the background
three minute read
the storm before the hurricane
It’s an April Friday night at our summer home on an island an hour north of Seattle. I'm with my husband, parents and their best friends who I've known all my life. We're kidless and it feels like a grown-up, relaxing kind of evening. Even though all is not calm in the "background" of life, for these few hours, things are good. Meaningful conversation wanders from work to travel and of course, arrives on kids. My mother's best friend, Marilyn, and I are sunk deep into a formerly red,17-year-old couch that's now primarily dusty pink from the sun's intensity. It looks worn and tired but it's so comfortable we can't bear to replace it. I ask this woman I’ve grown up with about her daughter's partner's cancer and shockingly learn she died several months ago - a tragic loss for them all. I feel so horrible I don't know this already and I’m sure somewhere, at some point my mom shared this news. I just don’t recall it. Marilyn understands.
Marilyn asks me about my son who she knows has been in and out of drug treatment programs for the last four years - it's the same question everyone asks, always with trepidation, a semi-smile, slightly raised eyebrows and a sad question mark at the end, "So, how's John*?"
(*my son's name has been changed to protect his privacy and recovery)
How's John. This question used to stump me because I didn't know if I wanted to answer it truthfully and encounter sometimes very awkward scenarios as a result, or did I want to make it easy on myself and whoever I was talking to and say, "He's good!" with a smile and an exclamation point, and then move quickly onto other topics. Tonight, I decided because of the safe company and no need to hold myself together I'd answer truthfully. "Well, he's alive!" I pronounced, which to me sounded good, and to others probably sounds like a completely insane and sad way to answer that question. But it was true.
When you have a child who is an addict, nothing in life makes sense. Nothing takes place without that torturous feeling that he or she might not be alive today. It's like driving to work in the morning knowing later that day you're going to be in a fatal accident on your way to book club. Being present and clear is so far beyond exhausting that you're too tired to try and explain it to anyone. Only another parent of an addict can relate; talking with one is like finding an ocean in the middle of a dessert - it lets you go on one more day.
My mom's best friend reaches over and squeezes my bony, curled up leg and with the love of a mother says, "Honey I'm so sorry, but I'm glad to hear he's alive." I nod and wholeheartedly agree. Things get pretty simple when your life is in a state of havoc. For years. We get up from the ancient couch, set the table and all six of us sit down to eat. I know I had cooked, but have no idea what I made. Because then the phone rang.
"Hi, is this John's mom?" asks a young, scared voice. Two miracles happened at this point - one was that my phone actually worked, which most of the time it doesn't because there's not a cell-tower in range of our place on the island, and two, was that I answered a call from an unknown number. It's amazing how my brain processed this situation without me even knowing it...phone rings, I find it, it's an unknown number but it's from our area code, it's a Friday night at 9 PM, and I know where my younger son is, so as the mother of an addict I immediately answered because I knew it was John, or related to him.
The timorous voice blurts out, "I just wanted to let you know that John overdosed and he's at Northwest Hospital in the emergency room." And then she hung up. Paralyzed for a few seconds, my body and brain disconnected and the only thing I could think to do was call her back. I tapped her number on the screen of my phone - hand shaking and eyes closed tight...please answer, please answer. "Hello?" she answered! "Who is this? What happened to John? Where are you?" The words tumble from my mouth without my directing them. I'm still paralyzed but need information for my brain to process. Unfortunately I got none. "I'd rather not say - he's in the ER, I think you should go." Then, silence.
I stumbled out of the bedroom where I'd answered the fateful call with what must have been a ghost-white face because everyone at the dining table turned to look at me. "John's in the hospital. He overdosed," was all I needed to say and the room went into motion. There was no "what?!" response of disbelief, because I think we all knew somewhere in our hearts and minds this was a possibility. The response was, "Go, just go. We'll take the dogs, you go." I headed straight for the car, barefoot and empty handed but luckily my husband had the rational thought to tell me to put on shoes, grab my purse and laptop and throw some clothes in a bag. He grabbed keys and started the car while I gathered things in a daze.
The island house is an hour and fifteen minute drive from the hospital where the girl had said John was, a drive which often feels long when heading there for a weekend away from the city. That night, the trip I’d made hundreds of times in my life felt 19 years long as I stared blankly out the window remembering each and every one of John's growing up. The mind can go lots of places in an hour when you don't know what you're walking into. Especially when you know there's a good chance your child isn't going to be alive when you finally get to your destination. Every stop light was a red torture beacon along the way, and when we finally got to the emergency room entrance my husband dropped me and I ran.