Lars and I are trying to make a decision. Usually we are good at this. We share a set of values (pretty much) and goals for us and our children, and we even share a taste for some of the same foods. (However, I WILL NOT EVER taste that leftover medley of spaghetti, scrambled eggs, sausage, ketchup, and hot sauce, all covered in cheese, that he tried to coax me to eat last night. Or his famous cheese-peanut butter-mustard-salami-strawberry preserves sandwich. Ugh.) So our decision-making process is usually painless and fast.
But not tonight. Because tonight we need to decide whether to cut back or even to end the intensive emotional health services we've been lucky enough to get for Benjy, courtesy of the Children's Behavioral Health Initiative (CBHI) here in Massachusetts. We got involved with CBHI after Ben left the hospital, and it's been amazing. A whole team of people, comprised of mental health professionals as well as Grandma and Grandpa and some dear, supportive friends, that comes together to brainstorm and execute a plan for Keeping the Boy Afloat. And by extension, keeping the entire Delaunay family above water. It's been a wonderful, amazing thing.
But here's the rub. At this point in time, Ben doesn't want to die. He's got some stuff to live for, and he knows it. Anxiety is not coursing through his body. Sadness isn't, either. Not much. Sure, last night was a bit hairy. But overall he is doing better now than we have EVER seen him. In his short eleven years he has never known the kind of peace he's feeling now. Has never been so OK. And that means when our Intensive Care Coordinator and Family Partner come to the house, there's simply not that much to say. There's no real justification to drag all these lovely people, therapist and school autism specialist and dear friends, out into the dark evening to meet and discuss US, because we are doing so damn well.
This is a good problem to have, no? But I'm afraid to cut loose. Because I don't trust it. Experience has shown us, again and again, that good spells, like good weather, are ephemeral. They don't last. And what if something goes wrong and we need all these great folks, but they're busy on other people's teams and can't get to us for a while? Of course I know that's silly. Someone will be there for us. But how long will it take to get back on board? And will we be able to wait?
It will be late when Lars gets home tonight; he's in crunch mode at work. But I'm going to pull him over to me and offer him a glass of wine, and I'm going to make him help me decide.