Last summer's end, Philippine moved to a new rehabilitation center and a new rhythm of life. She goes to an institution on Monday mornings and comes home Friday evenings.
For the first time in twelve years, we have "normal" days. Four nights a week without waking.
The decision was hard—six months of conversation, of painful inner upheaval. My husband had been convinced we needed to do this, but he wouldn't push me. I was torn between contradictory arguments and a guilt that boiled down to this: God entrusted Philippine to me, so if I stop caring for her completely, I betray both Him and His will. Another part of me said: we're exhausted. Philippine is growing fast. We need help from others.
She's old enough now to handle separation. She knows the institution—she's spent short stays there before. She won't see us for only three days a week. She needs parents and siblings who are… well. Okay, but when I'm alone, I'll cry. All the sorrow of having a handicapped daughter wells up in me again, and the separation feels like one more unjust pain.
We were stuck. And then Providence took pity on us. Another family—one ahead of us on the waiting list—took the day-placement slot. We were told: "You have no choice but to take the residential placement."
Over this month, I'm seeing that she's adjusted well, that this is what's best for keeping each family member balanced. But I know I still have a long road of acceptance ahead. Another one.
Sophie Lutz, 2013
