No, he was not cured.


The first time my son was released from a psychiatric hospital after a psychotic attack, a nurse handed him a packet of pills reminding him how important it was to keep taking them even when he felt a bit better. She also told him that he needed to return to the hospital for a check up in a month’s time.

He was 24 years old at the time and had spent many months in that hospital. He’d been in the closed ward for all that time too. As we walked out into the sunshine, I wondered whether he was cured.

During the drive home, I sat next to my husband while David sat behind his Dad, staring obsessively at the people in the cars next to ours whenever we stopped at a red light, saying; “They’re making signs at me.” As we reached home he said; “When I went into the hospital, I didn’t feel well. Today, I feel really ill.”

Our world rotated. No, my son was not cured. I knew that if I wanted some quality of life, I’d have to learn that life was not about waiting for the storm to pass, but about learning to dance in the rain. My husband and I drank coffee in silence then I turned to  him, “Now what?” He hugged me impulsively and said; “We’ll think of something. We always do.”

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