The Gift of Presence

Comfort in Parenting Teens with Mental Health Challenges

When I opened Aunt Sue’s holiday card, all I could think was that I would never see that signature again.

Below the holiday greeting, Aunt Sue had written, “Love, Sue & Rob” in her usual flourish. For the past thirty years, their names slid together like one entity. Sue and Rob: each name one syllable, easy to pronounce in one breath, an identity together.

Since my aunt married Rob in a simple, eight-minute ceremony under a white wooden arbor, atop a mountain on a warm October afternoon, they had operated as a unit. Although both Aunt Sue and Uncle Rob held separate, prominent public leadership roles in our city, they moved together like two people joined in a three-legged race. As one took a step forward and tension arose in the spandex band joining their legs, the other sidled alongside. Since my aunt’s second marriage began in my teenage years, I had a front-row seat to their love story.

In the space between posting this card and its arrival in my mailbox, Rob passed away. There will be no more “Sue & Rob,” on holiday cards or Paperless Post invitations or gift tags. From now on, there will only be Sue.

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What Love Looks Like

Two months ago, Aunt Sue hosted thirteen of us for Thanksgiving. We didn’t expect to see much of our uncle, whose health had declined to where he barely left their bedroom. But Rob surprised us as his caregiver wheeled him into the living room to chat over hors d’oeuvres. He spoke so softly that I could barely understand him, but his smile remained clear and strong.

I’ll never forget the expression on Aunt Sue’s face as she held Uncle Rob’s hand over dinner. In contrast to her usual hostess concerns, like checking that her guests had enough food, fussing over an elegantly decorated table, or presenting yet another gourmet dish, Aunt Sue gazed at her husband with the biggest smile I’ve ever seen. Her eyes, tired from sleepless nights next to her ailing husband, lit up with hope. She kept saying to Rob, who looked more hunched over and frail than ever, “I’m so glad you’re here. I’m just so glad you’re here.”

I have rarely seen love like that. Love that rejoices in the simple gift of our presence, regardless of how we look or how functional we are. Love that sees us as we truly are and as we always have been. Love that endures for decades, love that gets stronger even as one partner’s body declines to the point of death.

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Love & Loss

We might define loss as the enemy of love, the moment when some type of interruption or separation threatens our connection. Author Hilary Stanton Zunin said, “The risk of love is loss, and the price of loss is grief.”

Loss cuts through us, whether it’s one that we expect, like Uncle Rob’s extended decline, or one that surprises us, like the Los Angeles wildfires. Loss often leaves us gasping for air, surprised by its punches. In moments of loss, we realize anew how much love we carry for another person, home, or community. Loss is inherently lonely, as we grieve the emptiness left by our loved one’s absence.

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Loss & Mental Health

Two weeks before Christmas, my friend Ben left suddenly from the sixty-person conference he was directing, the one he had spent months preparing for. When I saw his text, briefly naming his teenage son’s depression, I read between the lines. I knew the terror and loss that Ben was experiencing as he tried to save his son’s life. Thankfully, one month later, Ben reports that “things are moving in the right direction” after weeks of professional interventions, sleepless nights, and desperate prayers. But Ben is weary from facing his son’s internal hurricane, hesitant to trust that his son will recover the life he once had.

Each time parents walk through a mental health crisis with a child, we experience loss. Whether it’s the initial discovery of a health concern or a relapse after a season of recovery, we face the vulnerability of potentially losing our child. Even if our child’s health issues are not life-threatening, they can still signify the loss of their spiritual, emotional, mental, social, or physical flourishing. We may grieve the loss of both the life they had and the life we envisioned for them. This quote paints a picture of what it may feel like to watch our child struggle.

“It’s like watching someone you love drown, but they’re still breathing. You can see the struggle, the pain, and you can’t pull them out of the water no matter how hard you try.”

– Unknown

The Gift of Presence

One of the most powerful antidotes for loss is the presence of a loved one who walks with us in our darkest moments.

On a moment’s notice, my mother flew out to be with her sister Sue for an extended visit. Mom arrived after Rob’s deceased body had left the house, but in time to sit with Sue as she faced her first night alone. By providing companionship for simple tasks like walking the dog and excruciatingly painful ones like planning a funeral or sorting through Rob’s clothes, Mom’s presence made Sue’s losses easier to face.

When the LA wildfires raged, I texted my friend Heather to ask if she was okay. She assured me that her family of five was safe and mentioned she’s been hosting four families, two of which have lost their homes. I thought, Heather isn’t just offering shelter and food, but also the warmth of her presence. When I envisioned Heather in her sunny white kitchen, laughing as she tossed a green salad, I imagined the comfort those families might feel from her care. I hope it will be a balm to these families who cannot yet envision their future.

In the continual losses associated with parenting a teen with health challenges, presence is one of the most valuable gifts. For us, the recovery journey has often felt arduous and sluggish, full of emotional upheaval. While I depend on medical professionals to direct our daughter’s treatment, I also need companions on the journey, both for myself and my daughter. Some friends kindly offer their own experiences and advice, which we appreciate. But as the journey grows longer and solutions become more complicated, I crave presence more than advice.

Presence can wear many faces:

• Friends who ask regularly about Ellie and about us as parents, offering empathy, encouragement and prayers without being asked and long after the initial crisis surfaced.

• Friends who invite us to share our honest, messy feelings, unafraid of our anger or tears.

• Friends who acknowledge our pain yet hold on to hope for the future, when we struggle with despair.

• Family members who grieve and celebrate with us, depending on the day.

• Friends who share meals, play games, and take walks with us.

• Fellow parents, whose kids share the same challenges, who offer understanding and comfort in support groups or private Facebook groups. Even though we have never met before, we are not strangers. We share the same suffering and the same devotion to our kids.

• Prayerful friends who lift us up when our faith feels faint.
  
  I love how singer JJ Heller describes the power of presence for those struggling with darkness: “We all need a safe place where we don’t have to defend. I’m not asking for all the pain in the world to end. I’m just asking for a friend.”
  

“A real friend is one who walks in when the rest of the world walks out,” said columnist Walter Winchell. May we all be the kind of friend who walks into the hard places with others when they are the most lonely. And may we welcome those who are willing to walk into the desolate places with us.

I’d love to hear your story. How have you offered your presence to friends who suffer? When have others’ presence helped you walk through a hard season?

Grateful for your companionship on the journey,

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