Persistence
November 3, 2015 ~ I get a lot of comments about our willingness to make a 3-1/2 hour round trip every day to see my son in the hospital. For context, we've been doing this for 7 months. I've put 23,000 miles on my car. I've watched spring turn to summer. Summer turn to fall. And in a moment it will be winter and we'll have traveled through four seasons.
To be clear, I'm not looking for recognition. It's a choice I make that wouldn't be right for everyone. And I am blessed to have the means and job flexibility to be able to do it.
But sometimes the comments I get can, surprisingly, be a little judgmental. For example, one person suggested that I should "move on with my life".
I know she was trying to be helpful, but it felt as if she was saying that it's too big a sacrifice to consistently demonstrate that I'll never leave him to battle this alone.
That my life is more important than his life.
That he isn't worth it.
That it's hopeless and I should walk away from it.
I didn't know how to help her understand that this IS my life. And I'm trying, as she recommended, and as best I can, to move on with it.
Honestly, I don't know how to do this differently, even if I thought I should. Schizophrenia is a life-threatening illness and if he was hospitalized for any other life-threatening illness I'd be with him every moment I could. How is this abnormal?
Steven Curtis Chapman has written a beautiful song that promises, "Tomorrow morning, if you wake up and the sun does not appear, I will be here. Tomorrow morning, if you wake up and the future is unclear, I will be here."
Yes, that's what I want to say. That's what I want him to know.
When I show up, sometimes he's glad to see me. Other times he's angry or irritable or sullen and he sits in the corner of the sofa with his headphones on. On occasion it's a good day, and we have a meaningful conversation or share laughs over a movie.
But usually we just sit quietly. He listens to music and I read, until he says "I'm done". Then I gather up everything, exchange a hug if he's willing, see him back to the unit, and turn the car north for home with all my thoughts, fears, sadnesses, and hopes to keep me company.
On several occasions he's walked out on me after only a few minutes so there's no visit at all. A few times he's told me not to ever come back. This has happened even when I've called him to see if he wants a visit. Such is the nature of this illness. When it's raging you're never sure if you're talking to the illness or talking to the person who suffers from it.
When I've made the trip only to turn right back around and go home, I cry a little (but just a little; I don't want to get stuck there), treat myself to a chocolate milkshake for the ride home, and tell myself that it's OK. I'll be back tomorrow and maybe things will be a little better.
My heart tells me to soldier on because it's what I think I should do as his mom. And because one day he just might look at me with those beautiful green eyes, clear and bright and untroubled by demons, give me that lazy smile, and say, "Thanks, Mom, for never giving up on me."