Yesterday, my oldest son (15 yrs old) got into the car after soccer practice and starts with, “Guess what? I got called out of class today to the counselor’s office to talk about our family’s situation. Apparently, there is something now in the computer system about dad, and the counselors wanted to talk to me about it. They think our entire family needs a support group and gave me some suggestions.” [My husband has been diagnosed with a very rare, terminal brain disease – FTD]
Ummm…. WHAT? After some discussion and suggestion to call the counselor myself, my son says, “Mom. You need to let this one go. You have enough on your plate already.” When exactly did you grow up, son?
At this point, I have no idea who went to the counselors. No one asked my permission. The rational part of my brain knows that this person thought they were trying to help. The emotional part of my brain is hurt and furious.
Curse you for not talking to me first. Curse you for taking this decision away from me. Curse you for blindsiding my son. Curse you for not trusting me with your concern. Curse you making me cry – especially in front of my son. Curse you for setting me back months in my emotional healing. Curse you for betraying my vulnerability in sharing our story. Curse you for now making me worry how my son may be grieving in dangerous or unhealthy ways. Curse you for not giving me the chance to explain this very complex disease to the counselors. Curse you for thinking you know what’s better for my family than me. Curse you for possibly interfering in the building trust between my son and me. Curse you for not allowing my twin sister, my rock, a high school counselor herself from guiding us on how to navigate the school system. Curse you for hurting me. I hurt enough. Curse you.