The Art of Disassociation

As I sit in my favourite co-working café, writing this blog between projects, I realize I’ve been holding onto one word allday—disassociation. I heard it on a parent carer podcast, The Skies We Are Under, discussing how parent carers develop this skill early on. And it struck me—I am the queen of disassociation.

This time of year always tests that skill. Memories pop up on my iPhone and social media—images of me in a maternity ward at a Level 3 hospital, on bed rest, trying to prevent an early delivery. Each passing week felt safer as we inched toward full term. I was constantly sending updates to my husband 50 miles away, caring for our two-year-old who kept asking, “Where is mummy?” I’d send back a photo of my hospital meal and the latest ward round update.

Eventually, our twins were born in April. After a traumatic birth, they seemed to be doing well in NICU—until three weeks in, when we were told they both had severe brain injuries. By the end of May, we were discharged and finally together as a family again. But in the thick of it, I almost erased those spring memories—worn down by newborn exhaustion and the gnawing fear of the future.

I lived in full fight-or-flight mode.

Professionals rolled in from 9 to 5, Monday to Friday, assuring us, “We’re with you all the way.” That is, until the weekend arrived. Or the middle of the night. Or annual leave. And then, suddenly, on our own at 3 AM with three kids wide awake no one was with me all the way. And do I even need to mention the pandemic? When all face-to-face support was cut off for six months? I can assure you, “with you all the way” via emails and pixelated video calls didn’t quite cut it.

Most professionals worked with our girls for about two years before moving on to a different role or a promotion and we’d start all over again. We’d get discharged from one service and transferred to another—typically at the two-year mark, and again when they started school. A new transition team would arrive, needing to learn all our names, diagnoses, and history. Sometimes I wish I could just hand them a cheat sheet with the key points. Probably not appropriate, but it would be efficient.

This winter, I took Scarlett for a ketogenic blood test at our local hospital. The nurse greeted me with a smile.

“Come sit down, super mum! Will she have numbing cream this time?” she asked, looking at Scarlett. “Hi Scarlett, it’s Sally. Will you be a good girl today?”

I was baffled. It was Scarlett’s first time getting these bloods done, and we had never met this nurse before. Was she confusing us with someone else?

We got through the ordeal—Scarlett, in true fashion, demanded a sticker at the end. As we were leaving, Sally added, “See you in 12 weeks! How are those sisters getting on? Still enjoying the trampoline?”

I left, more confused than ever. Was she thinking of the wrong family? Did she even do the right blood test for my child? The thought nagged at me for weeks.

When we returned 12 weeks later, I finally asked, “Sally, have we met before? I was so confused by how familiar you were last time.”

She smiled. “I was your Neonatal Outreach Nurse. I used to come to your house twice a week that first summer after the twins were born. I remember both girls being unsettled and your two-year-old, Grace, desperately wanted you to play on her new trampoline. You were hooked up, expressing milk while simultaneously NG feeding the twins. You asked me to weigh and measure them while you had a quick bounce with Grace—she had played second fiddle all day.”

I stood there, blushing. Right. Suddenly, that previous interaction made sense.

Driving home, the memory surfaced. I could recall that day. But I hadn’t recognized her or remembered it until she pulled me back into it. That’s when it hit me—I had learned to disassociate from those bad days. I had boxed them up in my mind to survive the daily challenges.

I’ve flexed this skill over the years.

Sports Day, June 2023. One child was in high dependency care. I swapped with a carer so I could watch my eldest’s race. Other parents made small talk— “How are the twins?” I smiled and said, “Doing great! Just having an afternoon nap with a carer.” Not a lie… just omitted the part about the hospital.

School pickup conversations. “Busy day?” parents ask. “Yeah, back-to-back with meetings,” I reply. I just leave out that those meetings involved measuring wheelchairs and advocating for my child’s postural needs—fighting for the right equipment instead of the cheapest option the OT hoped I’d accept.

Parent carers can go from a high-stress, life-or-death situation in a resus room to being the life of the party at a bottomless brunch—just weeks later.

That is the power of disassociation.

I can go to bed with the world on my shoulders, write it all down to clear my head to switch off. Then, in the middle of the night, a monitor alarms—my child isn’t breathing enough. Within a minute, I have the nasal prongs on, oxygen switched on, assessing whether I can manage this at home or if we need to head to the hospital.

If she settles on a litre of oxygen, I’m back asleep in 15 minutes. Wake up. Dress three kids and morning meds round. School drop-off. Start work at 9 AM as if none of it just happened. Whether this is a healthy way to be ask me in 10 years time!

Parent carers show an extraordinary ability to adapt—to develop skills that most of the general population will never understand. That is, until life demands it of them. Whether caring for a child, a parent, or a loved one, we evolve into a new version of ourselves. A version built on strength, survival, and a love so fierce that it teaches us to keep moving forward—even when the world stands still.