for urgency went unheard.

The doctor was in the hallway while they were intubating London in attempts to stop her seizures. I had been looking up side effects of the pills she had taken and asked the doctor if it could affect her heart. The doctor said no.

Seconds later, London coded for the first time.

I was pushed out of the emergency room, falling to my knees in prayer. Moments later, the ambulance team came to say they had a pulse, but we were left in a state of uncertainty.

By 2:25 AM, I learned that London had coded four times. The doctors struggled to stabilize her; they needed to transfer her to U of M hospital. As I was allowed to see her, my heart broke. I saw her being given chest compressions and realized the gravity of the situation.

At 2:39 AM, my daughter — my baby — died.

My world ended in that moment.

What I Learned After Her Death

Only after her funeral did the horrifying truth unravel:

• Prozac is known to dramatically increase suicide risk in the first weeks — a fact no one warned us about. The Pine Rest psychiatrist never disclosed the black box warnings associated with Prozac. An informed consent form was signed in my name that I never saw — it was never explained or discussed with me. There was no follow-up medication monitoring after Prozac was started.
• London was diagnosed with suicidal ideation at Pine Rest, but the diagnosis was changed to “no harm to self” when insurance denied coverage.
• London had reached out to her counselor almost 18 hours before she died. The counselor never contacted us.
• She also reached out to friends nearly 30 hours before she died.
• The hospital contacted Poison Control the night she died, but no recommendations were relayed to us.
• CPS had been called twice about her father and took no action.
• Her digital conversations showed a child drowning silently beneath the surface, hiding her pain from adults.

Every system that could have saved her failed her.

The Mission Born From My Grief

I refuse to let London’s death be dismissed or forgotten.

To uncover the truth, I have turned to Dr. Selma Eikelenboom, an internationally recognized forensic medical doctor, expert in pathology, toxicology, and medically disputed deaths. She is helping me investigate how exactly London died, what medical decisions contributed to her death, and whether London had pharmacogenetic vulnerabilities — such as being a poor metabolizer — which could have made Prozac toxic in her system.

I am determined to understand everything the system refuses to acknowledge.

London’s death revealed catastrophic failures in mental health prescribing, informed consent, ER emergency protocol, counseling responsibility, CPS responsiveness, social media harms, medication monitoring, and genetic screening for drug metabolism.

This is why I am fighting for London’s Law — a law that would require:

• Non-drug treatments FIRST
• Root-cause evaluation and correction of biological and nutrient deficiencies before psychiatric intervention
• Mandatory pharmacogenetic testing BEFORE psychiatric prescriptions
• Black box warning counseling for every parent
• Multiple professional sign-offs before any SSRI is given to a minor
• Standardized overdose protocol in ERs
• Greater accountability in youth mental health care

What happened to London also led me to start The London Effect, a nonprofit initiative established to put the principles of London’s Law into practice by addressing root causes of distress in children before a crisis ever occurs. It will support early intervention programs focused on regulation, resilience, and safety; reduce reliance on trial-and-error prescribing; and serve as a bridge between families, clinicians, and policymakers.

My daughter, London, was a bright light with so much potential. I fight now because she cannot. I fight because no other parent should live this nightmare, no other child should follow her path.

I fight because I am — and will always be — London’s mom. Until my last breath, not hers.

The post A Mother’s Story of Love, Loss, and a Fight Born from Tragedy appeared first on Mad In America.

 

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