That Old Familiar Dance

The first day she comes home to me she is broken, frozen, unable to speak.  She is frightened of her own shadow.  Alone for two minutes in the bathroom, she smashes a vase to pieces and tries to cut her wrists with the shards.  Her father is torn up by anger and despair.  He has taken time off work to take her to the seaside for a few days at the end of the week: how can he take her away if she is in this state?  We all agree it is too soon to even stay the night at home; I drive her back to the hospital after dinner through the beautiful summer evening, past ripening fields.  We drive in total silence.

The second day she comes home she speaks a little.  She stays beside me throughout the day.  We paint, we cook, we ride our bikes, we play card games, we watch familiar things on TV.  We have already agreed she will return to the hospital in the evening, and with this acknowledgement we relax a little.  That evening, just before dinner, she brings out a notebook and we write out two things: the first is a negative thought that haunts her, the second is a positive thing that contradicts it.  Is it true that no one likes her?  No, because she has friends that stick by her, and family that love her, no matter what.  She agrees that it is nice to have this written down.  Joe drives her back to the hospital to stay the night as agreed. I suggest we keep the options open on the holiday: it is not far away; he could come back.

On the third day Rhiannon takes her into town for a little gentle shopping and a change of scene.  I meet up with them for lunch and it is a huge relief to see Julie coping well with this.  She declares that she is going to try to stay overnight tonight at last, but by the time evening comes it is more difficult than she imagined: she is tired and feeling wobbly.  She manages it only by willpower - a grim determination not to be beaten.  She phones the hospital for support and we go through the usual slow but steady evening routines to calm her down.  We eat, we play some games, she has a shower, a hot milky drink, watches TV.  We never leave her alone for a second, and thanks to Zopiclone, sleep comes quicker than expected.

She has been waking in the night, and we are afraid of that because last time it gave her time alone to work out how to break into the medicine cabinet.  Of course we have increased security, but it is always limited by our own need to be able to access her medication reliably and often.  We have other preparations in place: I sleep in the spare room next to hers with the door open.  All night, Joe and I hardly sleep.  There is only one interruption: falling into an uneasy doze, I wake at 4am convinced that I have heard Julie calling out.  I rush through and throw my arms round her; Julie wakes up, sleepy and confused; Joe hurries in ready to get dressed and hurtle through the night to A&E.  But it was just my silly dream, and fortunately she falls asleep again quickly.

On the fourth day, Julie has slid backwards into depression and cannot be prised loose.  She spends the afternoon in the hospital, and the staff phone to warn me that she is feeling suicidal (which was obvious, in any case).  We do our usual rounds of locking up or tucking away everything known to be a risk object, which now includes our vases.  She returns home for the evening, tremulous, weeping, inconsolable, hardly able to speak.  We repeat the heavily supervised routine to prepare her for her second night at home.  Once she is sound asleep Joe and I consider our options, and that holiday looks very unlikely.

Waking on the fifth day she suddenly looks and sounds better again.  She returns to the hospital where the staff take her out for a walk in the fresh air.  She is able to open up to one of the doctors, and explore some of the feelings of the last week.  Something unlocks and that evening we sit in the garden in the warm evening sunshine and chat for some time.  Joe is not at home for the evening, but I tentatively pull out a notepad and we prepare a list of things that she would like to take on the holiday.  Be realistic, I tell her, remember it may rain, you may have an argument with your dad, I will not be there, you will need a backup plan.  For the first time this week the trip to the seaside starts to look as if it might happen after all.

But why am I not going to the seaside, and why should Joe be managing on his own?  The answer is that I am taking Julie's brother away on a city break, just the two of us, to give him some time of his own with me.  I knew that the days and nights leading up to a holiday with Julie might be very stressful, with us unable to say even at the last minute whether we would be going, or who would be going, and unfortunately I was right.  I didn't want to have a family holiday punctuated with crises and visits to some local A&E department.  I wanted to spare her brother this time and, let's be honest, I wanted a break too.  We have now been in crisis for two years.