Someone I love and respect recently told me that they did not fully understand why I felt as I do about Fiona and the need to be with her at the holidays. To me, it comes down to a promise. I have always felt that when I signed on as a parent, that meant that I would be there, emotionally and physically when my kids need me. I'll agree that Fiona's case is complex. Legally, she is not my daughter. She gets better care and treatment maintaining her status as a ward of the state, much as I hate it. And numerous evaluations have indicated beyond a shadow of a doubt that her issues are far to complex for her to live safely and happily in a home environment. Even ours. (I am not being arrogant here. One eval listed us as her best possible option and even at that, the evaluater felt it was not safe or attainable.)
But people are more than the sum of their evaluations. They are more than the symptoms of their mental illness, and congition deficits. The fact that she is my daughter means I want her with her family on special days. I don't like thinking that she has a holiday dinner with whatever staff drew the short straw for a holiday shift, hanging out in the community room with the few other kids who don't have a home to go to. Fiona is always worried that she will drive us away with her behavioral outbursts. I keep assuring her that I have been here for 10 years and I am not going anywhere. But I think it takes doing things like being there for a holiday dinner to make that real in a child's mind. And my heart is painfully oblivious to the legalities of my ties to Fiona. It beats a drumbeat that all mothers hear; a song of worry,hope love and dreams for their child. When we are able to be together, there are harmonies and descants, joys and sorrows weaving through the song. Alone, it is a plaintive tune. I'm looking forward to descants and harmonies next week.
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