ABSTRACT
The summer of 1997 was now upon us and I tried my best to make the best of every day at home with my son. Yet I knew with each day that passed my inevitable return to work was coming closer, probably in September, which I would have to face along with all the pressures of life I had crumbled under in previous months. My appointments continued with the psychiatric nurse, whom I now saw just at the hospital; the consultant, who listened to my progress; my GP, who kept prescribing the antidepressants; and the health visitor, who noted at her visit in mid-May that she had seen Dominic at home in his highchair, eating and using a cup. He was mobilising well around furniture and there were plenty of age-appropriate toys and a play pen. He was vocalising, saying ‘tick-tock’ and ‘No’, with lots of smiling. I think she must have been happy with us.
