So, life in our home has been less than stellar these past few weeks. We're not hell bound or anything, well, no more than usual, but we've been dealing with the ghosts of drama past. Aren has had a tough little life, major illness paired with the death of a sister with the same condition followed by a bone marrow transplant less than ten months later. Add to that broken limbs due to osteoporosis, joints that don't move, gray hair and funky skin and you've got the perfect depression storm.
Yup, Aren is ten and has suffered from depression most of his life. He's been popping pills since before he was three, but even medication couldn't keep the monster down this month. We noticed that Aren wasn't himself - he would cry a little more easily and get upset over things that normally didn't phase him and then he couldn't calm himself down, but nothing prepared us for the night when he told Rick he was just done with life. He told Rick he wished he were dead because he wanted to be with Lily again and because he didn't think he was worth it any more.
I couldn't believe it. Anyone who knows Aren can see that he is the sweetest boy around. He absolutely wants to be friends with everyone, adults included. All of his uncles and aunts can attest to the fact that hugs are not optional when he is around, so you can imagine how I would have felt knowing that my poor boy was having these kinds of thoughts.
After weeks of phone calls and screaming at doctors, we finally made our way to a psychiatrist this morning and talked with him for over an hour. We decided the best course of action to take with medication, then the doctor asked if I would consider family therapy. Of course I said yes, but as the day has gone on the thoughts have crept into my head that I am a failure as a parent.
When Lily died I couldn't function. I had never dealt with depression before, even when Rick was in Bosnia and I had a child in the hospital for weeks at a time every month. I've always been able to hold it together. But leaving a lifeless two year old in a diaper and nothing else in a hospital room, knowing the next time I'd see her would be to dress her lifeless body is enough to make the strongest person lose it. I spent the next few months trying to deal with my own feelings, then moving straight into "let's get it done" mode for Aren's transplant, I suppose I neglected to see what was going on with Aren.
Oh, I know I did the best I could with the hand I was dealt, but I still feel horrible that here we are five years later and we're just going to start dealing with all this. I understand the fact that we're dealing with this now is at least better late than never, but still. Guilty feelings creep in and it sucks putting forth the effort to shut them up.