6 The Golden Valley
Happiness is a form of courage.
—GEORGE HOLBROOK JACKSON
THE FLOODGATES HAVE OPENED. My tears and my sadness flow forth unrestrained. A deluge. A release. All the feelings I’ve been holding in for six weeks (rolled up with all the feelings I’ve been holding in for months and years) are coming out, riding on waves of sheer exhaustion. The unrelenting need to try making sense of what makes no sense at all—in so many ways, with so many people—has worn me to a nub. Sprawled on my stomach across my bed, I ache for a comforting hand on my shoulder, or to be wrapped in the arms of someone who feels what I feel, who cares what I feel, and whose love would absorb some of the pain. My aloneness adds to the sadness already filling me up to the brim. A spontaneous cleansing, this happens every once in a while—my body, brain, and heart team up to say it’s time to shed some of the sad to make room for some happy. For a tomorrow, a soul, filled with more strength than tears. And so, I don’t hold back.
Back home now from my roots in Golden Valley, I’m grieving the loss of the house I grew up in, the loss of my parents as parents, and the loss of their golden years dream. I’m grieving the loss of yet another belief in the man I once thought I knew—the essence of the man to whom I was married—and the ongoing loss of my son to The Addict who consumes him. I’m grieving the loss of my family—both families: the one I was born into and the one I made—and the loss of life’s most important and everlasting connections, which have been lost with these losses. And I’m grieving the loss of my sense of security and of life as I knew it (again), and so the loss of a whole bunch more dreams, too.
So, in crying, I’m working through quite a backlog of material. Unrealized dreams. This cry will take some time.
Dreams. So lofty and pie in the sky. Like clouds. Yet solid enough to hang your hat on. So, for something that never actually happened, unrealized dreams are a heavy load. Like a dowager’s hump, the weight has me emotionally stooped. The pain is crippling.
My dreams—for my children, for my family, for me—had no boundary. Some dreams were big and lofty, like happiness and personal successes, while other dreams were more low-key, like for everyone to be all snug-as-a-bug. I dreamed of togetherness at family trips, holidays, days at the beach, or celebrating life’s great events—or being together for life’s not-so-great events, too. Some dreams were as simple as chatty phone calls, sharing jokes, or checking in on what’s up. My dreams had no boundary, and so there’s no boundary to my agony now that those dreams are gone.
I mourn the dreams that aren’t to be. I mourn the dreams that should have been, the dreams that could have been, and even the silly little daydreams and long-shot pipe dreams. Carried away, like a towering tree in a storm, things that once seemed solid, secure, and certain are gone.
Where do dreams go when they die?
—Tending Dandelions, 123
A few nights later, all dried up and dried off—my composure put back together and my feelings put back in the place where I store them—I reach out to some friends, ready now for the comfort of their presence, love, and support. Tonight there’s a supermoon, a full moon that is bigger and brighter than usual, so we gather around the firepit in my neighbor’s backyard, talking about life and hurt and healing, and we watch as the moon slowly rises and shines in the darkness—as does my spirit. There’s great power in friendships.
Gazing up at the moon, I suddenly feel the quiet presence of Joey—I feel he is close even though he is far away, and I haven’t seen or heard from him in over a year. I bask in this feeling, believing he might be feeling the same connection, gazing up at this same moon, too.
You, my child, are far, far, away—I think you’d be far, far away even if you lived nearby.
We no longer share the same house or same dreams, holidays, or interests. We rarely even share a pleasant conversation. But that doesn’t mean we’re not connected. Whether you feel it or not, I’m with you every moment of every day. And wherever you are, we will always share the same moon.
When I miss you (which is always), and when I ache for some time with the son that addiction has stolen away, I step outside and sit down in the quiet night air, waiting for the moon to rise. I look up at this thing that is so far, far away—just like you are to me (and I am to you). But I know that you, too, can see it. Touch it with your eyes. And I feel your presence.
Tonight I will look up at the moon—the same moon hanging in the sky above you—and I will find peace in that connection. Maybe you will be looking up at the same time, at the same moon, too.
—Tending Dandelions, 186
With the weather still summerlike here in Texas, I spend some time working in the backyard, my haven, wanting things to look nice when Rick arrives for Thanksgiving. I fill the bird feeders with seed for my little bird friends, and, chuckling to myself, I follow the muddy-but-cute armadillo footprints tracked across my patio into the garden beds, trying to discover where the little critters are sneaking in under the fence—they like to dig around in the dirt, uprooting my flowers with their snouts, so I’d like to block their entrance and keep them out.
This year, Rick and I join my friend Cindy and her family for Thanksgiving dinner. The whole big clan. We haven’t established our own tradition, not since our own family fell apart—Thanksgiving isn’t a holiday meant for just two people; it needs a crowd and a hubbub of activity and lots of dishes full of side dishes—but each year we’ve tried something new, and each year has been lovely in its own unique way. Early in the day, I get a turkey roasting in the oven and bake some apple-sage stuffing and an upside-down apple-pecan pie, filling the house with the aromas of the holiday, before Rick and I and a small cadre of helpers carry our contributions across the street to add to the epic feast: a smorgasbord of deliciousness, it includes both a smoked and a deep-fried turkey, too, to round out our turkey trifecta. Cindy’s crew is lively and warmhearted, and Rick knows most of them from living in India and from previous visits, so this Thanksgiving is about as close to being with family as being without family can be.
I’ve been waiting until the end of Rick’s visit to tell him about Josh’s plan to cut back on my alimony, not wanting to ruin his whole time here and having previously decided it was better to tell him in person rather than over the phone, back when the news was new. After much inner debate on how much I should share with (or burden) my younger son, my belief that he needs to know the truth won. We can’t be a real family (of two) with only one of us knowing what is going on. My future has been shaken. I am shaken. And whatever affects my financial well-being will affect him, too, including my ability to travel to see him (to actually be a family) and my ability to take care of myself—financially and otherwise—till the end of time (which, given my parents’ physical—if not mental—health, may be another forty years). Secrets, and the inevitable revealing of unwelcome surprises, are, as I’ve learned, poison.
Over coffee this morning, we sit at the kitchen table talking about his dad, and then Joey, which stirs up the sadness of what life has become. My sweet, solid, grown-up son cries for the first time (that I’ve seen) since he was a young child. Before Rick slowly walks to his room, yet another his room in yet another house he is not attached to, I give him a hug—the I-don’t-want-to-let-go kind of hug—and tell him how sorry I am that our family, his family, is so broken. But there isn’t a word for this kind of sorry.
Since returning from Golden Valley, I’ve been getting my old-age ducks in a row—well, in a more orderly row than I already had them. I’ve been making sure the state of my affairs is clear and official so Rick won’t run into the problems we ran into with Mom and Dad (who thought they had their old-age ducks in a row). The trauma of it all has Thomas doing the same thing for the sake of his kids, too. When something happens to me, Rick is the one who will be handling things, so my health care directive, power of attorney, will, and financial information can’t be hard to find, mysterious, halfway done, or of the you-know-what-I-want variety. And, as uncomfortable as it is, Rick needs to know what’s up and where things are; it would be stupid to avoid a conversation about a situation that requires a conversation—a conversation that can’t be avoided forever—one way, or with one person, or another.
So, after Rick spends some time alone recovering from the difficult conversation earlier, I squeeze in one more difficult conversation—which actually isn’t difficult at all, just matter-of-fact—before his departure tomorrow. And I give him a letter to hold on to in case, years down the road, he needs to use it:
Dear Future Self,
If you’re reading this letter, it’s probably because Rick is showing you the copy you gave him many years ago—either because you forgot where your copy is (or that you even wrote this), you don’t remember your desire to move gracefully on to the next stage of life, or you don’t recognize or acknowledge that that time is here.
I’ve just returned home after spending six weeks with Mom and Dad, moving them into memory care and assisted living and getting their house ready to sell. I had to separate them from the home they built and lived in together for 55 years, and from each other after 60 years of marriage. Sadly, dementia had invaded their minds and lives, and I had to invade every corner of their home and personal space and privacy, while figuring out how to navigate treating them like parents and children at the same time. Nobody was prepared for this, so it was more traumatic than it needed to be, for everyone.
If you’re reading this letter, Future Self, it’s because you learned from experience, and you want Rick to intervene when it becomes apparent to him that you need supervised living (even if it’s not apparent to you).
So, if Rick has pulled out this letter, listen, trust, believe. Today, and in the days and months ahead.
Sandy
(Your younger, not-yet-senile self)
Later, I send a text to Thomas: After seeing a movie with Rick this afternoon, a theater we’ve been to before, I got all confused with east and west and went the wrong direction instead of driving toward home. Rick said, “This is the first sign, Mom.”
Thomas: I had my first sign so long ago I forgot when it was.
Me: Haha… me too, but Rick doesn’t know that…!
Over the past months, Mom and Dad have adjusted to their new home—their old home is just a pleasant memory now. But it’s been a pretty rocky adjustment at times. Like when Mom and Dad were plotting to move back to their house that was not quite officially sold, even if it was empty of furniture and there was no way to keep Mom safe.
They were simply being pulled like the tide to the moon, to the place, to the life that was theirs, in the rhythm of forever. Until, eventually, they simply forgot.
The seasons have changed from fall to winter to spring. Hope blooms that Mom and Dad are truly settled. I’m sitting at my desk, placed so that the view from my chair is of the garden out my front window. I watch the bees bob from flower to flower while I chat on the phone with some of the wonderful women I’ve come to know over the years—the warrior moms making a difference in the world of addiction, each in their own way. We’re working on an itinerary for a speaking tour I’ll be doing on the East Coast in the fall, trying to string together the invitations in a way that will keep my drive in more of a straight line than a doodle. It’s been a very productive morning. I’m not prepared for the next call I answer—the nurse from Maplewood Pointe is recommending that Mom be placed on hospice, a philosophy of care focused on quality of life during the time she has left, which is likely no more than six months. I’m stunned. I had no idea this was coming. Physically, Mom has seemed—all along, relatively speaking—fine.
I want to hear Mom’s voice. And I want to tell her I love her. But she won’t talk on the phone, so I ask Dad to tell her for me. Then I say that all of us will be there soon, all the far-flung kids and grandkids, all at the same time—not adding what Dad may or may not understand: for one last time.
After coordinating travel plans with my brothers and Rick, I send a message through the grapevine to Joey; I want to give him the chance to see Grandma one last time. I want him to say his goodbyes along with the rest of us, if he wants to. I add, “But if you can’t make it, don’t worry. Grandma knows how much you love her. I talk about you all the time.” So Joey now knows he’s always a part of our life and love, and he has these words to hold on to, no matter what.
When Joey replies, he is sad about the circumstances but excited to see everyone in just a few days. So now I’m both ecstatic and nervous. I can’t wait to hug my sweet son, but I don’t know what to expect—I hope for the best, but it has been two long years since we’ve had any contact. I dust off my boundary lines, the ones I haven’t needed to use in a while, and remind Joey that his quick one-night trip north must be peaceful and all about Grandma, while silently reminding myself that I’m in control of my own behavior only, which includes tightening boundaries up really tight, if I must.
Mom is in bed when Joey, Rick, and I arrive at her apartment, followed by Thomas and his kids and Jonathan and his family. Surely our last time all together before her time comes to an end—but Mom doesn’t know this, of course. For two days, we drift in and out for short visits, in varying groups, not wanting to overwhelm her. Mom has a wheelchair now but won’t use it; unaware of her deteriorating condition, she happily teeters her way from her bed to sit in a comfy chair once in a while, waving off help. And when she’s ready for us to leave, she says, “You must be tired, go take a nap.” Or “You must be hungry, go eat some lunch.” I notice the Hummel figurine on her nightstand, a baby Jesus lying in the manger—something Mom has always loved, so when she moved here it became more than just a holiday decoration. Mom has covered it in toilet paper, like a blanket, up to the chin and tucked in at the edges. No matter what, always a mommy.
This time spent with Mom, the whole family together, is exquisitely painful and achingly beautiful. As is this time together with my two sons. The roots of love are deep, curling like ribbons around hearts and minds—a gift, unseen, but forever.
“I am a doctor; she is my wife.”
Dad’s two main roles—taking care of Mom and being a doctor—have gotten all jumbled up. He continues to try taking care of Mom as the practicing physician he once was—unaware of his cognitive limitations and with the best of intentions—and keeps raising a ruckus with the Maplewood Pointe staff, over and over and over, putting himself at risk of having to be moved somewhere else. He has been smuggling Mom a prescription drug that he gets from another resident, something to treat her nonexistent vertigo since he forgot about Dramamine. He has been buying hemorrhoid cream for Mom’s headaches (at her demand), which she slathers all over her forehead, gooping up her hair. And he gets angry when the hospice nurses give Mom medication for pain.
“Morphine is addicting. There’s nothing your mom needs that TUMS can’t fix.” TUMS, which he keeps well stocked in a paper cup in Mom’s nightstand drawer.
I’ve had endless conference calls with Dad and the nurse, resulting in nothing more than a swirl of endless loops. Dad agrees to stop medicating Mom, and Maplewood Pointe sets up ways to monitor Dad’s interactions with Mom, but he somehow sneaks into her apartment unseen or hides medications in his pockets (in Ziploc bags) to avoid detection by the aides. This is all so out of character for a man who has followed every rule all his life—but they can’t keep Dad if he keeps breaking the rules now.
Dad is hurting Mom with his help—and he would die if he knew that. Right now, I’m feeling about him like I’ve so often felt about Joey: I just want to get in his brain and shuffle things around to make him think and do the things he needs to think and do to make things okay. It must be very hard to be him, not understanding what’s happening but thinking he does and always getting into trouble.
A few days after my trip to Minnesota with the whole family, the nurse at Maplewood Pointe calls to say Mom has been having abdominal pain all morning; she is moaning and in real discomfort but doesn’t want to go to the doctor because she has vertigo, and Dad agrees with Mom. I say, “Mom doesn’t get a say in this, and neither does Dad. They are unable to make decisions about their health. Getting her to a doctor will be a nightmare if she doesn’t want to go, so call an ambulance. And don’t let Dad go with her—he will just confuse things, using his ingrained doctor persona, telling everyone what he thinks is happening. I will call Thomas to see if he can get over there as quickly as possible.”
Dad carries himself in a very professional manner; he is well put together and well spoken, and it takes a while to recognize his reliance on repetition, or that his words aren’t always reliable. All of this can be dangerous for Mom. A hard truth, but a truth. She must be protected.
After the ambulance takes Mom away, solo, Dad calls me, livid. “I know you think I’m mentally decrepit, but there’s nothing wrong with her. I’m going to take a taxi to the hospital and give them her history.” After yelling a few more things at me, he hangs up, hard.
It’s midafternoon when I get an update from Thomas. For the past hour, I’ve been chopping vegetables from the fridge, something to keep myself busy while leaving my mind free to worry, so I set that project aside and go sit on the living-room sofa. He texted this morning to let me know he arrived at the hospital not long after Mom did, and that Dad was already there, but he hasn’t had a chance to text back with more news until now. Dad gave Mom some sort of medicine last night. He’s been quite defiant, saying he’s capable of being her doctor, but when I asked him what he gave her, he couldn’t remember. Maybe Xanax. Who knows where he got whatever it was. They’re keeping Mom overnight. She keeps saying she wants to reschedule and doesn’t understand she’s in the hospital.
Before I can reply, Dad calls. Thomas had just returned him to his apartment. Once I hang up, I text Thomas back. Dad just called. He had zero recall of his heated call this morning, didn’t remember we had even talked at all. His current recollection of events is that Mom was in discomfort, he brought in a friend, the two of them decided she needed to get to the hospital so they called an ambulance and he went with her to the hospital. He was SO mad at me this morning. Yelling at me. I really hate that we’re having these sorts of moments during his waning years. But I guess there’s comfort in realizing he doesn’t remember. I wish I could forget though.
The next morning, Thomas texts with an update: The hospital called to tell me Mom was being discharged, but then Dad called to say he canceled the discharge to have her “urinary retention” reviewed. I just talked to the hospital again, she’s being discharged—with a catheter—and has follow-up appointments Monday.
Me: What? She doesn’t need a catheter. She’s not incontinent, she knows when she has to go, she doesn’t have accidents. This is crazy. I can’t believe they listened to Dad on this. He is very confused and is confusing everyone else.
This is horrifying. Absolutely horrifying. And yet, in a way, it is beautiful. Even though Dad’s mind isn’t always clear, the love in his heart is—and with every beat, it compels him to keep taking care of his bride of sixty years.
A few days later, on Monday morning, Dad calls while I’m outside filling the birdbath. I’ve been keeping my phone close, and as I pull it from my pocket, I feel the dread I’ve been dreading. We talk for only a few seconds; then I make a quick phone call to Maplewood Pointe and send Thomas a quick text. Dad just called to tell me that Mom doesn’t want to go to her doctor appointment so he is going to remove her catheter himself! I said NO! But he said YES and hung up. I called the nurse and she is headed up to intervene.
Me: Update: The nurse told Dad he may NOT take out Mom’s catheter, and since Mom is refusing to go to the doctor, they’ve called an ambulance to take her to the ER to have it removed. They think this is the best and only option. Also, they’re keeping an eye on Dad; the nurse thinks he might still try to remove the catheter himself before the ambulance gets there.
Thomas: I called Dad, told him this has to stop, that I know he’s trying to take care of Mom but he’s going to get himself kicked out of Maplewood Pointe and I don’t want that to happen because I care about him.
Me: I’m glad you told him you care about him. I told him that, too, but in an angry tone of voice—I’d already lost my patience by then and couldn’t soften it up.
So now, everyone—me, Thomas, Jonathan, the nurse—keeps repeating this mantra to Dad, hoping it sticks: “You need to be Mom’s companion; being her doctor is not your job. Just be her friend and enjoy your time together. If you think something’s not right, steer your concern to the staff; don’t try to solve her health issues yourself.” But if Dad can’t do this, if he continues to treat Mom as a patient while using questionable remedies and procedures, what do we do? We might have to consider moving Dad and Mom apart—but that might very well kill them both. The only other option is to leave them here together—but then, well, whatever happens, happens.
From what I’ve seen of Alzheimer disease, up close and in the trenches, the reality my family is living is nothing like how it should be—at least compared to how it’s portrayed in the commercials for assisted-living places on TV. In those fantastical sixty-second segments, a daughter sits with her aged father who’s happy to look at old photos together all day, or she gently holds her mom’s hand, walking slowly to somewhere lovely, her mom happily and peacefully going along. It’s all serenity and special moments. What a bunch of baloney. Picture-perfect fakery eats families alive from the inside. It keeps us isolated and prepares us for nothing—as with addiction, and pretty much everything else in life, too. We need to hear and see honest stories.
There’s a long line of worn and ragged people trudging down the road, slowly weaving their way in my direction, returning from the front lines. Stooped and weary, aged by the experience of years. They’ve been there. They’ve seen things. Shell-shocked and battle-fatigued. I can see it in their eyes.
I stand in silent honor, not wanting to intrude on their thoughts, on their efforts to make it back home where it’s safe. I’m hungry for their knowledge about addiction Alzheimer disease and aging, to learn what they’ve learned about how to help, not hurt, my child parents. I’m hungry to know how to survive. Things I’ve not yet learned.
When the time is right, they will tell their tale—in little trickles or with floodgates open wide. They will share their war stories, their lessons, so that my own time in hell will be a little less prolonged. A little less harrowing. A little less hard. Their stories might shake my world, but they will also give me realistic expectations and fill me with hope. To those people who’ve walked this road before me, I give my respect and thanks. To them, I tip my hat.
—Tending Dandelions, 195
Mom, I love you, have always loved you, and have always known how much you love me. And even though I’ve been so mad at you sometimes, I now understand that everything you’ve been doing, you’ve been doing for me.
My heart swoons. Joey has put into words what I’ve always known (even when I sometimes didn’t). My son loves me and sees my love for him in action, even when The Addict—who sometimes runs the show—doesn’t. These are the words I have ached to hear for the past ten years, and they are words I will hold tight to forever.
Joey and I continue to replenish the stuff of our bond, dusting off the cobwebs with frequent texts and periodic phone calls. A connection of love, both fragile and strong at the same time. A mother-son connection we both need. With a forged history behind us, we rarely talk about anything having to do with addiction; by unspoken agreement, we use our time to make pleasant new memories to hold on to. It’s our connection of love that matters.
My book Tending Dandelions was just recently released. When we were in Minnesota a few months ago, I mentioned my soon-to-be-published new book to Joey, along with a brief description. But I won’t mention it again. He didn’t have anything to say about it then, and if he wants to know more about it or my mission, he will ask. And, truly, whether he knows or asks or not, changes are happening.
I will be open about what addiction has done to my child and family. I will speak the truth with my head held high. Even among—especially among—people who look at me with disdain and discomfort. There’s nothing shameful about addiction—the only shame is in allowing the disease to grow by hiding the truth in the darkness. Ignorance, ugly words, and harsh judgment end where education begins. So, as the mom of an addict, I must do my part in planting the seeds of truth and understanding.
I am not a bad mom; my son is not a bad person. Addiction is a disease that can happen to anyone who opens Pandora’s box. I will honor my son by changing the way addiction is perceived.
Seeds are being planted. In some of the places those seeds land, they will actually grow. And, in time, they will spread more seeds. Truth. And enlightenment. Like fluffy tufts of dandelion caught on the wind.
—Tending Dandelions, 169
I have found my calling, my purpose, as a voice for mothers with addicted children, helping to put an end to the shame and silence, and helping my son in the only way I can. With my writing and public speaking, I have found a career—and healing.
I’m getting ready for a presentation to a parents’ group in Maryland in a few days—followed by a few days in court where I will come face-to-face with Josh and his latest whim. Back to the state where our divorce was filed. I’m trying to tamp down my worry that the judge will decide in favor of Josh’s career change (hence the need to reduce alimony) and shove my budding career off its track. I’m trying to be hopeful that right will win. While printing piles of papers to tuck in my suitcase along with way too many outfits, in pops a text from a friend, the latest one in a string of texts we’ve been exchanging: Have you thought about getting a real job? I’m not saying what you do doesn’t have value. But you could do something you’re passionate about and earn an income at the same time.
Me: I work really hard, every day, helping people who love someone suffering with the disease of addiction. I do what I do for them, for Joey, and for me. I feel it’s a huge accomplishment to have been published three times; it’s too bad being an author doesn’t pay well, but that wasn’t the point back when I got started. I can’t even imagine being forced into doing something random and meaningless instead of continuing with this thing I’ve built out of nothing but life experience and passion, on my own, step by step, over the past decade. I can’t imagine cutting off the bud before it has a chance to bloom.
Friend: Keep the faith. When one door closes another one opens.
Me: It’s sad that the person who keeps closing my doors is the one who once supposedly loved me.
I understand that to Josh, I’ve become someone that he used to know. A ball and chain in his rearview mirror. And to me, he’s become a cliché of the male divorcé. Hoping to touch some bit of the man I used to know, I’ve written Josh a letter (which turns out to be more of a kick in the pants). He’ll probably never read it, but I needed to try one last time to make him see the ramifications of what he’s doing for himself on me.
Josh,
You built our relationship on a big lie—on a secret only you knew—treating me as a stepping stone and taking away my chance at giving my love to someone who would love me back, forever.
You built your life on my future.
Until you were done—leaving me to figure out the rest of my life, all alone.
You didn’t unveil your secret with integrity—a secret you could’ve, should’ve shared long before you were finally forced to be honest. Instead, you left me to wait, wonder, hope, and smother for years. You had a smooth uncorking, at least within our family; you had nothing but love and support from me because I cared about you. It turns out that all you’ve cared about is you, too.
For so long, I was flailing around trying to figure out what was happening, and then, once I knew, I started trying to figure out how to stand—but you’ve kept pulling my rug out from under me. Again and again and again. Now, this time, by removing my financial security, taking away the life I’ve built (both comfortable and conservative), on the promise you made, five years ago.
Somehow, you’ve been able to disregard the fact that I haven’t worked for thirty years, other than raising our family and supporting your career from its first lowly rung. But I’m now facing the very scary prospect of trying to earn a livable wage at age fifty-eight (without any of that nice spousal support). In order to pay my bills and keep my house, I will need to abandon the career I’ve been working on—helping other parents on the path we’ve been on for so long—and figure something else out. So, while you enjoy the job security and benefits of working for companies owned by your husband (and having a well-employed husband), my life will be reduced to merely working to live.
I’m not stupid. I know you wouldn’t continue pursuing a career in which you have no hope of being successful. I know we are where we are because you’re choosing to sacrifice me in order to maintain a certain level of extravagance for you. I’m just hoping you’ll be moved to do what’s right.
Your legacy continues—your boys continue to watch and learn. I’m sad for them, I’m sad for me, and I’m even a little sad for you.
On the day our alimony modification trial begins, a full year after Josh preemptively modified it, I wake up way too early, roused by a sense of doom. Nothing I packed in my suitcase a few days ago seems right for the occasion now that it’s here, and my knees are quaking. Bonnie, the friend I’m staying with, drives me to the courthouse and will stay with me for moral support through the days ahead. After parking the car and figuring out where we’re supposed to go, we step into the opening doors of an elevator, and there is Josh, wrapping up a business call. He then aims his jovial warmth toward us. My face, my mouth, my neck, my brain, my heart—they’re all working at the same time to do the best they can in a split-second battle between politeness and a slew of conflicting emotions. I can see in the reflection of the shiny elevator walls that I look like a caricature of something human. Bonnie, I can tell, doesn’t feel the same need to be polite.
When Josh and I were divorced, it was through a process of mediation, so the only times I’ve been in a courtroom before were when Joey was in some sort of trouble—and then, Josh was sitting with me on the same side. Shoulder to shoulder, hand in hand. Today, we are on opposite sides of the rows of wooden benches, seated in swivel chairs at long tables up front, our lawyers positioned between us—not that Josh and I need such safeguarding, but clearly something happened to someone at some time in the past that cemented this as standard operating procedure. The judge sits up front in her black robe, elevated, like the witness stand, where each of us will recite the oath of truth.
Behind us, other than Bonnie, the courtroom is empty besides a few paralegals and the woman who performed a vocational assessment on me back in Texas a few months ago. She’s here to testify that, at my age and with my lack of work experience, I can basically expect to earn minimum wage—similar to the other assessment Josh’s team had done, before the divorce, too. A discussion ensues on jobs that might be suitable for me—to which I can only listen: She could go back to school and get recertified as an elementary school teacher, but would anyone want to hire a rusty old relic when there are fresh young teachers churning out of colleges every year? (If anyone cares, I don’t want to go back to teaching after thirty years out of the classroom, even if schools wanted me.) She could take classes to become a computer programmer. (Something I know nothing about and so care nothing about embracing as my twilight career.) Why couldn’t she be a hostess at a restaurant? asks the judge, to which the vocational assessment lady replies, Well, then she’d be earning even less.
My value, my future, are reduced to a few minutes of negotiation by strangers. Josh’s future, too, but it’s quite apparent the judge thinks he needs to maintain a certain level of panache to project success to his clients. Panache, for me, isn’t even on the table. The opinion and order of the court will be revealed within a few months. I return to Texas feeling squashed. Worthless and hopeless. Tired of pulling myself up by my bootstraps with nothing more than sheer willpower over and over again.
“Get it together,” they say. “Pull yourself up by the bootstraps and start moving again.” Or “Turn your frown upside down.” Some version or another of “Stop moping around.”
They say this as though I’m not working on this very thing all day, every day. As though I’m a weakling just sitting around munching on misery bonbons instead. They have no idea how many times I’ve stooped over, grabbed those very heavy bootstraps they’re talking about, and wearily hoisted myself back up—if they did, they’d know I’m actually pretty strong. I’ve had to dig really deep, over and over and over again, to pull myself out of each crisis-induced slump. That’s what a mom does when her child is slowly dying from addiction.
They say I look tired. But it’s not because I’ve given up. It’s because I’ve been doing heavy lifting, daily, for years.
—“Bootstraps,” Readings for Moms of Addicts
I feel bad my friends are stuck with me as a friend—the friend with the never-ending messes clinging like some icky toxic waste. Sometimes I feel like how Pigpen must feel, Charlie Brown’s dusty little friend, if he weren’t just a cartoon. He’s not a gloomy guy, but the traveling dust storm he generates is enough to keep people away; no one wants the dirt to rub off. I don’t want to be that friend. But I am that friend. So I go into hiding till I’m able to slap on a happy face. I mow and mulch and mull things over till I’ve got my feelings and thoughts mostly worked out and/or contained.
And then I dive into the things where healing really happens—the things that involve helping someone else who’s hurting in one way or another. This is how I survive. I find healing in writing my books and speaking with other moms with addicted children and in cooking with the girls at the maternity home. This week we’re making breakfast for dinner, stretching the girls’ skills and food exploration, as always: blueberry French toast roll-ups, scrambled egg hash brown cups, spiced maple sausage patties, and sweet potato and kale veggie cakes. I know these weekly cooking adventures aren’t going to change the world, but I also know that little things can also be big. The time the girls and I spend together is relaxed and fun, and it is this that might be even more valuable than any cooking skills they might learn. “When I do good I feel good.” I don’t know who said this, but for me it’s very true.
I’m learning to live without my child, but, like someone whose leg has been amputated, through force of habit I often reach for the place he once was. The pain I feel is not phantom. If I’m to survive, the void left behind must be filled with some goodness.
There’s so much hurt in the world—hurt is happening all around me, not only within me. There are other lost parents who are missing a lost child. And the children who are lost. There are lost souls who are hungry, lonely, or running on empty. I don’t need to look very far to find ways to turn my pain into purpose. Ways to be constructive. Productive. Ways to help keep others from breaking, even as I mend my own self.
I can hold a hand, lend an ear, and watch over with care. For them. For me. But also, in honor of my child. Addiction has hacked my child from my life, but he will be with me every step of the way as I move forward.
—Tending Dandelions, 189
In preparation for my long-planned Where Love and Addiction Meet speaking tour, I’m packing my suitcase full of sweaters and cute autumn boots. Starting tomorrow, I’ll spend the next two weeks talking with a dozen different groups from New York to Virginia… because, well, together we are stronger. Then, since I’ll already be in Rick’s neck of the woods, he and I are going to spend Thanksgiving together in New York City.
Rick’s NYC apartment is tiny (tiny tiny tiny), so I stay in a nearby hotel—a costly drawback to visiting my son here. But there’s also so much to see and do, and Rick indulges his tourist mom. On Thanksgiving Eve, we walk among the giant balloons being inflated in the streets of Manhattan for tomorrow’s parade—Charlie Brown, Olaf from Frozen, Tom Turkey—all coming to life, bobbing around under nets weighted with sandbags to keep them from blowing away before morning. We go to look at the enchanting department store holiday window displays, and then, once I realize where we are, I take a photo of Rick standing under the street sign on the corner—my miracle on 34th Street. I’m so thankful for him. We meet friends of mine in a restaurant for Thanksgiving dinner—the first time we’ve not had Thanksgiving dinner in a home. It’s different, nontraditional, but it’s nice. We’re getting adept at adapting.
Rick will be with his dad for Christmas this year, so I’ll go to Golden Valley to see my parents. Mom has rallied, is no longer receiving hospice care, and she and Dad are happy and doing really well, all things considered. (Whew.) Last year, I thought I was being so clever, getting Rick to help me wrap my decorated tree with Saran Wrap after the holiday was over—round and round and round we went, poking in the renegade ornaments trying to escape. I figured that since decorating and undecorating a Christmas tree isn’t much fun alone, and since I live in a one-story house where it would be easy to push a Christmas tree on wheels from a closet to the living room and vice versa, this genius idea I read about seemed worth a try. But I won’t be rolling the tree out or putting up any other decorations this year. It’s not worth the bother.
It has taken a few months, but the judge has finally, officially made her decision on my alimony, but I knew in the courtroom how this was going to shake out. I’ve lost. Nobody cared what I’ve been up to all these years, helping others who love a child suffering with addiction while honoring my son at the same time; nobody cared about the work or the time I’ve put in, or the connections and accomplishments I’ve made. Nobody cared about my purpose, my reason to live, my need to move beyond that pain and turn it into something positive. Nobody cared. And nobody cares. It matters to nobody involved what comes next for me—what this decision means for how I will spend my days or afford the rest of my life. Nobody will ever give it a second thought.
I’ve lost yet another thing to which I’ve given everything: my career. I will need to find a real job.
Christmas in Minnesota is co-o-o-ld. I can’t imagine how anyone lives in this state. With windchill, every day is some crazy below-zero number. The car I’ve rented has heated seats—a feature I have in my own car in Texas but never need to use—and it also has a heated steering wheel(!). A newfangled invention (to me). These northerners know how to do cold right. Me, not so much. I left a bottle of red wine in the car overnight, something to take to the friends having my dad and me for Christmas dinner, but there was a long wine popsicle on the back-seat floor when I went to slip it into a gift bag. Oops.
Mom is back to her old after-dementia-before-hospice-care self, zipping around her one-room domain and happily giving orders, and Dad is cheerfully comfortable in his daily routine (which sometimes still requires us kids to intervene). Their old home and life are just fuzzy memories now. I guess they’ve settled in rather quickly—even though it seemed like they never would—after having lived together in one place for nearly forever. So adaptable. And full of positivity. Dad says, “You know, I’d rather be home, but this place is really nice. I don’t think anyone couldn’t be happy here.” Well, I think plenty of people could find reasons to be miserable about where they are, what they’ve lost, and what could’ve, should’ve been, but Mom and Dad are happy.
I’m the one who’s not.
Instead of staying with my brother or friends, as I’ve been doing since Mom and Dad moved out of their house, I’m staying in a hotel. I don’t want to impose on anyone’s special family time for a whole week at the holidays. And I need space to cry.
Soft carols float through the hotel lobby, following the families laden with gifts and good cheer in and out the revolving door. I pretend to be one of them, hanging a smile on my face like a crooked decoration as we all come and go. I pretend all is Christmas-letter perfect for my parents, too. But in my heart, I’m a Scrooge. I don’t know when I will be able to see my parents again. Or Rick in New York. Or Joey in Florida, now that we’ve reconnected. Flying is no longer in my budget, and none of my most special people live close enough to Texas for me to drive. The people who do not care have made it really difficult for me to see the people who do going forward. Making me even more alone than I was.
Nothing is as it should be. And for so many years—all at once, one by one, and overlapping—nothing was as it appeared. Truth and illusions, illness and meanness. What and who was real. I don’t know what lies ahead—I don’t even really know what happened behind me.
If I were to fill my watering can and pour it over a prized flower in my garden, the water would not only feed that one thirsty flower—the water would overflow into the surrounding spaces, seeping into the soil and roots, feeding the flowers nearby. That’s how self-care works, too. Just as with a prized flower in my garden, a bit of watering can (and will) make my soul grow and bloom—benefiting not only myself, but everyone around me.
If I were to fill my watering can and pour it over me, filling myself to the brim with kindness—with patience and acceptance, permission and opportunity—I would be treating myself the way I deserve to be treated by everyone else. If I were to drench my mind and heart with hope, peace, and joy, I would feel fulfilled, not drained. That’s how self-care works: just as with a prized flower in my garden, a bit of watering can (and will) make my soul grow and bloom—everything good that is possible begins, and flows, from within me.
—“Watering Can (and Will)”
Readings for Moms of Addicts
I’ve been thinking.
And feeling.
A lot.
For the past several months, before heading out to find a bearable new job and life—a real job with value—I’ve been wrapping up some commitments, things I’d been working on long before the alimony decision was made—a “Mom to Mom” retreat at Hazelden (their first retreat for moms with addicted children, ever) and a few other speaking events up in Minnesota (so I was able to see my folks, too).
I’ve been slowly letting go of one thread so I can pick up the next.
In the midst of this process—the thinking, the feeling, the wrapping up—I’ve discovered that I can’t abandon my life’s purpose, with both my career and my family. Like Dad, whose purpose continues in heart-muscle memory, I might wither and die if I had to give it all up. My purpose is who I am, hatched from the life I’ve lived and the choices I’ve made, and I can’t allow my purpose to be controlled by the bombshells and roadblocks and pigeonholes of uncaring others.
I want to be better not bitter. I want to be more happy than sad. So I’m going to believe in myself and take control of my destiny. I’m going to try spinning a pile of straw into something golden. (Fingers crossed that it works.)
I’ve decided to move back to Minnesota, the place where I have the most addiction-related connections, the most family, and the most old, old friends. The place where I have the most options, relationships, and likelihood of all-around success. The threads of Golden Valley, all the years wrapped like roots around my heart and soul, are pulling me back.
I choose to be happy.
When you choose joy, you feel good. When you feel good, you do good. And when you do good, it reminds others of what joy feels like and it might inspire them to do the same.
—UNKNOWN