Forced to be loved
We're waiting in front of his room. Dr. Conrad wants to talk to us first. I can't wait to get to my son. I don't want to wait. My husband is rubbing my back. He tries to calm me down, but this is impossible right now. I need to see my baby.
"Mrs. and Mr. Cohen, good that you were able to come here that fast." The doctor greets us.
"How went the surgery? Is everything alright with our son?" It bubbles out of me.
"The surgery went well. We were able to fix the bone. We expect a full recovery there. Unfortunately we can't be that optimistic about his knee. I did everything in my power, but it'll be possible that he'll have to life with smaller limitations." Oh no. This was not good.
"About what kind of limitation are you talking about?" My husband asks.
"Well, he's not going to be a professional athlete. His knee won't bear this kind of exposure. But he should be able to attend gym classes. He might have to skip classes due to some swellings or pain. He might sometimes not able to move his leg fully, leading to light limping. Also his knee is more instable as it was before the accident. But all this is nothing we can't resolve with ice packs, light painkillers, special salves and bandages. " Well, this sounds okay to me. But I'm not the one who has to live with this the rest of my life.
"And his bones?" My husband asks on.
"I don't want to bother you with details. There's a lot of metal in his leg that keeps the bones where they belong to. And within a year it can be removed again. But this is a routine surgery and won't take as long as this one." Another surgery? Poor boy. I feel bad for him. This surgery will burden his mind one whole year.
"When can we take him home?" This is the only important question to me.
"We shouldn't hurry with that. He's really knocked out due to the anaesthesia and we should give him some days – I'd say two weeks. As well we should have a close look on his stitches." And stitches? Oh no. This is not good. This will leave scars.
"But when you take him home, he has to take it easy. Not too much moving in the first few weeks. He will depend on crutches for some time. How long depends on the recovery of his knee, thus I'd suggest you to contact an orthopaedist as soon as possible, when he comes home. He'll has to wear a brace to support his knee, but the medical technology has developed far enough that those are smaller and lighter are the former ones and he won't have to wear them over his trousers - the most important fact for teenagers in his age. But," The doctor starts to warn us, "he'll only reach a maximum of recovery if he's carefully and attends frequently physical therapy." Oomph, this is a lot to think about.
"This is a lot to think about." My husband expresses my thoughts.
"That's why you should contact an orthopaedist quite early. And now you should go and see your son. But I warn you, he's not feeling too well." And then the doctor releases us to our son. We carefully step in. There's a pale form lying under a thick blanket. He must have turned to his side and tried to curl up as he used to do. I step closer. It hurts to see him like this. He looks so fragile, hurt and sick.
"Hey sweetie." I whisper. I want to be as carefully as possible. I stroke over his cheek. It's his injured one. The cuts start to fade. Dr. Roberts had called one evening and told us he has cared for the cuts personally as well as he wanted to care for the transactions on his leg. If this helps to make my son feel better I'm thankful for it. His body is shivering badly and in my opinion it looks as if his lips are light bluish, but this can also be the effect of too much maternal worry.
"mmm" Again is all I get. He sounds dazed.
"You don't feel too good, what?" I ask him. Stupid question. It's obvious that he feels not too good. Sandra comes in with a mug.
"Hi." She greets us. "Don't worry. It had been a long and rough day for him. He'll be groggy for a while. Here's a tea. This should help him to warm up a little. But only small sips. We don't want him to throw up again." She says, places the mug on the nightstand and again ruffles through his hair.
"When he starts to be in pain, call me." She says and then leaves us alone. I try to put an arm around my son. Right now he's nothing but a helpless and defenceless child.
"Oh honey, it's over now." I tell him. I want to do anything to sooth him. "Do you want some tea?" I ask him. I don't get a response. I take the mug into my hands.
"Here. It'll make you feel better." I tell him. He takes the mug in both hands. He isn't looking up to me. He's shaking awfully. He takes small sips then puts the mug onto the nightstand on the other side. Without paying any attention to me or my husband he lies back onto his side and tries to curl up. I rub his back. He moves away from me and I'm afraid he might fall out of the bed. It doesn't take long for the tea in his stomach to rebel.
"Are you sick?" I ask him, he shakes his head, but my husband hands me a bowl – luckily in time. I don't understand what the boy thinks he'll reach through his behaviour. There's nothing to throw up in his stomach, but it takes long until it had calmed down again. I don't care if he doesn't want me to touch him. Rubbing his back, when he throws up is a reflex and I don't think about stopping doing so.
"Feel better now?" I ask him, but nothing. He hides under the blanket, nearly successful. In somehow I have the feeling as if he still tries to push me away – he's only too weak to do so. My luck and my chance to force him to be loved.
"Are you still mad at us?" My husband asks him. The boy nods a little. My heart gets heavy again. I look at my husband. He had put on his battle mask. I know what this means and he leaves me no other chance than participate in this battle. I sit down on the edge of the bed. Now I easily can wrap an arm around him. His body is cold like ice. He tries to fight my arm – little.
"Why? Because we decided that…this surgery was to your best?" My husband asks on. He nods. He had won his patience back after his outburst. I'm glad, because otherwise I won't have taken him with me.
"Honey, making the unpopular decisions is a parents' job." I tell him, carefully brushing the hair out of his face, so that I can see his eyes.
"I…I…di…did…didn't…kn…know…th…that…f…fo…fos…foster…pa…parents…are allowed…t…to…m…m…make…s…such de…decisions." He manages to speak with chattering teeth of cold. It don't hurt me, when he says this because the way he's talking makes me feel even more sorry for him. It only shows me how weak he must feel right now and then he's still fighting us – afraid that we might hurt him.
"But legal parents can." My husband says. And now it occurs to me. The boy hadn't even realized what it meant, when we decided for the surgery. He still can't believe that we want him to be our son. Okay he already was in somehow, but this was only emotional. Now…he is our legal son and the only difference between him and our … other son was that he appeared sixteen years later, without labour pains.
"W…wh…why…w…wou…would…y…you…d…do s…so?" He stammers. I pull him a little tighter against my side. He needs to feel what this means. He needs to feel what he means to me – to us.
"Would? We've done. What should have hindered us from doing so?" My husband asks and sits down on the foot of the bed and gently starts to pet our son's leg – the not injured one.
"'c…'cause…I…I'm…u…used…a…and…d…di…dirty." He replies. My heart clenches. That's how he must have felt through the whole years. I pull him even tighter at my side. He needs to know that those years – years of pain, disappointment and sadness – are over now.
"No…you're not." I answer. But what shell these words bring about? He doesn't believe us, he doesn't trust us and we know he has enough reasons to be distrustful to adults – other people. It only hurts, because we never would hurt him. We know that. He doesn't.
"C…c…c'mon…y…you've…r…r…read…all…o…of…it.…Y…you…know…th…that…it's…th…the truth. " He stammers. I look at my husband. I'm powerless against this. No matter what I say or do, he never will believe us.
"Ryan, these are all things other people have done to you. It…it doesn't change who you are and that we love you. Why don't you start and believe us. Hell kid, they won't have let us adopt you, when they've thought we could do you any harm." My husband starts to explain him. I know that these words won't help. We're at the dead end. We're faced with the consequences of sixteen years abuse. This is nothing we can fix. We're going to need professional help. We should have thought about this so much earlier. We could have prevented so much, but it's useless to think about what could have happened. We need to think about what has to happen.
"Do you know what Ryan? You can punish us with rejection. You can try to push us away as hard as you can, but you're never getting rid of us." I tell him. No I determine it. This was my last word. I would fight this 'til the bitter end – inwardly hoping for a happy end.
"Su…sure…be…because…I…I'm…s…so…w…wo…worth…it." After this sentence I only want to slap his face, beating some sense into his head. I want to lay the blame on the drugs in his system. Unfortunately I know that he talks like that even without drugs.
"You have so no idea what you're talking about." I tell him and lean over so that I can take him into my arms. He doesn't reply anything. He just lies there, shivering and fighting his emotions. Don't know how long I'm holding him like that, but his steady-going and calm breath tells me that he has fallen asleep again. I stroke over his hair and peck his forehead. Then I get up. My back aches from sitting in this position for so long. My husband had taken a seat in one of the chairs. It's already dark outside. I didn't notice how the time past by.
"Some coffee?" He smiles at me. I nod and get onto me feet, stretching my aching back. One look at the boy tells me, he won't wake up too soon again. We both step out. I need to move my cramping legs. Oh man, I'm getting old. Maybe I should start to workout again.
"You're brave, did I tell you that?" My husband asks when we're on our way back to our son. He's mistaken. I'm not brave. I'm scared. I'm scared of losing our new won son to his past.
"I think…you were right. We need professional help…he needs professional help. This wall he had built up is too thick as if we could get through to him." I admit. I should have admitted it earlier. I just was too afraid of getting to know how broke our son really is.
"I told you so." My husband answers and in somehow this answer is frustrating. It's not because he had been right from the very beginning once again. It's because of my blindness.
"Yes and you were right. I…we shouldn't force him to. We have to try to make him admit that he needs this help. Everything else will only lead to more fights. I'm too afraid we might push him away – too far as we would be able to help him anymore. We…both know how fragile he is…emotional fragile." I tell him. I don't want my husband's enthusiasm leading to some kind of quick idea that turns out to be not as good as we thought it was – a quick idea that might hurt our son.
"So our new aim is, getting Ryan to admit to us and himself that he's not able to fix his problem. That could be a little hairy. He's barely accepting our help. I doubt that he'll accept help from a stranger." My husband says. He might be right until now. We have this one chance and we have to face it, take it no matter on what costs.
"But he has to. You have listened to the doctor. He'll have to depend on our help for quite a while."
"You're so cruel." My husband says. I'm sure Ryan won't like this. He'll try to be independent, but he'll also realize that he isn't in his current state.
"What I'm most afraid is this funeral." The whole time we had forgotten about that. This was wrong.
"Let us wait until tomorrow." My husband says.
"Of course. It's like the boy can't get a break and I don't even have thought about school. Dr. Kim didn't sound too happy about his absence."
"Anyway we should think about whether it wouldn't be better for him, if he changed school."
"But all his friends are at Harbor. Seth, Marissa, Summer. I don't think this is a good idea."
"Then we need to find a solution for his history teacher." I feel overtaxed. There are so many things to think about. His father, his school, his health, his…everything. It's like his whole world shattered and now we have to pick up the pieces and try to put them back together. And why all this? Because of my inability to react in time. I'm sure if I had reacted immediately when I got aware of his insomnia and lack of appetite. I should have reacted immediately when I noticed something was wrong. But I haven't only because I thought we could deal with it. Reading his file should have told me that we can't help him. That we can only be there for him and get him the help he needs.
"What's wrong with you?" My husband asks.
"I…I doubt that we can handle all this. It's like an increasing mountain of problems." I admit.
"Step by step. We solve one thing after another. And to be honest, we had times in which we had to solve more problems than this. Remember the time in your post truck, the parties and the exam the next morning. That had been real challenging. You know don't letting the Profs see and smell what had been in your cigarette a few hours before." With so little anecdotes my husband uses to cheer me up. We had a good time then.
"You're right. It's already late. One of us should go home to Seth." I tell him, inwardly hoping he goes. I can't leave my baby right now.
"You think it's a good idea that one of us stays with him?"
"He needs us. He doesn't know or admit it yet. Despite if we leave him, we'll only prove that he had been right and I begrudge him that." I answer.
"What means I go home and then spell you tomorrow morning."
"Sounds good."
"Okay, good night then." My husband kisses me and I go back to my son. He's still sleeping. I switch off the bright light and switch on the small one on the nightstand. When he's sleeping he doesn't look as if he's haunted by his past every second of his life. He rather looks peaceful. On the other hand he's only sleeping because of the drugs they had given to him. We have underestimated his past. We have underestimated the damage it had done to him. And why? Because he can be so mature. Thinking of him as a child is so difficult. I guess it's because I didn't see him growing up. I only know him as the sixteen years old boy who had worked for paying his mother's bills. From the very beginning I should have seen that this kind of maturity is…in somehow…a sign that he's sick – emotionally sick. I take out a book from my bag and start reading. My attention gets withdrawn from my book to a rustling sound and a silent groaning. I get up and see that my son is awake.
"Hey sweetie." I stroke over his cheek. His jaw is clenched. He's sweating.
"Are you in pain?" I ask him. He slowly nods his head. He admits it? Poor boy. This must feel bad then.
"Oh, honey. I call someone." I say and press the nurse button. His groaning gets louder with every passing second. My heart breaks seeing him so wiped out.
"Shh. It'll be better soon." I try to sooth him. I sit next to him and take him into my arms, holding him tight. I can see how with every passing second his pain must worsen, because with every passing second his groans get louder and deeper, his jaw clenches more that I'm afraid he might damage his teeth and his body starts to tense up more and more. It takes hours until a nurse arrives. I'm sure it only had been five minutes, but I can't stand to see my son is in heavy pain. But I need to be strong for him.
"Is the pain in your leg coming back?" The nurse asks him and I'm disappointed that it's not Sandra.
"I think so." I answer, as my son is in no current state to do so. The woman nods and then injects something into my boy's IV.
"Besides what are you doing here? Visiting hours are over long ago." She snaps at me. That she has the nerve to talk to me like that.
"I'm his mother and your boss allowed me to stay over night. And besides if I wasn't there, nobody would have noticed that he's in pain." I snap back.
"He's old enough." This was the last straw.
"He's sixteen years old and a long difficult surgery lies behind him. So don't tell me he's old enough."
"Whatever." If I wouldn't be aware that Ryan needs me right now, I would have jumped of the bed and killed this bitch.
"Soon you'll feel better." I try to sooth him. I rub his back to make him relax. It used to work with Seth – it still does – and in somehow they both are children – my children. I feel how he nestles down in my embrace. My heart jumps a little. He seems to have overcome some of his distrust. I stroke through his hair. His body is still all tensed up and his jaw is clenched. The medication probably needs some time to kick in. That's what I still think after thirty more minutes. Thirty minutes more past. I feel how my t-shirt starts to get soggy and his body is trembling.
"Honey, what's wrong?" I ask him, noticing that my t-shirt get soaked with his tears. Tears? Ryan? Ryan never cries and especially not in presence of anyone. Hell, how bad must he feel right now?
"Hurts …so." I hear him say among his silent – nearly inaudible – sobs.
"Isn't it any better?" I ask him. He shakes his head. "Oh honey." I take him closer and once again press the nurse button. Again this bitch of a woman appears.
"What?" She asks harsh.
"I want a doctor, now. Or I'll complain about you and then we'll see how long you're going to do this job with this attitude."
"Sure." And now she forces me to something, I usually never do. I even hate to do this, but this bitch leaves me no choice.
"Do you really think you can take Caleb Nichol's daughter on?" And then there's no rude comment, only a running nurse and for her sake she's running for a doctor.
"Mrs. Cohen?" She did. "The nurse told me your son is still in pain?"
"Yes and believe me I'm not one of those pampering mummies." I don't want him to think I'm calling him for nothing. He only nods and looks through a flip chart.
"Okay…well…when I look at that, I can imagine you're not exaggerating. I give him some stronger pain killers. If he's a little dazed after the effect kicked in, don't worry." The doctor says and then injects something else into my boy's IV. Then he leaves. I feel how my son's body slowly relaxes.
"Getting better?" I ask him. He nods. "That's good." I tell him. It doesn't take long and he falls asleep again, in my arms. I hope we don't have to go for this trip again.