Jane travels with Dan back to London to support his return to drama school. An unexpected incident occurs following his first day back. To access previous chapters, visit Jane Read’s Author Page.

 

 

 

 

 

Chapter 29                                           

JANE

                                                         ‘Mothers are all slightly insane.’

                                          J.D. Salinger

 

Dan’s return to drama school is scheduled for June the twelfth. I’ve already decided that I will take time off work to stay with him for the first part of the term, beyond if necessary. The principal has suggested a phased return, one or two days initially then building up gradually to a full week, so booking into a short-term let seems like the best option for now. If all goes well, we can look at something more permanent before the start of September.

The place we find is a set of rooms in a large Victorian building which used to be a home for trainee nurses directly opposite the Charing Cross hospital and divided into bedsits with shower rooms, with laundry facilities on each corridor and a communal garden. The front doors are secure, entered only by a fob for residents. The receptionist is helpful when I explain our situation, offering me a second room at the cheaper, weekend rates, if I want to come and stay with Dan any time.

As we sit and chat about this very encouraging progress over a sandwich lunch, Dan’s face crumples. He fully breaks down in tears, filled again with paralysing doubts. We have been noticing his anxiety levels rising, from the moment he received the letter from the principal earlier that week, setting out his return date and a phased return plan, then describing the requirements of the June project but also adding the name of the director that his cohort would be working with. The very man that Dan had encountered for his final play before becoming unwell. The director who was so demanding, critical and challenging to work with.

His longed-for return seems suddenly a bit too close for comfort. We are dismayed by his lack of resilience, but Graham tries to reassure him that the June project must be treated as a type of experiment to test out whether or not he is capable of finishing his course.

“It will also provide you with the chance to get to know the year group you’ll be joining. But if you do change your mind and find out that you really can’t manage it, that is ok too. We won’t even start looking for any long-term accommodation until much later”

I knew that he was saying all the right things but inside I was feeling dismal and deciding that we really mustn’t give up. Stopping now and throwing away his future seems unthinkable.

The principal has also given her written assurance that Dan will have his place kept open for him until the following year, (two year-groups later) if he needs more time for recovery. I often wonder if it might have been better opting for that longer term plan, rather than rushing him back into such a pressurised environment. If we had, maybe it might have resulted in a different outcome. (But hindsight is always an effective form of self-torture.)

I repeat our reassurances many times as we wait together at York station’s platform 3, waiting to catch the London train. Dan is close to tears, visibly nervous. He buys himself a coffee and a brownie on the way as usual and I watch him struggle with the thick cellophane wrapper for some minutes, sensing his frustration starting to build. I gently take it from his hand and open it for him, muttering something about many products being unnecessarily over-packaged these days but the thought crosses my mind that if Dan can’t manage to open a brownie wrapper, how on earth will he cope with a whole term at drama school?

As soon as we arrive at Kings Cross station and are surrounded by noise and bustle of crowded streets of commuters, Dan pauses, saying he needs to sit down just for a moment before we enter the underground.

‘Are you feeling ok?’ I check with him, sensing at the same time that my heart rate has noticeably increased.

‘It’s just that whenever I come to London, I feel I need to start rushing like everyone else. But God has been teaching me that it is ok to slow down, to take my time a bit more.’

On the first day of term, he is due to meet up with his new year-group at Lambeth.  He gets up very early and comes into my room to join me for breakfast, but can hardly even manage even a mouthful. Tears are streaming down his face. He is choked and sobbing,

‘It’s too soon. I really don’t think I can do this. I am such a different person now, no-one will want to know me.’

‘But the other students sent you such encouraging messages. They said they were looking forward to working with you. And I believe that you are strong enough to face this now Dan. You’ve made so much progress over the past year.’

I am trying hard to be positive and convincing, but inside, I am beginning to panic and to doubt it myself. I don’t know what to do.

In his teens, Dan used to cope so easily with meeting new groups of people, and stepping boldly into any new challenges, taking things in his stride. But this morning he reminds me of a much younger Dan, the one who was terrified of going to Beaver camp, the little boy so nervous of the bulky karate teacher and the child who desperately tried to avoid being asked to sing in public.

I stand to massage his shoulders reminding him to breathe deeply, persuading him it that it is surely worth a try now we have come this far. I say a short prayer with him, then I remind him about how difficult he has found every step of his recovery but how bravely he managed to face it each time, despite his initial doubts. The Dan, I find myself caring for today, seems a much less confident, less capable version of the son we once knew. (But perhaps this will not be the finished model).

It is torture to watch him go, every bit as bad as sending my two-year-old to playgroup for the first time. Dan spoke to me recently about his psychosis journey being like a vertical climb up a steep rock face, with God waiting at the top. Early on, he said that the ascent had felt easy, almost like being carried, or like flying at times. But as time went on, it got harder and he felt he was having to do more of the tiring work by himself. He said that he had faith that should he slip or lose his footing, God’s safety ropes would prevent his fall. He has less awareness that those ropes are held and constantly checked by his parents, tied tightly by his family’s love for him.

But today is one mountain that he needs to face alone, to discover if he has the capacity to complete his course. I cannot go with him or help him any more today. All I can do is wait.

I phone Graham to debrief. Then wonder about about what else I might do with my day, something to help pass the time perhaps. I walk the streets for a while until I come across a small hair salon. It is empty. I first quieten the voice in my head telling me that it will probably be a lot more expensive than a hairdresser in North Yorkshire then I step inside. I am grateful that the guy running the salon is a quiet man. I really don’t feel like entering into any superficial small talk about what I am planning to do for the rest of my day or during my summer holidays. I cannot see beyond today. So, I read my kindle, text a few friends, and close my eyes for a bit. I am pleased with the resulting cut and colour treatment and after wandering around the shops in Hammersmith, I return to my room and lie down on the bed with the TV on and the sound muted. I’d asked Dan to text me at lunchtime to let me know how things were going, but heard nothing. Just as I am starting to doze off, I hear his key in the door.

I can tell by Dan’s face that he has had a much better day than I’d dared to hope. I’m on my feet in an instant, asking him how it went and when he says, ‘Really good,’ I am flooded with relief.

‘They were all really welcoming and I didn’t feel like a newcomer. The staff were great too. I left here in such a petrified state this morning that I was actually sick on the verge on the way in, my stomach had been so tight with nerves. I almost turned around and came back when that happened but then I decided it would be better to carry on and I am glad I did.’

‘And I’m really proud of you for being brave Dan. Dad will be proud of you too when we tell him. We must phone and let him know how you got on. But shall we get you something to eat first?’

‘I am very hungry now, but I won’t have much time to eat. There is a show at the studio theatre in about an hour. Some of my best friends are in it from last year’s group and I’d like to go along to support them’.

This must be a good sign I’m thinking. Not only has he survived his first day back, but he is keen to return for more.

The cooking facilities in the bedsit are basic and I have not bought many supplies in yet, so we decide to walk to the nearest Italian restaurant further along our street. It’s empty so at least we will be served quickly. Our meal feels like something of a celebration with Dan returning in such a different mood from the one he’d left in that morning. He chooses a pizza, and I order a dish of seafood pasta and a glass of white wine to toast this significant milestone. Dan talks animatedly all the way through the meal. I phone home to give Graham today’s good news, then decide to walk with Dan to the studio theatre, just a couple of streets away, in order to hear the rest of his story.

It’s a warm night and Dan is walking quite quickly. I find myself trotting along beside him, panting hard in my attempt to keep up with his rapid strides. My plan is to wander back to the bedsit once he has met up with his friends, but Carl greets us at the door saying there are some spare tickets if I wanted a seat as well.

The play turns out to be a contemporary comedy with stage smoke and nudity, as well as some incessant smoking of stage cigarettes. I don’t pay much attention to the plot at all, but about half-way through the show, the theatre begins to close in on me. It seems suddenly hot and cramped and claustrophobic and I begin to feel light-headed, despite the fact that I am sitting down. Dizziness and nausea build up and I am soon unbearably hot, so I whisper to Dan that I am just going to pop outside for some fresh air, but I don’t actually remember standing up.

The next thing I know is that I am lying stretched out on the floor of the theatre foyer, with concerned faces peering over me from above and people checking that I am breathing. I hear a man’s voice saying,

‘Put her into the recovery position.’ It is the TV director speaking. Dan is also kneeling over me and holding my hand, ‘You scared the life out of me Mum!’

I am clutching him, stroking the soft skin of his long and delicate, pianist’s fingers. I apologise to everyone for my embarrassing interruption and try to stand. The student on reception, has already called an ambulance, which is on its way. I’ve never fainted before and I am mortified to hear that everyone on stage froze for some seconds, because of the crashing sound I had made as I fell. I find myself vaguely wondering how many actors it had in fact taken to carry me out, quietly regretting not being more conscientious about my recent attempts to lose some weight. I soon become aware of a painful swelling on my left elbow and when I sit up, the room is spinning, so I decide it might be best to lie flat. I am helped into the actors’ common room and lie across the old settee there, with my legs raised up on one side. It crosses my mind that I am probably reclining on the very seat cushions that will have been sat upon by many, famous actors’ bottoms during their student years here, perhaps David Suchet, Jim Broadbent, Ruth Wilson, Anna Maxwell Martin, Benedict Cumberbatch, or Rory Kinnear. I feel a slight frisson of excitement, despite my helplessness. This is after all, a very ancient and worn-out settee. They don’t update the facilities or replace many things around here by the looks of things.

Dan’s friends are sweet and attentive, refusing to go back into the studio to watch the remainder of the play (even though I say they should, because I am fine). They bring icepacks for my bruises. Then paramedics arrive and check my blood pressure, noting that it is still quite low, so they decide to take me into Charing Cross, where I can undergo a few precautionary checks and tests. Dan comes in the ambulance with me. They do an ECG. The haphazard movement of the vehicle helps to bring up the full volume of my sea-food supper after which I apologise and begin to feel slightly better. I am wheeled into A & E and given a bed in a curtained bay.

‘This scene is quite familiar isn’t it, Mum?  Dan observes.

‘But with an interesting twist and a sort of weird role reversal.’ I reply. ‘Maybe tonight we are coming full circle, maybe we are reaching the end of our journey.’

I’m put on a drip and observed periodically. Dan doesn’t leave my side.  It is so quiet in the hospital that night. Then I wonder if we should let Graham know what is happening, but I am strapped to drips and a heart monitors.

‘Could you pop out to phone Dad?’

Dan goes outside straight away to ring home,

‘Guess where I am Dad?’ he shouts. ‘Back in Charing Cross A&E!’

Once Graham has established the fact that I am the patient this time, and not Dan, he reminds me that we are meant to be keeping things calm and stress free!

‘Dan won’t be taking his meds on time or getting to bed early tonight, now this has happened’ he hisses.  I reply that I am so sorry but add that I really hadn’t collapsed deliberately!

I suggest to Dan that he might return to the bedsit ahead of me, take his meds and get some sleep, because I can always wait around for the test results by myself, but he refuses to leave me. Resting his head on the bed like a faithful dog, we wait in quiet apart from some distant footsteps and the gentle bleeping of the heart monitor. My blood pressure is taken twice more, sitting and standing and after a few minutes, a doctor comes back in to say that although I was dehydrated, things are returning to normal. (I am thinking to myself, ‘if only my actual life could return to normal as quickly’) I am given discharge papers and we walk slowly, arm in arm, the short distance back to the flat.

It takes me some time to get to sleep after such an eventful evening.  I struggle to find a comfortable position with my sore elbow and bruised back. I feel tired and tearful and my mind is still buzzing.

The following morning Dan comes into my room. At exactly the same moment we ask one another, ‘How are you feeling?’ (Who is caring for who now? I wonder) I overhear him talking to Tom on the phone later that day,

‘When mum fainted, she was unconscious with her eyes open, and I thought she might have had a stroke or something. It scared the life out of me. It made me realise our parents are not as young as they used to be. Maybe we should be looking after them a bit more from now on.’

‘You are right not to take anything for granted, that was a good call bro’ because there can be many different reasons for a collapse. It will be the accumulation of stress over the past few months contributing to what happened to Mum, I’m sure.’