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The relief at entrusting Greta’s care to the staff at Huntington House would take months to sink in. I was at the end of my rope and wanted the best for my daughter, while at the same time I felt guilty and wondered if I was letting her down.
But at Huntington House, the compassionate staff and organizational focus on behaviour gave me comfort that I was doing the right thing. Within weeks, Greta’s violent rages had decreased so much that I knew something good was happening.
That is not to say there weren’t trials along the way. There was no shortage of seemingly dire issues and grievous missteps by staff and administration. (I say this tongue-in-cheek because, in hindsight, my parental anxiety and guilt greatly coloured my perception of events. Thank God the agency had been down this road with parents before, and everyone was patient with me.)
As the weeks went on and she settled into her new home, Greta seemed more stable and happier than she had in years. She was generally calmer and less anxious, had begun to implement skills to help regulate her emotions, and was functioning on a higher level than ever before. I even began to see her sense of humour on a regular basis.
I still spent way too much time feeling guilty, and I missed her a lot. But I have to admit, as I slowly processed the experience and my emotions around it, I began to realize how much more functional our day-to-day lives were. I began to appreciate the “normalcy” of family life. I began to see how maybe this was the best decision for all of us.
However, after the initial raw emotions were processed and the guilt was (somewhat) assuaged, I found that grief about her out-of-home placement would sneak up and land on me like a ton of bricks, much like it did in the early years of Greta’s diagnosis.
Case-in-point. It was a few days before Valentine’s Day and I was visiting Greta. We decided to take a walk to Dollarama to pick out some valentines for her classmates. There were a few “bumps” during the outing – not the least of which was her dropping her half-eaten pear on the sidewalk and insisting she could still eat it.
By the time we got back to Huntington House, she had been escalating over the course of the last half hour and was nearing the “point of no return” (aka a complete meltdown/tantrum). No sooner did we return to the house than… cue the screaming… the meltdown hit. Knowing it could be an hour before she recovered and that I was due home for my other daughter in 30 minutes, I handed things off to the staff and headed out the door.
I got in my car. I sat for a moment. I burst into tears.
I cried because I was so relieved that it wasn’t me who had to manage that meltdown. I cried because I felt exhausted from managing Greta’s emotions for the duration of our outing. I cried because I was glad I didn’t have to be the one to facilitate getting Greta to fill out the names on a whopping six damn valentines over the next couple of days. And I felt guilty for feeling all of that.
This process has had a lot of intense ups and downs, and it can be exhausting. I've had enough of the roller coaster for now. I'd like a turn on the little boats that coast around and around the pond in gentle circles... for a while, anyway.