If You Love Him, Let Him Go

Thought for the Fortnight

Are you one of the many parents whose son or daughter left home for university this autumn? If so, you may have experienced some of the complex emotions around ‘letting go.’ This post may help to remind you that you are among the lucky ones, who do not face taking decisions in this regard. Others may find themselves reminded of that time as something experienced years ago – or still to come.

This is another in my series of posts based on passages from interviews undertaken in the course of my working life.

It comes from what was probably the most moving study in which I was ever engaged, concerning the move of adult sons and daughters with learning disabilities from the parental home. This may sound boring – but believe me, it isn’t. It is about parental love, vulnerability, protectiveness and dying in equal measure.

In the early 1980s, when the interview took place, many young adults with learning disabilities continued to live with their families as they grew older, never moving out in the same way as their non-disabled peers did. Yet as their parents grew into older age, there was a need for some alternative arrangement before it was 'too late'. 

The possibility of the parents' sudden death or incapacity left the disabled person at risk of an abrupt move, with no time to become emotionally prepared and familiar with his or her new surroundings. 

This remains an issue for many such families in Britain, but not as many as forty years ago. All sorts of new arrangements have been set up to enable this population to move on to some form of independent living.

The following comprises passages from an interview with the 65-year-old mother of Martin, then age 24 and living with Down’s Syndrome, who had moved to a nearby hostel a year or so previously. It conveys the incredible ambivalence which any parent of a disabled child feels about his or her move from home.

A mother and her son

Martin was hyperactive as a child, but he's very easy to get on with now. He loves his food, likes his glass of wine. He's quite capable – for years he's been going to the toilet on his own, he dresses himself in the mornings with a little bit of supervision.   

I used to let him go away for a fortnight almost every year. That was good for him, it was a leading up over the years. But he wasn’t always well cared for. There was one occasion when he had gone to a Home – and when we went to collect him, I cried all the way back. I thought What's going to happen to my child when I go? He was unkempt, his clothes had never been worn. I thought, God, I would rather take my child's life – I really mean this – than let him go into a place like that.

Then I heard about this place being built, the hostel he's in now. My social worker said it sounded as if it would be right for him. One night I went to a meeting and asked if they could put Martin's name down for about five years' time.

The lady said there was a very large waiting list. I suddenly burned my bridges – I said, “Put his name down for now.”

I went home and cried my eyes out!  I'd done something on the spur of the moment, but which was really in the back of my mind for years.

Ambivalence about letting go

Then, from the time I had made up my mind to let him go until I knew he'd been accepted, it was months and months. One part of me was hoping they wouldn't accept him – and another was saying, God, what shall I do if they don't accept him?

It was on the cards that he would have to go eventually, but I had put it to the back of my mind. It's not something you want to think about. But from childhood, you think about it. It's not pressing. You think that you have a long lease of life. 

Then a mother died, a widow like myself living alone with her disabled son. She died on the Friday and was found on Monday – and that disabled boy was with her. I used to go to bed at night and think, supposing I had a stroke or die?  Can you imagine the fear? That made me think about it, too.

You are at war all the time. There is the emotional side of you which loves your child dearly and you don't want to part with him. There is the other side, common sense, which says now is the time. If you love him, let him go. You are doing it for him.  

I hoped that they would say that we can't accept Martin, he won't fit in – or we've got too many on the waiting list. I was very emotional. Sadness, with a capital S. I didn't show it to Martin, I was normal about the house, but I ached, I really ached. 

I was losing a child. He was like my other self. You're sorry for them that they'll never have the things that normal children will have. They'll never go out with girlfriends. They won't have a social life. They'll never have the joys of parenthood. I felt that my child wasn't going to have a fulfilled life as I saw it.

Thoughts after the move

When he first went away, I just wanted to cry, but I couldn't let Martin see me unhappy. He’s very sharp and sensitive that way. He could tell by my stance if I was miserable. And that day, it was awful. I was so full of grief. I think I was dreading it. It's like going to a funeral, you are wishing it was all over and done with. 

But I was so relieved – the relief of knowing that you've got a place for him. That if anything happens to me, Martin is all right. That's worth all the grief, all the tears, all the sadness.

And it's so final. I knew that once he went, that was it. That's for the rest of his life and for the rest of my life. Yes, I could have taken him back, but I couldn't do that to my child. I couldn't have subjected him to that again. This is a very big thing for them. I knew I had to succeed.

I needed to have a pattern to my life. I've always had a pattern. Don't forget, for years you are out there at half past eight in the morning waiting for a coach. At night you are rushing home, if you are out, I must get home before the coach turns up, thinking, oh my God, what happens if I don't get home in time?

It was so conflicting – one part of you is happy for your child; the other part is oh, I miss him a lot, I love him, I need him. I only realised it later – I needed Martin more than he needed me. If you are honest about it, you do as you get older. That's rather a shock when you realise. 

And I'm a touching person, I could cuddle Martin. He didn't like it much, but I'd kiss the back of his neck. So, I missed this very vital thing for me – the touch.

And I needed him because he was my child and I loved him dearly. Martin needed me and it makes you feel good. You rarely guessed it, because your life was so boxed in, but there's a debit and credit in every walk of life.

The debit side is that you are really tied for life, but the credit side is that there is somebody who loves you. And it's a very pure love, no ifs or buts about it.

So you lose all this. I was happy about it. It was myself I was sorry for. It's like in grief for death. You weep for yourself, you weep for your loneliness. My husband's life was cut short, he was only 53, but he was out of it – I was weeping for myself. And if we are honest, you have to come to terms with yourself.   

A new life for the son

I like my relationship with the staff. I can go in there and they'll make me a cup of coffee. If a button's missing from Martin's shirt, I can get it, I know where things are. This is lovely. This is very important that their parents should feel part of the child's life.

And I feel I'm in Martin's home; they make me feel that. I never used to knock on Martin's bedroom door. They are giving him dignity. Even I didn't give him that dignity. Well, he was only my little boy.

He has a social life now, which he didn't have with me. He goes out, they'll go shopping, they go to the pub sometimes. They have meetings and they are consulted. I didn't ask him things. Martin is a more rounded person now. He is a personality now. He wasn't, he was my little boy here.

They tell me that they have two empty flats and Martin might be considered for a move. They’ll teach him how to cook. I knew there was potential, but I couldn't see it developing to this extent. I'm very pleased about that. 

I wanted to be reassured that he would be at that hostel for life. They wouldn't – and now I'm glad that they didn't. I only see him as a 24-year-old. He is going to be an older man, God willing, then he'll want something different. 

It's like tunnel vision, when you are home all these years with a handicapped child. You don't see beyond the life that you lead with him. You can't conceive of him living in a different environment.  Martin's been away long enough now for me to see this. To see the potential, what he might be capable of doing.  

A changed life for the parent

When he comes home now, I'm very happy to have him, but I'm not sad when he goes back. I realise my limitations and I find that I must have forced myself for years. I was getting tired, you don't even notice. But once you've had a break, you begin to realise. 

Oh, it was right for him to go, it was right.

I'm much more relaxed now. I can go out any time I want. I meet friends, I have no pressure at all. There's no rushing home, no seeing to Martin. I can go away.  I'm adapting to the fact that I'm 65 now. I'm comfortable to be sitting in front of the fire at night.

And my loneliness has gone. I can truthfully say it's gone, because I'm happy about Martin. That is the reward. If you have a child, you have to let go.  It's very tough if you can't.

A measure of your love if you let them go, but it isn't easy.  Believe you me, it's very difficult.

My co-researcher, Jane Ritchie, and I published a book in 1989 based on the wider study, called Letting Go. Published by the Open University Press, it is out of print, but the occasional copy can be found on Amazon or elsewhere. Regrettably, the appropriate terminology at the time was not ‘people with learning disabilities’ but ‘people with a mental handicap.’ This makes the book seem very outdated, although the study results remain as cogent as ever.

I welcome your comments, especially if you have experienced anything similar to Martin’s mother or know someone in her situation before or after the move. But you may also choose to comment on what this post aroused in you. Or something else altogether. Over to you.