Chapter 9

The phone’s shrill ring slices through the tranquillity of your Erindale home, an unwelcome intruder in the leafy Adelaide suburb. You glance at the caller ID—Brett. Odd for him to call this time of day; he’s usually buried in consultations or crafting strategies for corporate bigwigs.

‘Lauren, love,’ Brett’s voice is a taut string ready to snap, ‘It’s Rachel. She’s… she’s sick. Really sick.’

Your heart stutters. Rachel, your daughter, the other half of your twins, a vibrant teenager rarely touched by more than a cold. The phone feels like a lead weight against your ear, Brett’s words barely registering as your mind races. Illness doesn’t knock on your door; you’re the Millwards, robust in both body and mind.

‘Lauren, are you there? We need to get to the hospital.’ Brett’s insistence drills through your shock.

You nod before realizing the futility of the gesture over the phone. ‘Yes, I’m here. I’ll be right there.’ But your voice sounds distant, disconnected from the maelstrom of disbelief swirling inside you.

With adrenaline igniting your veins, you snatch keys, purse, anything your hands blindly graze. The drive to the RAH is a blur—a montage of red lights ignored and turns barely registered. Each tick of the clock is a drumbeat echoing the urgency pumping through your bloodstream.

Parking is a nightmare forgotten as soon as the car is abandoned. Your legs carry you at a sprint through sliding doors and along sterile corridors that reek of antiseptic and fear. People become faceless, their murmurs and footsteps just a backdrop to the singular thought hammering in your head: Rachel.

When you reach her room, every ounce of your psychological training stands powerless against the raw, maternal instinct clawing its way out. You’re a mother first, a psychologist second, and all the theories in the world can’t prepare you for the sight of your child, pale and small, engulfed by the stark hospital bed.

‘Rachel,’ you whisper, a prayer and a plea entwined in your breath as you move to her side. Her illness is real, tangible, and all your expertise is reduced to nothing in the face of it—the vulnerability is terrifying.

You find yourself at the nurses’ station, the clinical white of the counter a stark contrast to your own tumultuous emotions. ‘I need an update on my daughter, Rachel Millward,’ you demand, though your voice betrays a tremble.

A nurse with kind eyes and a clipboard looks up. ‘Let me check for you,’ she says, her efficiency a small comfort in the chaos of your mind. She disappears behind a door marked ‘Staff Only’, leaving you to tap a staccato rhythm against the counter—a futile attempt to dispel the anxiety that has taken residence in your chest.

Minutes stretch like hours. You recall the countless moments spent teaching students about stress responses, about fight-or-flight reactions, yet now you’re the one frozen in place, your heart racing with no outlet for the adrenaline coursing through your veins.

The nurse returns, her face a practiced mask of neutrality. ‘Dr. Stevens will be out shortly to speak with you,’ she informs you.

‘Shortly’ is another indefinite that fuels your frustration. Time, it seems, has lost all meaning since that phone call from Brett.

Dr. Stevens, a man whose white coat seems to bear the weight of a thousand such conversations, finally emerges. His words are measured, careful, but they hit you like physical blows. ‘Stable for the moment,’ he says, ‘but it’s a serious condition.’

‘Serious’ is not a diagnosis; it’s a chasm of uncertainty. Your mind races, trying to bridge it with your knowledge of psychology, searching for some theory or framework that can make sense of this. But the truth hits hard: academic theories offer little solace when it’s your own daughter’s name on the hospital chart.

‘Can I see her test results? Her medical records?’ you ask, desperate for data, for something tangible to hold onto.

‘Only with the consultant’s permission,’ Dr. Stevens replies, his tone sympathetic yet firm.

‘Please,’ you urge, ‘I’m a psychologist. Understanding her condition might help me… help her.’

He hesitates, and you see an opening. ‘It’s about expectations, isn’t it? The expectancy theory—I know it’s more social psychology than medical, but if she believes she’ll get better, it could influence the outcome.’

‘Mrs. Millward—’ he begins, but you cut him off.

‘Lauren. And I need to do something,’ you insist, feeling the helplessness claw at you. The irony is not lost on you—how you’ve lectured on the power of the mind, yet stand here, powerless.

‘Alright, Lauren.’ He nods, a small concession. ‘I’ll see what I can arrange.’

You thank him, your gratitude mixed with a gnawing realization. Despite your years of training and expertise, you stand on unfamiliar ground. All the doctoral degrees in the world couldn’t prepare you for the role of a mother watching over her sick child, searching for hope in a maze of medical jargon and sterile corridors.

As you wait to see Rachel, you lean against the cool wall, closing your eyes. For a moment, you let go of trying to be the expert. Instead, you focus on being there, being present—because sometimes, that’s the most profound therapy there is.

You stride down the hospital corridor, every click of your heels against the linoleum floor echoing the rapid beat of your heart. Through the windowpane of Rachel’s room, you catch a glimpse of her—your little girl, now a young woman—lying pale and still amidst a tangle of tubes and wires. Your hands tremble as they push open the door; it’s the touch of a mother, not the assured grip of Dr. Lauren Millward, renowned social psychologist.

‘Hey, love,’ you whisper, brushing a stray lock of hair from Rachel’s forehead. Her eyes flutter open, a weak smile playing on her lips at the sight of you. The guilt gnaws at you—had you missed signs? Could you, with all your understanding of human behaviour, have predicted this downturn in her health? You’ve dissected countless case studies, but none of those subjects were your own flesh and blood.

‘Let’s try something together,’ you suggest, voice soft but steady. It’s an effort to marry your two worlds, to be both the expert and the nurturer. ‘A little visualization can do wonders.’

Rachel nods faintly, a silent agreement to trust you, to let you lead her through the pain with the tools of your trade. You take her hand, its coolness searing your palm, and guide her through gentle breaths. Together, you begin painting a mental picture, a serene beach where the waves lap at the shore, rhythmic and soothing. You describe the warmth of the sun kissing her skin, the salty breeze weaving through her hair, the sensation of healing enveloping her body.

‘Imagine your cells,’ you continue, ‘each one glowing with vitality, repairing themselves.’ You detail this process with care, weaving a tapestry of restoration with your words. You see Rachel’s brow smooth out, the edges of discomfort seemingly blunted by the imagery you conjure.

But as you watch her, the professional detachment crumbles. This isn’t a client or a subject in an experiment—it’s Rachel, your daughter. And no amount of research papers or peer-reviewed articles could teach you how to mend her. The doubt creeps in, whispering that perhaps your presence is not enough, that your words are mere placebos against the stark reality of illness.

‘Keep focusing on that image, darling,’ you encourage, but the tremor in your voice betrays the swirling storm within you. You’re torn between the empirical and the emotional, questioning if there’s more you should be doing, or worse, if there was anything you did—or didn’t do—that led to this moment.

Yet, as Rachel’s grip on your hand tightens ever so slightly, you’re reminded of why you’re here. Not as Dr. Millward, but as Mum—her protector, her anchor, the one who’ll stand by her through tempests and trials alike. It’s in that intimate space, where professional lines blur into maternal love, that you find your resolve strengthening. You’ll navigate this uncharted territory with all the tenacity and grace you possess, for Rachel, for your family, and for yourself.

Your hands tremble as you adjust the sterile, white bedsheet with an attempt at precision—a stark contrast to the chaos unfurling within you. Rachel’s breaths come in shallow gasps, the sound a discordant rhythm against the hum of medical equipment. You lean closer, whispering assurances laced with the imagery of a serene beach, the warmth of the sun on her skin, the gentle lapping of waves—anything to transport her from this cold, clinical reality.

‘Imagine the tide washing away the pain, love,’ you say, voice steady despite the tremor of doubt seizing your heart. The techniques that once seemed infallible now feel like a child’s raft adrift in a stormy sea. You’re a seasoned psychologist, trained to heal minds, yet here you are, clutching at the intangible, desperate for a sign that your words have substance, that they can somehow reach into Rachel’s body and mend what’s broken.

As you watch her struggle, frustration claws at your resolve. Is there truly power in these mental images, or are they merely echoes in the vast silence of suffering? Your own research whispers back at you, but the voice is hollow, drowned out by the visceral fear gripping you every time Rachel winces or moans.

‘Lauren?’ Brett’s hand finds your shoulder, a grounding presence amid the tempest of your emotions. His touch anchors you back to the moment, to the fact that you’re not alone in this. His eyes, ever the hue of calm seas, meet yours—there’s worry there, yes, but also an unwavering support that has bolstered you through years of both professional challenges and personal triumphs.

‘Hey,’ he murmurs, his thumb brushing away a tear that betrays the fortress of strength you try to maintain. ‘You’re doing everything you can. She knows that; we all do.’

You nod, trying to absorb the certainty in his voice, wishing it could seep into your bones and steel you against the helplessness that threatens to consume you. But it’s hard—harder than any academic pursuit you’ve undertaken—to combat the gnawing thought that maybe, just maybe, you should have seen the signs earlier, should have been more than just a mother who believed her daughter’s complaints were nothing serious.

‘Visualization has helped so many, Brett,’ you confide, the professional jargon feeling foreign on your tongue in such an intimate setting. ‘But what if it’s not enough? What if I’m not enough?’

‘Lauren, love, look at me.’ He waits until you lift your gaze to his. ‘You’ve spent your life studying the mind, unlocking potential. You know better than anyone that hope is a powerful medicine. And right now, it’s the best one we’ve got.’

His affirmation is a balm to the raw edges of your psyche. Here, in the quiet corner of a bustling hospital ward, your roles as psychologist and mother blur into something more profound—a partnership forged in love and shared struggles, a testament to the collective strength that has always defined your family.

‘Come on, let’s give her some rest,’ Brett suggests gently, guiding you away from Rachel’s bedside, offering his arm as both comfort and support. As you lean into him, allowing yourself this moment of vulnerability, you realize that sometimes, the most significant act of healing comes not from theories or techniques, but from the unwavering bond that ties hearts together.

With Brett’s arm around you, you find a semblance of peace amidst the uncertainty. It’s in his steadfast presence that you draw the courage to face whatever lies ahead, ready to harness every scrap of knowledge and ounce of determination you possess. Together, you’ll navigate this storm—and no matter what, you won’t let Rachel weather it alone.

You stride through the sterile hospital corridors, the determined click of your heels echoing against the linoleum floor. Brett’s words, steeped in faith and love, still resonate within you, fuelling a newfound resolve to leave no stone unturned. As a social psychologist, you’ve always trusted the power of human connection and resilience, but now, as a mother, you cling to it with a desperation that is both raw and refined.

‘Dr. Millward?’ A young resident looks up from her clipboard, startled by your approach. ‘Can we help you?’

‘Please,’ you begin, your voice steady despite the storm brewing inside. ‘I need to know if there are any other treatments we haven’t considered for my daughter, Rachel. Any trials, alternative therapies… anything.’

As you listen to the resident list potential options, your mind works like an analytical engine, dissecting each suggestion, weighing its merits against the backdrop of Rachel’s condition. You jot down notes in a small notebook you always carry, your handwriting a flurry of loops and lines that only you could decipher.

‘Thank you,’ you say once she finishes, offering a smile that doesn’t quite reach your eyes. ‘I’ll look into these immediately.’

Back at Rachel’s bedside, you watch her chest rise and fall with the mechanical rhythm of the ventilator. The room feels smaller now, the beeping monitors and IV drips a constant reminder of the fragility of life. But you’re not one to succumb to despair. Oh no, not when there’s fight left in you.

‘Rachel,’ you whisper, brushing a strand of hair from her forehead. ‘Mum’s going to find something. Just hold on, love.’

You feel Brett’s hand squeeze your shoulder, a silent testament to the shared burden of hope and fear that has become your family’s reality. And yet, despite the uncertainty, you refuse to let fear take root.

‘Hope is not blind optimism,’ you remind yourself, recalling the theories you’ve lectured on countless times. It’s about setting expectations, visualizing positive outcomes, and taking active steps towards them. It’s a dance between what you know as a psychologist and what you feel as a mother—a delicate balance that now dictates every breath you take.

‘Let’s go over the list together,’ Brett suggests, his voice a calm anchor in the eye of the storm.

‘Alright,’ you agree, though part of you quivers at the thought of hope slipping through your fingers. But you push those thoughts away, focusing instead on the actionable steps before you. You won’t let doubt cloud your judgment—not when Rachel needs you most.

You spend the following hours poring over medical journals, contacting specialists across Adelaide and beyond. Your expertise in psychology becomes an unexpected ally as you dissect research papers with a critical eye, seeking connections others might miss.

Yet, as night falls and the artificial glow of the hospital lights casts long shadows across the room, you can’t help but feel the weight of what-ifs pressing down on you. What if none of these treatments work? What if you’re chasing miracles?

‘Lauren,’ Brett’s voice cuts through the haze of your thoughts, his hand warm against yours. ‘We’re doing everything we can.’

‘Are we?’ you question, the raw edge of vulnerability creeping into your voice. ‘Or are we just delaying the inevitable?’

‘Hope is the light that guides us through darkness,’ he replies, his conviction unwavering. ‘We owe it to Rachel to keep searching, to keep believing.’

And in his eyes—those deep pools of strength—you find the reflection of your own determination. Fear may be a constant companion, but so is hope. And as long as it flickers, even dimly, you’ll follow its path.

‘Tomorrow, we start again,’ you tell him, squeezing his hand. ‘For Rachel.’

You’re scrolling through the digital library of medical journals that seems to stretch into infinity when a title catches your eye. ‘Harnessing Expectation: The Impact of Positive Visualization on Recovery Rates’ – it’s like a beacon in the ocean of data you’ve been drowning in. Your fingers hesitate for only a heartbeat before clicking open the document.

Your eyes race across the abstract, picking out key phrases: ‘psychoneuroimmunology,’ ‘placebo effect,’ ‘therapeutic visualization.’ They’re concepts you’re familiar with, but this research delves deeper, suggesting a novel application.

‘Lauren,’ Brett whispers, cautious not to startle you as he peers over your shoulder at the screen. ‘What is it?’

‘Look at this,’ you say, your voice barely above a whisper, yet thrumming with excitement. You point to a case study outlined in the journal, a story of unexpected remission tied to a patient’s engagement with visualization techniques. It’s not just about passively hoping for the best; it’s an active, structured approach to fostering healing through the power of belief and imagery.

‘Could this help Rachel?’ Brett asks, his voice tinged with the same cautious optimism that’s beginning to swell in your chest.

You nod, feeling the gears in your mind already turning. This isn’t just another straw to grasp at; it has substance, a foundation built on years of psychological theory and research. As a psychologist, you understand the profound influence expectations can have on the mind and body. And now, a new pathway opens up before you, one that combines your professional expertise with the fierce love of a mother.

‘Visualization… we can teach Rachel to use it, to visualize her recovery, to strengthen her expectation of getting better,’ you explain, your words gathering momentum as the idea solidifies. ‘It could complement her treatments, maybe even amplify their effectiveness.’

Brett’s hand finds yours again, giving it a reassuring squeeze. There’s no need for more words; the determination in your grip says everything.

You spend the rest of the night immersed in the research, making notes, sketching out plans. By dawn, your decision is as clear as the first light filtering through the hospital window. You’ll guide Rachel through visualization exercises, tapping into the innate power of her own mind to fight this illness.

‘Alright, Rachel,’ you whisper to yourself, imagining your daughter’s face, her strength, her courage. ‘Let’s show them what you’re made of.’

The chapter closes with you standing by the window, watching the sun rise over Adelaide. In its warm glow, you see the day ahead—not just another day of uncertainty and fear, but one filled with purpose and action. Today, you begin a new chapter in Rachel’s journey toward healing, armed with knowledge and driven by a love that knows no bounds. You’re ready to fight, and you won’t stop until Rachel is back on her feet, laughing and living the life she deserves.