I can't begin to describe my emotions right now. You name it, I'm feeling it. A mixture of fear, anger, sadness, love, hope, and sweet, sweet joy. My son is coming home. In my fantasy, he will rejoin our family willingly, participating in activities and fun and accept the limits we have set for him. He will let me mother him without fear or resentment, allow me to care for him and support him in all the ways a mother should. He'll work to continue to build a healthy relationship with his father and his sister. He will dedicate himself to treatment and do the best of his ability to be cooperative and follow the plan in place for him. He will do these things with the hope and understanding and trust that they are what is best for him, his opportunity to learn life skills that will allow him to function as a full and healthy human being.
That is my fantasy. My reality is full of fear that I am trying desperately to balance out with hope and good wishes. I don't know how he will do. I know he misses us desperately and I hope that is enough to help him to begin on the right path.
He was home this weekend for an overnight pass. We had some good conversations on that pass and he was cooperative and sweet. I remember thinking, "If all else fails, at least I have had this day with him to hold on to...to remember who he is and can be, and to rejoice in it." I intend to savor that moment, to love it, to embrace it when things inevitably get rough or go downhill. Those moments that prove my child has the ability to be all the things I desperately cling to--loving, content, functional. That we can connect on a parent/child level. Those wishes and moments keep me going.
I don't know how he will do once he is home. No one knows. But I will hope and pray with every ounce of my being for his healing. I'm just one mom on a path of dreams for my child, that he can find the things that come so easily to other kids. And I won't give up the fight.