A Few Days Apart

It has been a few days since I saw Julie because I have been a little unwell and unable to drive to the hospital.  It has not been very nice not having any contact with her, hugging her, holding her hand.  There is no good alternative to real physical contact with your child, especially when she is having difficulty communicating in language.

Being separated, and only having the phone for most of my contact with the hospital, I have had a chance to reflect on how difficult it can be to work out what is actually happening over there.  One night they phone me at about 9 in the evening to tell me that she has self-harmed: the nurse sounds serious and rather worried.  The next day, I phone the consultant, Dr P, who tells me cheerfully that Julie is doing very well, and hasn't self-harmed in a week.  The new medication must be working.  I agree, feeling cheerful for a moment myself, before suddenly recollecting the phone call of the previous night.  "But didn't she cut herself last night?" I ask.  "Oh, I haven't had a report about that." says Dr P, surprised.  In fact she hasn't had reports of any of the self-harm incidents that I know about.

Julie and I exchange phone calls fairly regularly, but the pattern here is just about as confusing: some times she phones up just to ask me to bring something in, and the phone call is very short and functional, at other times she is weeping down the phone. Occasionally, as today, we have quite a nice phone call that is both affectionate and easy-going.

It is probably never easy for parents when children leave home, but if your child is still young and very ill, the separations are very painful.  Your instincts are to get involved but there is a limit to what you can do when your child is in hospital and you are not allowed into the ward itself.  Visits to the hospital can be very frustrating: they are supposed to take place in rooms outside the main ward, but with only two rooms, and a confusing booking process, you sometimes turn up and find that there is nowhere private to go.  It is no substitute for real family life.  After 9 months, the links to family can start to look pretty worn.

I am keen to get Julie home: I am sure that the more time she spends here, the easier it will become.  The more time she spends in the hospital, the stranger home becomes, and the more difficult her trips home seem to be. It is as if she will only feel reassured, and less anxious, if she has a lot more physical contact with us. Forget the hours of family therapy: she needs to sit on our sofa and watch some rubbish TV with us! Once she has woken up in her own bed a few times, I am sure she will begin to enjoy the familiarity of homelife again.  As for us, it is as if we, her home, are living out the homesickness that you might expect she would be feeling for us.  Is there a word for this?