Posted by: dragonflyblue on: December 9, 2008
I may have to run away from home. Literally.
Leave my house. Take my stuff. Go somewhere that is not within easy driving distance. Why?
To force my son to face himself. He is 23, lives in my basement, is an alcoholic, works 8-10 hours a week at a car wash, goes to the community college and is spending his college fund on cigarettes, booze, and probably marijuana. He never has money for gas, seemingly. He’s been going to the CC for 5 years, and still has not accumulated enough credits for an Associates degree. This is one SCARY BRIGHT kid. But like many, did poorly in high school. At age 17 was diagnosed with “executive function disorder” (that’s in the frontal lobe part of the brain, and means that all the organizational tasks – starting, following through and completing tasks, organization, time management – are all just words to him. Unless he’s completely fascinated by something nothing gets done.
I’m tired. I have one child away at college, doing well. I have one living in my basement, drinking his life away. His friends seem to find his behavior normal. I have no idea what is going to happen to him.
His father and I were divorced a year ago; we had been separated for 4 years, although in the beginning it was just because of his job. His father is now remarried and living 2,000 miles away. He refuses to see a problem, and won’t “take” our son in. Or on. Refuses to do it. They haven’t been close since our son was little; somehow I think unathletic son was a disappointment to high school/college jock father.
There are concomitant issues, as there usually are. My son was diagnosed with severe depression and anxiety at age 12; hospitalized for a week at age 15. Subsequently seemed to improve, but even he will tell you he drinks to still the anxiety. I’ve offered counseling, treatment, therapy, what have you – no dice. It’s a standing offer. But he drinks what I consider to be massive amounts of alcohol – a “glass” of wine for him is a 16 oz. tumbler. “Beer” is a 6-pack over the course of 2 hours. Never mind the Jack, the Ron Rico, the cheap whiskey.
So, instead of kicking him out of the house – again, because I did it once before; it lasted 4 months – I might have to leave him. Go somewhere else. Never mind that I’ve been here for 20 years, am rooted here. Maybe my son will NEVER grow up, never be the amazing adult I know lurks within. He’s smart, funny, wry, talented in several ways; but he’s lazy, manipulative, and angry as well. HOW can that be MY kid?? What have I/we done to him? Or is it something less to do with us, his parents, than with our son himself, something he doesn’t want to deal with?
I don’t know. I wish I did.
Posted by: dragonflyblue on: December 7, 2008
Twenty-six years ago yesterday – November 29, 1982 – our first child was born, at 5:30 AM. He was stillborn, 11 days past his due date. The crushing pain receded over time; the enormous ache faded to pale gray. But every year, as November arrives, I find myself getting sad over (seemingly) nothing, or a wee bit more testy than normal. Eventually it dawns on me that Evan’s birthday is coming up, and it’s normal to feel the way I do.
No one else remembers, except for one very dear friend in Colorado. Every year she puts a memorial announcement in her church bulletin on the closest Sunday, then sends me a copy. There’s no reason anyone should mark the occasion – it’s particular only to me (and presumably his father, although since we now live on opposite sides of the country, and I have never really known what he is thinking, I really don’t know). But I do so much appreciate her gesture, even many years later.
But I miss Evan. I miss the tiny, perfect baby that I held in my arms, counting his fingers and toes as though it mattered. Comparing his long fingers to those of my mother, and his reddish hair to my brother’s. Studying his perfect little face, trying to imprint it in my memory. Now that my parents are both gone, I cry a little, and wonder if they have met my son, and are taking care of him. [This is something of an intellectual problem for me, since I have not figured out how it is we will know one another in an afterlife - do babies remain babies? Do they grow to adults? What if we've had more than one beloved spouse?]
I have two absolutely wonderful children born after Evan, albeit with some difficulties in getting there. I treasure them; they are my heart and soul. But I always think of my Evan, and what the possibilties of his life could have been. How would all of our lives been different – if only because there were 3 children instead of two?
We donated his body to the University of Colorado teaching hospital ~ the nurses told us the young doctors need healthy bodies to study so they can know what health looks like, as opposed to illness or deformity. No cause was ever determined for the stillbirth – possibly a momentary twisting of the umbilical cord, or a small clot; we were told that 4 minutes of oxygen deprivation is all that is required for death.
November is now over, and Christmas season begins in earnest. Joy and light are all around. But I still remember, and always will.
