Heat Stroke

There was a moment on Christmas Eve afternoon when I wondered if I had been smitten with heat stroke. Similar to fainting, with heat stroke there's that same sense that the world is retreating into a red hazy daze, you can hear your heart pounding in your ears and everything around you is happening in slow motion. On this particular afternoon in the season of peace and goodwill, this came upon me as I was preparing for my 'traditional' Christmas Eve dinner with friends in Australia. The temperature was soaring, I was slopping sticky stuff over a decorated, cooked leg of dead animal, and wielding a basting brush over the top of a stuffed bird, both in an oven that every time the door opened, caused an outbreak of sweat like a deluge washing over the whole body.

Then the phone rang and it was the police phoning me from a vastly colder place somewhere in the North Antarctica region we call New Zealand.

Tropical heat, a 150 Celcius fan oven, topped off with Police Sergeant Sally asking if I was the parent of Teen 1: I thought (wished?) I was either heat stroke delusional, had been punk'd, or had fallen down the rabbit hole into a bad movie.

The inevitable show down (*), which had its genesis in the September school holidays, had transpired. The two males, the Father exerting Authority and Control, and the Son displaying anger and resentfulness, had clashed horribly. In the pouring rain, when T1 ran down the street, his father tried to wrestle him into a car, ripped off T1's shirt in the process, tackled him over a fence, T1 ending up with a bleeding nose and a split lip, the father copping a 'shiner' and chipping a tooth. According to the father's account, he intended to 'restrain' T1. According to T1, his father was kneeling on his chest and he was so scared he thought he was going to die. T1 fended him off and ran down the street, flagged down a passing car, and the driver got my son in the car and called the police.

Who called me in Australia.

After a lengthy discussion as my heart rate slowed down and I managed to bring some focus to the situation, I agreed that T1 could be released into his father's 'care', having little other option. As T1 described to me later, he felt that noone listened to him, his father had 'smooth talked' his way into having the police believe his story, and he hated them all because of it. His father hasn't talked to me much about what happened beyond saying that our son was learning that he wouldn't get away with bad behaviour while he was responsible for him.

I think this clash was inevitable so the question that is then raised is: was I irresponsible in leaving Teen1 with his father? I'm vindicating my own actions (because this is my blog!) in that T1 had a choice about coming with me, and in not coming, his brothers and I have had the best break we've had for a very long time without the stress, anxiety and general negative behaviour that's been informing my life and theirs 24/7 for a long time. T1 exercised his misguided and immature choice in refusing to come on holiday, and in doing so was either going to hold us all to ransom so we too had to forfeit our vacation, or he would have to face the consequences of his choice to stay behind.

It's a very hard lesson. An absolutely awful outcome. Totally unacceptable of his father to resort to anger induced violence. I deeply regret that it happened. I felt sickened and helpless about what I was hearing. I felt that I'd abrogated my responsibility. I was not there to adjudicate or intervene or manage the situation. I was selfish in leaving a child behind so that I could return to our 'place' that we still call home. I was not there to support my child. My sense of guilt, panic, selfishness, worry... all rose up inside and I thought I would keel over from the physical manifestation of these negative emotions.

But to be perfectly honest: I was SO glad I wasn't there. For once, I didn't have to deal with it. My two other sons were none the wiser. They didn't have me leave them on Christmas Eve to go to a police station (again) to pick up my son (again) and deal with my Ex (again) to the detriment of the normalcy of their day and the childlike expectations of their Christmas cheer.

My heat stroke dissipated, the ham and turkey were perfectly cooked, the table was laden with food, the champagne was chilled to perfection, and the boys and I were surrounded by dear, old friends.

For that evening, I positively and happily parented my two other sons.

I hope that all parents found themselves doing the same.

(*) as recounted to me by father, police and son