Last week was a very eventful week for me.
Monday:
My 26 year-old son, who has struggled with an addiction to alcohol since he was 15, and whose life continues to be difficult due to his early choices, drove his car while under the influence on Monday night and by the grace of God ran out of gas and was ushered off the road without being arrested by a police officer who was too eager to end his shift to deal with an intoxicated person. When my husband and I arrived to gas-up his car and remove him from the scene I was able to convince him (because he is finally ready) to enter rehab. At 10pm we drove him to a facility and learned that, a.) he has no medical insurance through his employer, and b.) one must fall 310% below the poverty level to receive aid for rehab. How is that even possible? With a total price tag of $22,000 for a 30 day treatment suddenly my visions of him safely detoxing then finally getting the professional help he needs began to fade. My husband and I talked and I brought out the plastic to pay the $3650 down payment for 5 days of detox. I figured I could talk to my bank in the morning and borrow the rest of the money against my slowly depreciating house. My son looked me in the eye and said, "I won't let you spend that money on me," then turned and walked out the door of the facility into the night. We followed him and together talked about our options. In my gut I knew we were all at a crossroads. My husband and I have been enjoying an empty nest insulated from the daily drama of my son's personal issues. He pleaded that if he could just move back into our home, promising to attend AA, then he knew he could stop drinking and begin to change his life. He wants desperately to get out of his toxic living arrangement. He lives with 3 roommates, one of whom works for a brewing company, and every night is pandomonium on a par with the film "Animal House." I could sense that we were at a tipping point. My husband and I could either step up and draw him into the safety of our home or we would watch him take an irrevocable fall. We agreed that we would take him in one last time and then the three of us drove toward home, together, for the first time in seven years.
Tuesday:
After a truly sleepless night spent with my intestines macrame'ed into a hundred knots, I called-in sick to work and went online to find the closest AA meeting. My son and I arrived at the Serenity House for a 12 noon meeting. He looked incredibly uncomfortable. I knew he had attended AA meetings before, as mandated by law after a prior DUI conviction, but now he was attending because of his promise to me. What I wanted him to realize, and what I told him, was that this was not for me, or his dad, but for himself and his future and a better quality of life for him and his 3 year old son, our precious grandson. The meeting lasted about an hour and forty-five munutes. It was emotionally draining for me after the previous night's events. It conjured spectral images of ugly violence from past experiences with my ex-husband, my father and my brother...alcoholics all. The resonating effects of alcoholism have been compared to the far-reaching ripples that eminate from the toss of a single pebble into still water, but I can tell you that the effects of alcoholism on generations of an afflicted family are more akin to the turbulent waves that result from a putrifying body being dropped into a shallow pool, throwing jagged fingers of fetid water into the air then fouling the water darker and danker throughout its long process of decay. A shudder of recognition and then a wave of acceptance of the impact that alcoholism has had on my life washed over me. But I was also bouyed up by a swell of peacefulness. I know now, finally, in my 48th year that I cannot save my son. He has to save himself. I can offer support but ultimately it is for him to decide the value of his own life. At the end of the meeting he wanted to leave quickly but I asked the meeting leader about a sponsor and the man, who began the meeting by lifting his leg up onto a table to reveal a monitoring ankle bracelet, agreed to sponsor my son. Another man stepped forward and gave my son his cell number also. Both urged him to pick up the phone before he picks up another drink. We went home tired but hopeful. My son read from the Big Book and my husband and I planned how we would rearrange rooms in the house to accomodate both our son and grandson on the days that he has custody. Later I drove my son to his property manager to give 30 days notice on the house he rents. He called his roommates and told them to vacate by the end of the month. He seems so relieved. I often imagine that he harbors resentment and feelings of abandonment resulting from the "tough love" stand we took with him in his late teens. I hope he realizes that he is loved, and our welcoming him back into our home is perhaps one tangible expression of that love.
Wednesday:
My son goes to work, goes to his AA meeting and comes home looking happy, healthier and exhibits none of the shaky physical signs of detox that I would have expected. I had a fleeting notion, on my way home from work, to drive by the AA meeting site and check up on him, but it was just that, fleeting. I had a moment of clarity immediately and heard of voice in my head say, "It is his journey, his choice, what will be, will be," and I knew that any neurotic spying on my part would just be a backward step in my own evolution.
Thursday:
I leave work early to attend a Duran Duran concert with my husband, daughter and several friends for my birthday. I speak to my son on the phone. He is doing what he needs to be doing. Everything feels right.
Friday:
My actual birthday...my sister, God love her...a whole 'nother story, takes me and my daughter to a beautiful spa for a day of pampering, including massage and moisturizing body treatments, a delicious lunch and mineral baths and just plain relaxation. I feel restored, body and soul.
Saturday:
It is the annual Mother's Day Limo to Temecula for winetasting and female bonding. My daughter has put this together every year for the last three years and it has always been wonderful. This year I feel guilty drinking and watch my daughter closely, looking for signs of the "disease." She and another one of the "daughters" get pretty intoxicated. When we arrive home she is very emotional. She can barely articulate what she is feeling, but the essence of it is that she is so relieved that her brother is "safe" back at home. She wants to move back in too, she says, so that we can all be together. She is really feeling sentimental and being "in the cups" as my aunt would say, is not helping. I continually hug her and tell her that I love her. She is not the one who ever needs to be rescued, and I know that feeling of being always in the shadows while another sibling is in the harsh limelight of negative attention. I want her to feel the intensity of my love for her, even though she never needs the grand gestures of rescue. She ends up staying up late, eating popcorn and telling both of her brothers how much she loves them. (Our youngest son still lives at home...well, his furniture does, he is almost never at home.)
Sunday-Mother's Day-
My husband cooks breakfast and the five of us are together for a rare morning meal, rare in that it does not include my grandson nor any of the kid's significant others. My youngest son comes down to the table shirtless and both of his siblings immediately yell at him to "put on a shirt for Mother's Day breakfast, for christsakes." Meanwhile, I arrange the table to look like something out of Country Living magazine, placing the birthday bouquet my husband gave me in the middle of the table and arranging everyone perfectly to capture this moment photographically. My youngest comes down, shirted, and it isn't until I get in position to snap the photo that I notice he is wearing a souvenir T-shirt that has a large black handgun emblazoned on it with the graphic declaration, "Welcome to New York, Now Duck Mother F**ker." He grins, in his own wry way, and uses one hand to mask the words "Now Duck" and the other hand to mask the work "F**ker." He is now clad in a shirt that reads "Welcome to New York, Mother!" I am satisfied with the modification...I feel quite content...it is a good day and as it has turned out, a very good week.
Monday:
My 26 year-old son, who has struggled with an addiction to alcohol since he was 15, and whose life continues to be difficult due to his early choices, drove his car while under the influence on Monday night and by the grace of God ran out of gas and was ushered off the road without being arrested by a police officer who was too eager to end his shift to deal with an intoxicated person. When my husband and I arrived to gas-up his car and remove him from the scene I was able to convince him (because he is finally ready) to enter rehab. At 10pm we drove him to a facility and learned that, a.) he has no medical insurance through his employer, and b.) one must fall 310% below the poverty level to receive aid for rehab. How is that even possible? With a total price tag of $22,000 for a 30 day treatment suddenly my visions of him safely detoxing then finally getting the professional help he needs began to fade. My husband and I talked and I brought out the plastic to pay the $3650 down payment for 5 days of detox. I figured I could talk to my bank in the morning and borrow the rest of the money against my slowly depreciating house. My son looked me in the eye and said, "I won't let you spend that money on me," then turned and walked out the door of the facility into the night. We followed him and together talked about our options. In my gut I knew we were all at a crossroads. My husband and I have been enjoying an empty nest insulated from the daily drama of my son's personal issues. He pleaded that if he could just move back into our home, promising to attend AA, then he knew he could stop drinking and begin to change his life. He wants desperately to get out of his toxic living arrangement. He lives with 3 roommates, one of whom works for a brewing company, and every night is pandomonium on a par with the film "Animal House." I could sense that we were at a tipping point. My husband and I could either step up and draw him into the safety of our home or we would watch him take an irrevocable fall. We agreed that we would take him in one last time and then the three of us drove toward home, together, for the first time in seven years.
Tuesday:
After a truly sleepless night spent with my intestines macrame'ed into a hundred knots, I called-in sick to work and went online to find the closest AA meeting. My son and I arrived at the Serenity House for a 12 noon meeting. He looked incredibly uncomfortable. I knew he had attended AA meetings before, as mandated by law after a prior DUI conviction, but now he was attending because of his promise to me. What I wanted him to realize, and what I told him, was that this was not for me, or his dad, but for himself and his future and a better quality of life for him and his 3 year old son, our precious grandson. The meeting lasted about an hour and forty-five munutes. It was emotionally draining for me after the previous night's events. It conjured spectral images of ugly violence from past experiences with my ex-husband, my father and my brother...alcoholics all. The resonating effects of alcoholism have been compared to the far-reaching ripples that eminate from the toss of a single pebble into still water, but I can tell you that the effects of alcoholism on generations of an afflicted family are more akin to the turbulent waves that result from a putrifying body being dropped into a shallow pool, throwing jagged fingers of fetid water into the air then fouling the water darker and danker throughout its long process of decay. A shudder of recognition and then a wave of acceptance of the impact that alcoholism has had on my life washed over me. But I was also bouyed up by a swell of peacefulness. I know now, finally, in my 48th year that I cannot save my son. He has to save himself. I can offer support but ultimately it is for him to decide the value of his own life. At the end of the meeting he wanted to leave quickly but I asked the meeting leader about a sponsor and the man, who began the meeting by lifting his leg up onto a table to reveal a monitoring ankle bracelet, agreed to sponsor my son. Another man stepped forward and gave my son his cell number also. Both urged him to pick up the phone before he picks up another drink. We went home tired but hopeful. My son read from the Big Book and my husband and I planned how we would rearrange rooms in the house to accomodate both our son and grandson on the days that he has custody. Later I drove my son to his property manager to give 30 days notice on the house he rents. He called his roommates and told them to vacate by the end of the month. He seems so relieved. I often imagine that he harbors resentment and feelings of abandonment resulting from the "tough love" stand we took with him in his late teens. I hope he realizes that he is loved, and our welcoming him back into our home is perhaps one tangible expression of that love.
Wednesday:
My son goes to work, goes to his AA meeting and comes home looking happy, healthier and exhibits none of the shaky physical signs of detox that I would have expected. I had a fleeting notion, on my way home from work, to drive by the AA meeting site and check up on him, but it was just that, fleeting. I had a moment of clarity immediately and heard of voice in my head say, "It is his journey, his choice, what will be, will be," and I knew that any neurotic spying on my part would just be a backward step in my own evolution.
Thursday:
I leave work early to attend a Duran Duran concert with my husband, daughter and several friends for my birthday. I speak to my son on the phone. He is doing what he needs to be doing. Everything feels right.
Friday:
My actual birthday...my sister, God love her...a whole 'nother story, takes me and my daughter to a beautiful spa for a day of pampering, including massage and moisturizing body treatments, a delicious lunch and mineral baths and just plain relaxation. I feel restored, body and soul.
Saturday:
It is the annual Mother's Day Limo to Temecula for winetasting and female bonding. My daughter has put this together every year for the last three years and it has always been wonderful. This year I feel guilty drinking and watch my daughter closely, looking for signs of the "disease." She and another one of the "daughters" get pretty intoxicated. When we arrive home she is very emotional. She can barely articulate what she is feeling, but the essence of it is that she is so relieved that her brother is "safe" back at home. She wants to move back in too, she says, so that we can all be together. She is really feeling sentimental and being "in the cups" as my aunt would say, is not helping. I continually hug her and tell her that I love her. She is not the one who ever needs to be rescued, and I know that feeling of being always in the shadows while another sibling is in the harsh limelight of negative attention. I want her to feel the intensity of my love for her, even though she never needs the grand gestures of rescue. She ends up staying up late, eating popcorn and telling both of her brothers how much she loves them. (Our youngest son still lives at home...well, his furniture does, he is almost never at home.)
Sunday-Mother's Day-
My husband cooks breakfast and the five of us are together for a rare morning meal, rare in that it does not include my grandson nor any of the kid's significant others. My youngest son comes down to the table shirtless and both of his siblings immediately yell at him to "put on a shirt for Mother's Day breakfast, for christsakes." Meanwhile, I arrange the table to look like something out of Country Living magazine, placing the birthday bouquet my husband gave me in the middle of the table and arranging everyone perfectly to capture this moment photographically. My youngest comes down, shirted, and it isn't until I get in position to snap the photo that I notice he is wearing a souvenir T-shirt that has a large black handgun emblazoned on it with the graphic declaration, "Welcome to New York, Now Duck Mother F**ker." He grins, in his own wry way, and uses one hand to mask the words "Now Duck" and the other hand to mask the work "F**ker." He is now clad in a shirt that reads "Welcome to New York, Mother!" I am satisfied with the modification...I feel quite content...it is a good day and as it has turned out, a very good week.
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