Into the Wilderness: Story 20
I held a cup of ice chips in my hand, spooning each glistening piece into my mouth to melt slowly. On the television, Tom the Turkey, the Macy’s Parade mascot, floated by. Chuck lounged in a stiff recliner next to my bed. It was Thanksgiving 2018, and I was waiting for the doctors to clear me for surgery. I was in the hospital.
I was supposed to be on a flight to Utah to visit Catina at her Residential Treatment Center (RTC), where she had been for nearly two months. She had not earned home passes, so we had planned to go to her. We would eat Thanksgiving dinner at her RTC with other families, then spend a few days exploring Salt Lake City. Oh the excitement! Chuck and I had spent only 48 hours with Catina since June, and her sister hadn’t seen her at all.
Two days before leaving, our plans suddenly changed. Feeling achy and nauseous, I went to the doctor who prescribed Tamiflu. But my symptoms worsened, and the evening before our flight, I was in the emergency room with a 104-degree fever and severe abdominal pain. The verdict: gall stone-induced pancreatitis, and I had developed sepsis. I was immediately admitted to the hospital, where I would spend the entire holiday.
So much for seeing Catina.
Everyone cried. In the emergency room, Catina’s sister, unaware of how sick I was, begged the doctor to let me go to Utah. She shook her head “no” as the doctor gently explained the situation.
Chuck and I agonized over how we would tell Catina. She was in a particularly raw and vulnerable place, mourning her wilderness program and struggling to connect with the other girls at RTC. Sadly, her house mother had died during routine surgery a few weeks before. That had compounded Catina’s misery. We alerted Catina’s therapist who got her on the phone. Catina balled, worried I too would die. She would spend the holiday alone at RTC. We would spend it waiting for the sepsis to clear so I could have my gall bladder removed.
No matter the circumstance, this time of year is extraordinarily hard for parents with kids in wilderness therapy, therapeutic boarding school, RTC or any other kind of treatment center. The holidays drive an almost manic desire for perfection based on ideal images portrayed in media. If you’re like me, you plan, you clean, you decorate, you cook. You try to make everyone happy. You strive to maintain traditions, an invisible thread to your own personal history and family across the ages.
But with a child in treatment? As they say here in New Jersey, fuhgeddaboutit.
My best advice: don’t even try. Don’t try to recreate the perfect holiday. You know the one: the one playing out in your head that you agonize to bring to real life.
It’s time for a reset.
Here are your new holiday rules.
The holiday is going to be hard. Whether your child is at home on a pass, deep in the woods writing a letter or eating with you in an unfamiliar Denny’s in an unfamiliar town, the holiday is not going to be what you imagined. Loss will tug at you like undertow in the ocean. You may be jealous of those with “normal” families (ha, normal, right?!). You may be downright angry. It’s ok. Use your DBT skills gained through hours of therapy with your child. DBT has helped you see that two opposing truths can coexist. You can know both that you have taken the very best action for your child AND deeply regret the family separation or shift.
You will likely be tired. Do as little as you can. Wait, what? Yes, I am recommending you don’t bake the 10-pound turkey, clean your floors or even shop. You’ve probably already had to reset those plans anyway because of the pandemic. Take it a step further. Order from a local grocer, restaurant or specialty store. For our first Christmas with Catina in RTC, I ordered everything from Wegmans. I just couldn’t muster the energy to grocery shop, plan menus, sort ingredients and cook- and I love to cook. Instead, I spent as many hours as I could sitting on the couch snuggling with Catina. We only had her home for 72 hours, so just absorbing her physical presence was precious.
It’s also a good time to start something new. Why not? When “normal” has been blown to smithereens, lean in. We used to dress up for holidays. Now, we wear goofy pajamas on Christmas Eve. This small change alone has reduced holiday stress. We laugh at our outfits, lounge around and have fun.
You and your child are probably still in therapy, and possibly dealing with trauma, depression and other mental health diagnoses. This means all won’t go well. You need to accept that issues may flare. Be sure to find time to take care of yourself in whatever way (other than dangerous activities, of course), works for you. Rest. Breathe. Exercise. Journal. Find your centering activity and don’t ignore it or skip it. This could very well be your most important survival tool.
If there’s any planning that is helpful, then it’s planning around how you will handle the difficult moments- and there will be difficult moments. Make your own crisis response plan. I work in public relations, and we plan every possible risk scenario, along with mitigations. I had not applied this skill to my own life, however. When I did, I was able to be prepared. What if Catina had a flashback? We learned from her therapist that rubbing frozen oranges across her back helped. So I put oranges in the freezer. What if we argued? I decided not much was worth arguing about, so I practiced neutral responses, or the simple, “oh, that’s interesting, tell me more.” Practice curiosity and questions rather than declarative statements and accusations. You can ask your teen’s therapist to help you plan. Just make sure you engage your spouse and other children so you can all be prepared.
Know when to call it quits as well. You and your teen could struggle more than you thought. If fighting does escalate, or emotions do overwhelm, it’s ok to take your kid back early. Remember this is a reset, not a performance. Luckily, you have a support system of weekly therapy to help you all process it.
And finally, feel. Just feel. We are used to batting away the tears, swallowing the sadness, pushing down the loss. Don’t. Go in your room, close your door, and let it flow. I’ve often found that letting the emotions out actually makes it easier.
After being hospitalized for six days, I finally got to go home to heal. The holiday wasn’t a celebration or reunion at all. But it did help us know what was really important- being there to support each other. We all got through it, together. And so will you. You will be okay.
Walk the Moon 