I think he’s waiting for me to start.
“This can’t continue.” I grimace with impatience at myself for stating the obvious. “I mean… I know you’ve all been doing your best, and you’ve been doing an amazing job looking out for him…but - ”
“It’s reached critical mass,” he says quietly.
“Yeah.” I hope I haven’t just insulted him horribly. “You’ve obviously gone above and beyond for Dean day in and day out for a very long time. But it’s past the point where that can be enough. He needs proper help.”
“I know.” he looks at me, clear blue eyes brooding into mine. “I keep trying to persuade him to go back into therapy, but he’s only ever found it to be helpful up to a point. And I just didn’t want to make things worse by forcing him into any more. He’s done so much of it, and he’s still…” He rubs his eyes, frustrated and helpless.
“I’m talking about no more persuading.” I feel my voice start to crack. “I hate myself for saying this, but he needs the sort of intervention that…involves in-patient treatment. Even if it’s involuntary.” My lip is wobbling, and I can’t stop it. I clear my throat, trying to sound mature and adult, rather than a scared little girl telling awful truths, but then Eli takes my hand and squeezes it gently.
“It’s OK.” He nods at me, his own emotions visibly on the edge of his restraint. “You’re right. You’re right. It needs to happen. For him. For you.” He closes his eyes. “For me.”
We did indeed stay awakeall night.
We discussed possibilities, logistics, money. We researched treatment programs close to us, and there is a facility about an hour and a half away that specialises in tailored PTSD treatment. It claims to be able to make sufferers better able to live their lives in three months with a mixture of therapies. Medication, talking therapy, hypnosis, eye movement desensitisation and reprocessing, meditating… Basically anything and everything that will help is available on site. The credentials of the professionals are exemplary, and some of the people who work there are former patients in recovery who want to help other sufferers get to where they are.
It’s perfect. It’s private, so it’ll cost a bomb, but if it provides Dean with even half what it claims it can do, it will be money well spent. We agree to split the cost.
And then Leo arrives, and tells us he’ll foot the entire bill. He won’t tolerate any arguments or dissent.
Eli messaged the group at dawn, and they’re all here. There’s a sign on the door to Wishbone advising that they’ve had to close due to an unforeseen emergency, though how unforeseen it was is up for debate. Emily is rebooking appointments in the corner, and my goodness, she has her work cut out for her. But she’s doing it, quickly and efficiently, patiently dealing with annoyed clients like it’s no big deal.
Sadie’s doing the washing up. She hugged me tight, made sure I ate something for breakfast other than coffee and bitter regrets, and then simply made herself useful with housework. “Better than sitting around doing nothing,” she insisted.
Eli just cancelled their wedding booking. It was just over a month away. He and Em hold hands as he makes the call. They both look so devastated that it breaks my heart. But they both instantly agreed that they can’t even consider getting married until Dean is well enough to be there to see it. Dean’s going to feel terrible when he finds out, but hopefully that will show him how loved he is, and how serious we all are about his recovery.
He called Wendy and Kit. It was night time over there, and we’d woken them up, but they didn’t mind at all. And, though Wendy cried briefly, she and Kit both agreed that the course of action we were suggesting was the best one. They offered to fly out, but to be honest there was very little they could do if they were here. She begged us to keep her posted, and that won’t be a problem; I volunteered daily updates, even if it was to say, “no news”.
We’ve also managed to speak to the people who run the program. They have one bed available, and they even offered to send a nurse out this morning to talk to us all. So he’s now on his way, and we just need to wait for Dean to be awake and, hopefully, willing to listen.
Leo is hugging me on the sofa. No words, we’ve spoken them all. We know what comes next, and how hard it’s going to be. I still don’t feel right making plans for Dean behind his back while he’s sleeping, orhopefullysleeping, anyway. What about his autonomy? His right to make his own decisions for what’s right for him? But then again, if left to his own devices, he’ll never get the help he needs. He’ll just suffer unendingly and wither away into nothing.
If I walk away, I’m basically condemning him to a miserable existence that no human should have to cope with.
If I arrange for him to get help without consulting him, I’m acting unilaterally without any respect for his freedom and personal rights.
If I’m damned either way, I choose the road that might lead to him feeling better. And I’ll cling to that concept while I cry myself to sleep each and every night.
“Dean,” Eli says suddenly. We all look up and see him walking in, rumpled and grey and tired, confused as to why we’re all here.
Is everything OK? His eyes dart around until he sees me, and they stay fixed on me for a long moment. I don’t know how to read the expression in them.
“Sit down,” I say softly. “We’d like to talk to you for a bit.”
He casts his eyes over everyone, at Eli’s concern, Em’s gentleness, Sadie’s straightforward encouragement. He looks reluctant, and even leans backwards, like he’s about to leave rather than face the conversation ahead.
“It’s OK,” Leo says, standing so Dean can take the seat next to me. He does, but he doesn’t reach for me or hold my hand like he usually would. His defences are way, way up.
OK, tell me. Whatever’s going on, just tell me. His shoulders are tense, and I rub them to try to loosen him up. He doesn’t pay me any attention.
Eli sits next to Em on the other side of the coffee table and gives it to him straight. “It can’t go on like this,Frère,” he says, maintaining eye contact. “You can’t live like this any longer. I’ve tried, god knows I’ve tried not to force anythin’ on you. But it’s time. You got too much to get betterfor, now.” He nods at me, and a muscle jumps in Dean’s jaw.
Sadie moves closer to Leo, standing next to him as he sits on the arm of the sofa, and he puts an arm around her. “He’s not wrong, Dean,” she says.
Dean’s eyes burn with resentment.I’m fine.
“You arenotfine,” Leo insists. “You’re not, you haven’t been foryears, and it’s one hundred percent understandable - ”
