Today we put my son in the NeuroPsychiatric InPatient Unit at Sheppard Pratt for the second time in less than a year. My sister told me I should take some time for my husband, Aidan and myself. It's time to regroup, recharge, recover from the past months that have led up to his hospitalization. I love her for this. It's really good advice.
At the same time, however, it's just so hard to do.
My days are filled with other things, now that Conor is in the hospital. There are the crying jags during the day, which ruin my make-up so the tedious re-application all through the day gets a bit much. Thank god I'm not a celebrity, or the paparazzi would have a field day.
Then there's the staring blankly at the wall, wondering how we got here and why the hell do men keep tweeting pictures of their penises to women who don't seem remotely interested? I mean, hello, what happened to buying a girl some dinner first?
I can't figure out the carpool line at my younger son's new camp. I've signed him up for a bjillion hours of camp this summer because I didn't know what was going to happen with his brother. These other women in line get really pissed off if you don't know the carpool line etiquette. Especially the Grandmas. (I found this out the hard way.)
There's all the time I spend feeling guilty for wanting to read a book. So I re-organize the closets. Again. For the millionth time, my husband is left yelling "Where the hell are my boxers, Alisa, did you move them AGAIN?".
What can I say, honey, I'm a "producer" personality, I have to have SOMETHING to do. I can't just, you know, sit by the pool and read a book, can I?
What I can tell you is that I have already emailed a few of my closest girlfriends and have suggested a night out. I think I need it. Luckily for me, Sue, Laura, and Lize are always up for a drink.
We don’t even need an excuse, baseball/lacrosse/soccer/husband schedules allowing.
Visiting hours are from 5:30pm – 7:30pm, so I have lots of time to nurse the hangover I have from drinking two glasses of red wine the night before. What can I say? Two glasses of Bogle’s Pinot Noir make me feel like I’m wrapped in cotton and life doesn’t hurt as much as it did before. (I know, two glasses=lame ass. At least I’m a cheap date.)
In all honesty, admitting my son to the psychiatric ward of a hospital is one of the hardest things I will ever have to do in my life. Even if I know he needs it. (He needs it. Oh boy, does he need it.)
In addition to the sheer emotional hurting, there are psychiatrist meetings, blood tests, medical procedures, and having to assuage the pain of all of our extended family. Much as we may feel differently, we don’t have a monopoly on loving Conor.
There are logistical problems, camp to alert, school to inform, therapists to manage, and questions about what to do next.
There’s the wondering and worrying about what will come next. What will Conor be like when he gets out? Will he be on more medicine? Less medicine? God forbid, the SAME medicine?
Will he be better? The same? Different?
Where do we go from here? Does anyone know? Because I’m tired of trying to figure it out.