He’ll Be Fine

“He’ll Be Fine,” is what many say. And it is very likely they are right. In fact, the probability is quite high that not only will he be fine, but that he’ll even have fun. Lots of it.

Today I dropped off my son at his first overnight sleep away camp for the week. This is understandably tough for any mother. We worry about them, we miss them, we wonder if we packed all they need. We ask questions to ourselves like, Will they make friends? Will they be teased? Will they sit by themselves in the mess hall? All seemingly normal questions and concerns we have as parents.

But when you’re a parent of a child with mental illness, it is different. It is more. It is  everything.  

Because, we also ask ourselves questions like, How will he cope? If he has extreme anxiety, will he run? What will he do if he feels really sad? Will he feel comfortable telling an adult if he is worried about himself? We worry about safety and well being. And not safety as in ‘what happens if he gets a cold or falls off a tire swing?’ We wonder if the teenage camp counselors have ever worked with kids like ours before. We think about how they’ll handle his defiance, should it arise. We think about what might happen if he has an episode and shuts down, refuses to talk and curls up in a ball in the corner of a room, with his hands covering his ears while he rocks himself back and forth.

His summer has been good. He seems to be tolerating his medications and is eating better. His mood has been more stable than we’ve seen in a long while. His eyes sparkle, his laugh is more prevalent and he’s spending more time with friends. ALL GOOD THINGS. But when your living with a mental illness ALL GOOD THINGS do not equal ALL OKAY.

Am I overreacting to him going to sleep away camp? Perhaps. Should I shrug my shoulders and tell myself, ‘He’ll be fine,’ maybe so. But while I tell myself that, I remember times he seemed fine and in a moment, without notice, he wasn’t. I also remember him tying a shirt around his neck or coming home from school with cuts on his wrist. I remember him banging his head over and over on the wall or against the window in the car. I remember the time he was swinging a hammer at his own head wishing himself dead. He was 9.

If you had witnessed these events, would you be able to say, ‘He’ll be fine,’ and leave it there?

When we arrived at camp, you could see some of his anxiety edging in. Most kids I know are at least a little uncomfortable in unknown places and experiences, especially when they include spending several nights away from home. I get that. But you could almost see his nerves fraying as we approached the registration building. A counselor greeted us when we walked in.

“Hi! Welcome to Camp Wapo,” she said, “You can set your bags here and walk into that room to register. Just be sure to bring any money you wish to add to the canteen, along with any medications you need, if you have them.”

I could hear him exhale, almost as if he’d been holding his breath. He’s already sensitive about his medications – often telling me how much he wishes he could just be a normal kid, without them. I unzipped his bag, rustled through some clothes to find the plastic bag with his multiple medications. He lowered his head. You could almost feel the shame radiating off his body. It broke my heart.

After gathering up the bag of medications and zipping his bag closed, we walked through the doors into a big room with multiple tables set up. A – G on the left, H – O in the middle and P – Z on the right. We walked to the right and approached the table. We were lucky, there was only one family in front of us.

“Name please,” the counselor asked as we approached the table. She filed through the papers looking for his registration, “Have you been here before?”

Hands in his pocket, head lowered, feet in a nervous shuffle, he raised his chin slightly so she could hear his hushed answer, “No.”

“Oh! You’ll have so much fun! Welcome!”

“Thank you,” he said, eyes lowered, chin almost touching his chest.

She turned her attention to me, “Medications?”

I handed her the bag. There were four bottles in the bag. Two required, two as needed.

“These are all his?”

“Yes,” I answered, turning to Noah, fully aware that this could be the beginning of a meltdown for him. He hates everything about his meds. And having to talk about them, right there in the open, with a stranger; it could send him spiraling.

“Okay! So first one,” she said, to the young teenager on her left, another camp counselor, who with a Sharpie in hand and a brown paper lunch sack, was the scribe to notate dosages and timeframe each med was to be given.

We went through each medicine. And it was painful. She kept getting confused on what he was supposed to take and when. Meanwhile, the line kept growing behind us. We were holding up the line. I could feel the weight of it, almost like a heavy sack on my back, pushing me over at the waste. I knew he was struggling too. Imagining what the families behind us were thinking. Sheesh, how many meds does this kid take? I wonder what’s wrong with him? How many more do they have to go through?

He’s already embarrassed he has to take any meds at all. To be standing there in line, going through each one, while a line of kids and their parents grew behind us…well, I knew it could be too much for him to handle in the moment. He was quiet. Very quiet. Leaving me to answer all questions asked. I wanted to pull him close, tell him it would be okay. But that would make things worse. Then I’d be embarrassing him on top of it all.

It took a bit, but we finally made it through the process. We walked back out to the lobby, grabbed his gear and headed to his assigned cabin. His silence continued, breaking it only to ask where the cabin was. Together we walked in silence, a heavy veil of fear draping over us. His based likely on whether he’d fit in, will kids think he’s okay, will they talk to him? Mine – much of the same, but also riddled with concerns on his safety and well being. His ability to cope in the safest ways. I know there are adults that stay at this camp. And I’m sure these teenage and young adult counselors are quite capable. Hell, maybe even some of them have experienced what Noah’s been through. But all that in mind, it still felt like I was leaving my baby in the arms of other babes.

I have high hopes that he will enjoy most moments he’s there. I have faith he’s in a good place, with good people. I have hope that he will make it through the week with little to no issues or episodes. But. But – I can’t just say or listen to the words, ‘He’ll be fine,’ and leave it there.

Those three words don’t say enough. Because our journey, our story is that he hasn’t always been fine. We don’t live in the land of negative or presume the past will dictate our future. But what we ask you to try and understand is that our past does influence our future. It does influence how we show up, what we feel, where and what we may fear. And we ask that you respect that. We ask that you have patience with our doubts and cautious optimism.

And we hope that you know how much we appreciate your thoughts, your kindness and your intent to comfort us with your words. Because frankly, in many cases, people say nothing at all. And silence is often worse. But please know this, telling me he will be fine is like telling me he will be President. Could he be? Yes. Of course. But there is no guarantee. And there’s a lot, A LOT of work that needs to happen, every single day, to get him to be President – or to ensure he is fine.

The kid and I both believed going into today, that he would enjoy his time at camp this week. But we also both felt a little nervous. And I think that’s okay too. When my own anxiety started to build this week about camp and my worry and fear started to consume my brain, I had to find something to sooth my mind.

The words of others, ‘He will be fine,’ kept echoing in my mind. But I realized they caused me more anxiety than they did calm. So I searched for something else. Something I felt could be more certain. And I found exactly what I needed.

“He will be loved.”

Because he’s at Bible Camp. And guess what? He will be loved. Perhaps not by the other kids, and maybe not by the counselors, but most certainly by the big man himself. And of course, always…always by me.

God will have his back. God will carry his heart. God will rest his mind.

He will be loved.

And I will be too.