Mostly past the crying part

I'm mostly past the crying part now.  It's not common for me to cry in my usual normal everyday life.  I'm usually quite cheerful  even during  hard circumstances.  This situation has probably used up my quota of crying for the next forty years.  I think I'll have to even borrow some into the afterlife.  I've cried every day for over a month, sometimes just tearing up a little when I think of Chelsey living in a group home and not with us.  Sometimes crying non-stop for three days straight--crying so hard my teeth chattered together as if I were freezing to death-- when I was so scared to have her in the horrible psychiatric unit, when her behaviors were so like the other patients that she belonged there, when I was scared to get her out of the unit because of those same behaviors.  Some periods in-between crying were just emotionally dead, as if I were unable to feel at all.

I couldn't tell people about that before now because I was trying not to cry, and talking about it made me cry.  Lots of people wanted to talk to me about how it was going and how I was feeling.  Usually I'd keep my comments short, steeling myself inside in order to say anything at all.  Since I'm  normally overly chatty this was very unlike me.  I just wanted to hide in a corner and not talk to anyone.  Many people from the Bermuda hexagon of agencies were talking to me each day, and I'd need to talk more than I wanted. Sometimes I dreaded hearing the phone ring, because I knew someone would want to talk to me about Chelsey.

Now I'm down to crying maybe twice a day, just the tearing up for a few minutes kind of crying.  It's because my life plan for Chelsey is now different, and it isn't what I really wanted.  It wasn't really a plan it was more that I thought life would just move on in a certain way that kept Chelsey at home with us.  Russel and I have often discussed with Chelsey what she wanted to do when she was older, and she had made references to moving into a group home. Russel was relieved--as most adults would be to think they might get to eventually be empty-nesters after all.   I didn't let myself get that far, as I just didn't think it would really end up happening and I would worry about her being somewhere else anyway.  What I always thought would happen was that we'd continue to discuss the idea of a group home as a possibility.  It would be always out there as a future plan, but not really feasible, she would remain on the waiting list for people without imminent need into infinity. I would keep doing the same as I've always done, feeding her, bathing her, telling her stories, laughing at her sense of humor, making sure she was as safe as possible. Our lives would move on, caring for her at home and not really noticing how quickly time was passing.  I figured that as most fragile disabled adults she would die young, and I wouldn't have to worry about who would care for her when I was too old. It would have been kind of hard to keep caring for her, but everyone has some things about their lives that are hard.  I would have been more at peace caring for her myself than letting her go anywhere else.  It would have been emotionally easier than letting her go even if it continued to produce physical hardships and scheduling difficulties, rearranging our lives to make sure someone was always caring for her.

Since that "plan-that-wasn't-a-plan" isn't happening, I'm thrust into a new world, a world of worry.  Worrying that caregivers will be patient and caring.  That they will take time to listen to her, that she will find friends and laughter and enjoyment in her new environment.  That she won't be abused.  That she will like it there and not change her mind.  What would I do if she decided she wanted to come home and I still couldn't take care of her on my own?  It would be heart wrenching.

I was wrong--I'm still not past the crying.