Hard and Soft Edges, and Claire-Adele

Yesterday was actually worse than I alluded to in my previous post.

I really couldn't grok what was going on until today. I had buried in beneath a layer of anguish about the Fourth of July.

Yesterday, we talked to the Boy's therapist about "After Care," as it is known in the Wilderness business. Where do these kids go when they are done spending seventy days in the desert? That was the topic.

But wait! Before we can start discussing the details of that topic, Jack and I have to write a letter to the Boy telling him we are sending him some type of residential treatment school after Wilderness.

We have to tell him he's not coming home.

We have to write a letter and explain the benefits of further residential treatment and acknowledge the sorrow of him not coming home. Realistically, he might not ever come back home and live under our roof which is soul crushing to me. Yet, that would kind of be the goal: to have him lead a productive and independent life without us needing to support him.

I have to write this letter. Or Jack does. Or we both do. The therapist wants one letter signed by the both of us. More painful and heart-wrenching homework for us from Wilderness.

My mother used to frequently say "This wasn't what I expected." I had always thought that was a selfish expression, as if she believed the world existed to meet her expectations. I have a quote somewhere that reads "Expectations are the root of disappointment." Expect nothing, and you will be fine. That is a bit too nihilistic for me.

But this is not what I expected. I had not expected sending my sixteen year old off into treatment for depression and anxiety. I expected him to be an only child for the next few years while Claire-Adele was off at college. I was looking forward to dinners out with the Boy. He is an omnivore who loves to try new foods, so we could bring him to almost any restaurant in town. He's been to Pair, Frank's Champagne and Oyster Bar, and he loves Piatti, unlike his sister. Plus, Jack and I were the oldest children (which explains a lot about our marriage, by the way) and I wanted to see what it was like to the only child as a teenager. In some ways, I think it would be harder to be under the microscope with nothing else for parents to focus on, or it would be awesome because parents have already gotten one kid out of the house--they might be more chill.

Anyway, I think part of the agony of having parents write the letter to their kids is the agony part. By writing the letter, I have to come to terms with the decision. This is part of my grief and acceptance process.

This is such a bitch. Really. Jack has unlimited ability to endure physical suffering whereas I have excessive capacity to absorb emotional suffering. But this is too much for me. I was devastated and heart-broken when Ada died, but this is harder. Watching my baby be tortured by his own internal dragons (as they call them at Wilderness) is horrible because isn't finite. It just keeps coming, and he has to figure out how to slay those dragons on his own. The best I can do is send to dragon slaying school.

Today I called Claire-Adele to talk about my upcoming trip, and it was so lovely to hear her talk about her day-to-day: her new job at the ice cream place, the music festival she went to, her super religious roommate. It was so nice to get out of my head and into her world for forty-five minutes this morning. Ditto dinner with a work colleague tonight.

The hardest part about living alone during this period is the lack of soft edges. Two weeks after Ada died, Jack and I watched Ruthless People. It was the slow way of reintegrating into the world after tragedy and trauma struck us. We went to the Shedd Aquarium and watched hundreds of second graders on field trips. It was both heart-breaking and healing at the same time. My Fourth of July friend said I need to start creating new memories. It is true I need soft edges, but I need quiet space to grieve.