Someone praised me recently for being so understanding and patient with Tim and all of the symptoms and behavioral issues that go along with a diagnosis like Schizoaffective Disorder. I was not being modest when I replied that I’m anything but.  And I’m sure Tim – and my husband, and our other two children would agree.  I have the world’s shortest fuse.  96.7% of the time I can keep a lid on it until I’m somewhere where I can vent alone, or just to the hubby, but there are times when the frustration reaches a boiling point and it comes out at the moment the frustration hits.  I know it’s not helpful.  I know it can potentially escalate the situation.  I feel like a failure as a parent 20 minutes after the smoke clears that 3.2% of the time I lose it.  I hate myself for getting that frustrated.  In the political vernacular of the day, I guess you could call these times, "teachable moments". 

Tim was home for a few days from the RTC this weekend, to celebrate his 16^th birthday and to get him in to see the eye doctor and the cardiologist.  His birthday was great, but Saturday morning, as we were trying to motivate him to get up for his eye doctor appointment, the frustration began.  He didn’t want to get up.  Tom went upstairs to get him out of bed twice, then came down and asked me to try.  I got halfway up the stairs when I heard him grumbling to himself under his breath, headed for the shower.  We called up the stairs half a dozen times to get him to come down to eat something before he went.  I took a deep breath each time.  The 4,326^th time I said, “We’re late, let’s go,” he got in the car with his dad, and I collapsed onto the couch.  15 minutes later, Tom called.  “He won’t go in.  He’s sitting here, not talking, refusing to get out of the car.”   It seems his psychosis had gotten the better of him, and he was convinced that the eye drops the doctor uses to dilate pupils would make him go blind.  I know it’s the psychosis talking, but my chest immediately clenched.  I went straight to saying loudly that Tom should take him back to the RTC right then – forget the rest of the weekend at home.  I didn’t even want to know if there was a reason why.  We’ve missed so many appointments, so many family events, so many sibling recitals and school concerts over the years that each time it happens now, the bile rises in my throat, instantly.  Getting an appointment with any doctor over the summer is hard enough, especially when we have to schedule them around times Tim is home. 

By the time they got home, I was calmer, but Tim ran straight to his room and isolated himself for nearly two hours.  He’d turned it around on the way home, Tom said, explaining that the drops frighten him, but by the time he got home, he was so worried about how I’d react – he’d heard me tell Tom on the phone that we should take him right back to RTC – that he hid, ashamed of himself, not wanting to be confronted by me, the Wicked Witch of the Midwest, angry with my kid because of the voices in his head telling him he’s in danger.  I wanted to throw a bucket of water over my head and melt myself.  Later, when he felt more comfortable and I’d finished my pity party, we talked and forgave each other.  We talked about what we could both do differently next time (because there will be a next time), and we agreed to put it behind us and move on.  Not my most stellar moment as a parent, but I must remember – I do my best, I’m only human, and every experience is a teachable moment, for both of us.  We’re learning, slowly.