This blog was written by Florence Lee, a guest blogger. Thanks for sharing it with us.
Early one morning, almost before I had time to take my first breath, the telephone rang. My already burdened heart sank deeper into the very pit of my stomach. Was it my son, my sweet forty-two-year-old son, diagnosed with paranoid schizophrenia twenty years back? What now?
It was during his military service, reserve duty, that he went into overwhelm. His experience in Gaza, plus the pressure of college examinations, the suicide of his best friend, the death of his therapist in an airplane crash … need I go on?
I picked up the telephone. His voice was strong. The measure of his mood close to that of his former self.
“I love you, Mom,” he said. “I want to tell you that all you can do is do and hope it will turn out well.”
“Thank you for those wise words,” I answered. “I truly needed them this morning.”
He laughed. “I was talking about myself, not YOU.”
Shortly after, I ate, dressed, and continued to fulfil my plans for the day all the while hoping that the day would go well for both of us, whatever it was that we did.