When our son was ill, my husband and I thought that our love would turn this thing around, but love was not the answer. neither were my tears but I was as powerless to stop then as I was to stop the waves from breaking on the shore. My husband left for work at 7 a.m. and on his return, spent as much time as he could with our son while I spent my time searching for the cause of paranoid schizophrenia.
And I read up about it.
The sun set and the light faded while I sat on our patio and merged with the darkness. Winter was around the corner and the smell of woodsmoke was in the air, reminding me or happier times. I felt a passionate desire to cling to the last days of the fall, afraid of what was awaiting us.
Then I went indoors and turned on Mozart’s Eine Kleine Nachtmusik . My son’s lonely figure was always hovering nearby and prevented me from enjoying anything much. My husband joined me. “I used to be so happy,” I told him. “Now, I’m afraid to have fun as that takes me out of myself and re-entry into the real world is too difficult to contemplate.
The same morning, an acquaintance had crossed the street when she saw me coming; a woman whose child had played in our house, spent hours with David doing all kinds of things together, and it was so hurtful. What had I done to her? Nothing! All that had changed was that my son had been given the diagnosis of schizophrenia. Was that a reason to ignore me when I needed more support, more affection, more love?