It Shouldn't be a Broom Cupboard

It takes around 3 minutes to walk from the entrance of the Royal Free Hospital, to the CAMHS (Child and Adolescent Mental Health Service) offices. Even by NHS standards, the Royal Free is not exactly swish, but by the time you reach the CAMHS corridor you’ve passed the wide main vestibule, with the touch screen check-ins, bright lighting, clear signposting and gleaming floors, and you’re in what I like to call broom cupboard territory. Inside the CAMHS waiting room there are a few tired looking plastic chairs squashed together in a small space, some battered picture books, and a valiant attempt by the overworked staff to put together an interesting wall display.

In short, the distinctly underwhelming experience that is a visit to the CAMHS quarters in the Royal Free, is a sad reflection of the chronic underfunding and undervaluing that characterises mental health treatment in this country. And I know it – because for the past three years, my wonderful daughter has been a CAMHS client. 

What began as a ‘touch of OCD’ quickly mutated into anxiety, characterised by regular and crippling panic attacks, and now, despite seemingly endless sessions of CBT and psychotherapy, has settled into a depression that has her in its cold, hard clutches. I know, because she tells me so, that the sadness she feels is painful and relentless. I also know – because I am living it every day – that seeing the light go out of your child’s eyes, seeing them fail to find much to want to live and hope for, is painful and relentless as well. 

People often laugh at me (I like to think with a measure of affection), because I’m a social media junkie and seemingly share nearly every aspect of my life online. But other than a passing mention that Ruti suffers from anxiety, and a fundraising drive for Noa Girls (or Angels of Mercy, as I like to think of them) last year, I don’t think I’ve said much about it on here. When Yael burnt her arm at the age of three, boy did you all get to see pictures of the bandage and blow by blow accounts of the dressing changes.

But just over a month ago, when Ruti was hospitalised for the first time, not only did I not put a jot about it on Facebook, I didn’t even tell my parents for fear of worrying them, until she was nearly ready to come home. Mark and I spent a frantic Erev Shabbat swapping places with each other in A and E, ferrying Yael to and fro so that we wouldn’t have to ask anyone to babysit her, and telling our older kids in Israel that we were just ‘too busy’ to speak to them that Friday. When I walked to the Royal Free on Shabbat morning to visit her, I took a circuitous route to avoid meeting my dad on his way back from Shul.

When she was hospitalised a second time, this time on Erev Shavuot, I did tell a few people.  Mainly because there were hosting / being hosted plans involved. But while I could certainly have done with the Facebook equivalent of tea and sympathy while I was frantically trying to get all my cooking done, while consoling Yael that her big sister wasn’t going to be at home for chag and worrying about husband and daughter stuck in A and E for 16 hours (yes you read that right), I still didn’t murmur a peep online. 

So, why the silence?

Partly, it was because my kids in Israel knew nothing of how bad things had become for their sister and I really didn’t want to frighten them when they were so far away and helpless. I was also protecting Ruti’s privacy; while she is very open about what she’s been going through (and she’s approved this post), she didn’t want her friends to worry either. But also, if I’m truly honest, I think it’s because some part of me still feels like there is a stigma attached to being the parent of a child undergoing mental health challenges. Doesn’t the fact that my daughter can’t face the world in a ‘normal’ way, doesn’t even want to be in the world some days, mean that I must have been the most horrendous parent? Clearly, I must have screwed up big time. Lurking horribly in the back of my mind is that kernel of fear that if I am open about what we’ve been going through, people will judge – judge me as a parent, and judge my home. 

But – enough. Not talking about mental health issues makes them more frightening. Pushing them under the carpet ENCOURAGES stigma and taboo. And yes, I’ve made mistakes as a parent, who hasn’t? If I’m not arrogant enough to assume my children’s awesomeness (and mark my words they are all extremely awesome) is a result of something I’ve done, I shouldn’t be arrogant enough to assume I’m the root cause of their challenges either. One thing I do know is that seeing my child through this impossibly difficult time has made me a better parent – I’ve learnt to listen better, judge less, empathise more and just – well – be there, when there’s not much else useful you can do.

I’ve also learnt that there are some amazing people and organisations out there. For every uninformed, ignorant teacher who told a panicked, pained teenager  to pull herself together and stop making a fuss (and sadly, there have been a fair few of those), there have been those who’ve gone above and beyond. I think the sound of my Sherlock ringtone and the Hasmonean number flashing on my phone screen will now always prompt a Pavlovian response of fear in my heart, but I will never forget these teachers’ dedication and kindness. The Shabbat room in the hospital, run by Ezra Umarpeh, has been such a relief after a long walk in the sun, knowing I can find cold water, hot coffee, snacks and the overpowering Shabbat smell (stench?!) of cholent in an otherwise sterile and rather unfriendly environment. And my friend Nicole, who provides me with free venting therapy over coffee and cake every single Sunday, and who walked over to the hospital on chag just so she could keep me company on the way back.

The journey we are on has not ended yet. There are no easy answers, it’s often one step forward and two – or three, or four - steps back, and our child still suffers. She has asked me  ‘WHY’ no one has figured out how to truly ameliorate illnesses of the mind yet. I’m sure it’s not for want of trying, but the underfunded broom cupboard that is CAMHS might provide a little hint as to the reason it’s taking so relentlessly long. 

I am learning to take it one day at a time. To appreciate the abundant blessings that I do have – the smaller ones like a beautiful sunny day when I’m walking to the hospital on Shabbat, a quiet cup of coffee in Costa after a stressful morning – and the bigger ones, like family and friends who are there to help out, caring professionals, and a job that allows me all the flexibility I need without ever making me feel guilty for being at appointments instead of the office. Ever the micromanager, I’m also learning to accept the fact that I am not in control of what happens next.

Secrecy doesn’t help anyone. We need to get this stuff out into the open, talk about it, understand it,  not judge it, and LISTEN. Listen to the young people who are going through these enormous challenges, listen to the parents who know them best and sweep away the lingering veil of shame.

And then, maybe, just maybe, CAMHS can make a start on its move out of the metaphorical broom cupboard. You can bet that that will make it into my Facebook status – let’s just hope it’s sooner rather than later.