It’s been a long day. One of those days that knocks the wind out of your sails. It started a few weeks ago, really. My Littley (my six foot two, fifteen year old littley) called me up to his bedroom, in a way he hadn’t done since he was a small boy. I ran, the panic in his voice making me think he had fallen, hurt himself. Turned out, he wanted to talk. So I sat on the end of the bed, expecting to hear another overlong description of his new favourite game, or a rant about one of the teachers at school. Instead, he told me he was scared. That he had been seeing things, people, people who weren’t really there, who disappeared as quickly as they had come. He was hearing people call his name, felt he was being watched. And there were voices. Telling him to do things. Silly things, like making people laugh, but if he didn’t do it, the voices became angry.
I listened. I asked him what he wanted to do. Told him that perhaps we needed to talk to someone else, a doctor, someone who might have a better idea of what was going on. He wasn’t sure. So we agreed that if he changed his mind, if he felt worse, then we would go together.
Last week, he asked me to make that appointment. We saw our GP, a lovely man, who also listened, didn’t mock, and said he felt he needed to refer us to someone more specialised. And so today, we saw a psychiatrist. Who has started him on medication, arranged for him to have a CT scan on thursday, and wants a further consultation the same day.
Littley feels better already, for having spoken about these concerns, and for the positive reaction he has received. I feel as if the ground has just been pulled from under me. Angry with myself for being complacent, for being so wrapped up with my own stupid brain blip that I hadn’t realised he was struggling. For thinking that I could sit back, take my eye off the ball for a while. My two older boys are both dyslexic, and I battled fiercely to stop them being written off as slow and lazy. My daughter developed a rare form of epilepsy at the age of eight, and underwent five years of invasive dental surgery to correct her misaligned jaw. We came through all this, and I allowed myself to breath out. Littley appeared to have developed unscathed, and is a high achiever at school, with the world at his fingertips. Now I am worried sick that it might all be snatched away. So once again I am donning my battle armour.
Torn-Apart lifted my soul a little. We are a strange pair, sharing a slightly different view of the world from most. He said that maybe Littley can just see the gap in between. Made me feel more hopeful, somehow. It reminded me of when Littley was much younger, probably not much older than two. He came into the kitchen as I was preparing dinner, and told me his date of birth. It struck me as a very odd thing for such a small child to know, and so I asked if he had been doing a timeline at nursery.
“No, Mummy,” came the reply, “my ghost just told me.”
I had been considering what to post for the Weekly Photo Challenge, the theme of which is Art, and our concept of it. This evening it struck me that my children are my work of art, and nothing else will ever surpass them.