My fingers tightly gripped the charcoal-colored pen as I removed the pale piece of paper from the clipboard. I quickly glanced at both sides to assess just how long this task would take. I hate these forms. I understand the need for records, but it simply is not possible to include a rather involved and complex history on a two-sided form. I let out an audible sigh, reattached the page with the metal clip, and began filling in the blanks. Name. Address. Phone. It is always the same. The pen moved as if on autopilot. Date of Birth. Height. Weight. My hand continued to move rapidly across the page. Reason for Visit. Concerns. Diagnosis. There it was. The little blank line waiting for the information that would prime the lens through which the practitioner would view my adult son.
In the chair next to me, he began to fidget. Out of the corner of my eye, I could see his jawline tense. Eyes wide, he was perched on the edge of the chair, poised for the unexpected. His anxiety clock was ticking, and I felt a heightened sense of urgency. I knew we did not have much time before we would have to change strategies. He scanned the sparsely decorated room, dotted with socially distanced seating, before settling his gaze on my slightly bowed head.
“Mom”, he whispered loudly. “How much longer?”
I looked up from the irritating assignment, brows deeply furrowed, and met my son’s gaze. His handsome face displayed an uneasy look. I smiled, took a deep breath, and attempted to achieve a tone in my voice that would convey a believable balance somewhere between nonchalant and confident.
“Oh, it should be any time now,” I said trying to sound convincing.
He grimaced, shifted his weight in the unforgiving chair, and began to shake his leg with a pulsating rhythm. His hands alternately clasping and unclasping.
I looked back at the paper with increased frustration. I caution the students in my classes to be mindful of the fact that people are so much more than a mental health challenge, a disorder, or a disease. Any of these can be a part of their journey, but these things do not define who they are. Yet here it was again. The little blank line. The empty space intended for the words that would chart our course.
I knew his anxiety was increasing the longer we sat in the unfamiliar room. I felt a deep stirring at the core of my being to go rogue. I wanted to fill the little blank line with adjectives that truly describe him and the many amazing things about him. I wanted to share the traits that contribute to the incredible man he is instead of writing the labels and diagnoses he has been assigned over the course of his life.
I wanted to write words like loving, compassionate, detail-oriented, emotionally attentive, and sensitive. But I did what was necessary. With microscopic handwriting, I begrudgingly began to pen as many words as possible onto the little blank line. My son leaned over and gently rested his head against my shoulder. My hand paused. The writing ceased. Our connection in that moment was more important than any partially completed form. I kissed the top of his head and tightly closed my eyes to stop the tear that threatened to spill onto the page. My heart ached for this amazing man and his many struggles, but it also filled with love and gratitude for his presence in my life. He is so much more than his challenges, his diagnoses, or the words written on a little blank line.