A Crazy Cat Lady

My daughter told me recently that when I grew older, much older, I would turn into a “crazy cat lady.”  This comment came on when I was feeding Potter, my elder kitty.  Potter is 14 and as any older cat would, has his issues.  Once in awhile he pees where he shouldn’t or confuses a towel for his litter box.  Sometimes he hides in a remote corner of the house for days at a time, coming out only when he hears the “POP” of the top coming off his can of food.  It was on one of those occasions when my daughter caught me talking to Potter.  I had just gotten home from work, and I thought I better feed Potter before I sat down and got too lazy.  I grabbed a can of his food, and popped the top as I always do.  I hadn’t seen him in a day or two, but once he heard that sound he came tearing down the hallway and into the kitchen where I was standing.  I was scooping his food into a dish, and he was stretching, trying to reach it from the floor.  He was meowing loudly and, like any good pet parent, I was meowing back.  Then I said, “Is my Potter kitty starving?” He responded with a hearty meow and then I heard it…giggling from the other room.  It was MacKenzie.  “What?”  I bellowed?

“Mom, you really ARE a crazy cat lady, aren’t you?”  She giggled some more.

“Uh, no, I’m not actually.  I think I would need twice as many cats and NO CHILDREN still living at home to be considered an actual crazy cat lady.”

“Well, you’re getting there then,” she laughed as she left the house to go to work.  A few minutes later, I sat down to watch a little TV and finally relax.  Hercules, MacKenzie’s cat, jumped up onto my lap, crawled up my chest (mind the claws please!) and wrapped himself around my neck like a scarf.  Now, keep in mind that it has been in the 80s and 90s here lately and it was by far, too hot to have a furry, white, cat draped around my neck!  Still, Herc was purring and expressing his undying love for me, so how could I remove him when he was so comfortable?  As a result, I endured the uncomfortable heat and itching that followed for the comfort of my daughter’s cat.  Potter, had crawled up next to me, too, and was purring.  As I looked at the two of them there, sleeping soundly, or just quietly planning my demise, I considered what my daughter had said.  If being a crazy cat lady means having a couple furry friends to love and cuddle with, then so be it.  I’ll be a crazy cat lady.

After all, cats are SO MUCH easier to handle than people!

 

Father’s Day 2017: A Lucky Woman

I have two Dads.  Yes, it is true.

Dad #1:  Norman married Mary Jo in December 1967.   He played in a band with some other guys he knew from school.  He was the front man.  She was smitten by his talent, good looks, open personality, and his ability to make her feel incredibly special.   He fell in love with her big blue eyes, long brown hair, and her quiet demeanor.   They were  still kids when they married, and welcomed me, their first-born, home.  She was still in high school and only 17 years old. But this was all OK because they loved each other, and they loved their baby girl. To them, everything was perfect.  Soon, it became evident that playing music was not going to cover the rent and the rest of their obligations, so he went to work and played music on the weekends.  She stayed home with me, wanting to be there as I grew up, not wanting to miss a thing.  Two and a half years later, my brother came along, increasing our family size to 4.  To this day, I don’t know the entire story of how it all fell apart, but 6 years after they married, they were divorced.

Dad #2:  Bob met Mary Jo soon after the divorce.  He was the opposite of Norman.  He was a farm boy and he competed in rodeos.  He was handsome, rugged, and a little dangerous.  He was also nearly 2 years younger than she was.  After a time, Mom brought him home to meet us.  I’m certain he was nervous, but I was 5 and Jason was 3 and we charmed him.  Soon, he was not only in love with our mother, but with us as well.  In December 1974, they married.

As I grew up, having two dads could be confusing.  Not many of my friends had divorced parents so I was forever explaining our family dynamic.  I was very careful not to hurt one or the other’s feelings when speaking about each of them.  You see, when Bob married my mother, we instantly began calling him, “Dad.”  So, therein you see the confusion. When I mentioned my  “Dad,” I found the need to identify which one.  Yet, in spite of the confusion, there was much to gain from this extended family situation. There were weekend visits with Dad #1 and the day-to-day involvement of Dad #2.  There was joy, there was sorrow, and there were times when I wanted to leave one or the other.  They were both flawed.  They were both perfect.  They each had their own set of skills and talents, and neither of them were alike.  What some saw as a challenge for a young girl, I only found opportunity.  Let me explain…

From Dad #1 came my appreciation of music, the development of my own talent, and a true love of playing guitar and singing.  He is the emotional dad.  It is easy for him to show how he feels.  He was always affectionate and even still, he has an abundance of hugs, kisses, and “I love yous,” to share.  On the flip side, he is very moody.  He is always very up, or very down.  There is no happy medium.  As I got older I realized that if he was in a downward turn, I had to take his mood with a grain of salt.  I also know now, that I can be the same way sometimes.  He is a good man.  He has a great capacity for love; evident by the fact he has had 5 wives over the course of his life.  All of them different, but none like my mom. Today, he is unattached and that is the way he prefers it. In December 2015, at the age of 66, he suffered a stroke that affected both sides of his brain. He does not have any paralysis, but he is a little unsteady on his feet. The stroke impacted his ability to communicate effectively, and severely impacted his short-term memory.  He has trouble forming the correct words in a sentence, or to describe his thoughts.  A condition known as aphasia. Even after therapy, he has gone as far as he can.  He and I used to have intelligent conversations; politics, religion, etc., but not anymore.  That part of him is gone. Yet, his long-term memory remains intact.  He can still play his guitar, and he can still sing. He can still tell me stories of his growing up and he can still laugh and he can still love us all.  All my creativity came from him.  I love him as much as ever, and I’m proud that he is my Dad.

Dad #2 was raised on a farm and all that implies.  He was mechanically inclined, loved his car, drove fast, and the best part…he wore a cowboy hat!  I was fascinated with him as a young child.  He was fun and strong and quick with a spanking if I needed it (which wasn’t very often).  He was a bronc and bull rider in rodeos that traveled around the area, and from a young age, I decided I would be a barrel racer.  Yeah, that never happened, but I learned so much from him!  Spending time with him and my grandparents on their farm, taught me an appreciation for the earth, the rain, and the animals.  Horses were my favorite.  I was never afraid of them because early on, Dad taught me not to be.  He taught me to respect them because they were bigger than I was.  When I was twelve years old, Dad coached my first softball team.  I hadn’t played sports before, at least not organized ones.  He pushed me hard so as not to show favoritism to his daughter, and as a result, I became an adept 3rd baseman.  He taught me the right way to stand and to hold a bat, depending on where I wanted to hit the ball in the field. He taught me how to get in front of a ball coming down the third base line, or between me and the short stop, and not to be afraid of it, no matter how hard it was hit.  During the week there was practice, with the team and at home, just Dad and I.  Fielding.  Batting practice.  Just playing catch.  It was during those times that I confided in him, learned to trust him, and became his real daughter.  He also taught me to drive. The day I earned my learner’s permit, Dad had brought home a brand spanking new company pickup truck, and I had a softball game.  Dad handed me the keys, my brothers climbed into the back of the truck (a big no-no now) and he told me to get us there.  Aside from hitting a couple curbs from turning too close, we got there just fine, and my love of driving was born!  He was never afraid to tell me he was proud of me.  High-fives, and “Atta-girls” were very common, but not many hugs or kisses. I guess he just wasn’t sure what was appropriate for a “step” dad. Now that I’m an adult, the hugs and kisses are always present.  He taught me the value of money, of sportsmanship and of family.  He always encouraged my interests, and was most proud when he heard me sing.  Some things never change.

I’m a parent, and a grandparent, myself now.  Many of the lessons I learned from my Dads are still with me, and I will pass them onto my children as they parent their children, and so on.  I always got the feeling that some people secretly felt sorry for me because I came from a “broken home,” but they couldn’t be more wrong. My home wasn’t “broken.”  I look at it like a house that had an addition built onto it.  That addition created more room, more opportunity, and most importantly…more love.

I love both of my Dads.  I was a very lucky girl.  I am a very lucky woman.

HAPPY FATHER’S DAY!

When Love is NOT the Answer

John Lennon said, “All you need is love.”

Well, John, I beg to differ. Sometimes all you need is huge quantities of chocolate!  You get the same chemical reaction without the DRAMA! Still, there all kinds of love, and as human beings we struggle to experience them, and sometimes, even identify them!  When I looked up the definition of love at the Merriam-Webster website, it was more confusing to me than the word itself!  So, I’ll spare you the details.  For those of you who just HAVE to look it up now, here is the link:  https://www.merriam-webster.com/dictionary/love.  Have fun.

Anyway, where was I?  Oh yes…John Lennon…”All you need is love.”  As people we experience love in so many different forms.  There is the love we feel toward our children, our pets, the love for a spouse or a lover, the love of our friends and family, the love of an activity or hobby, the love of one’s job, etc.  You get the picture.  None of these are the same, which makes defining love exponentially difficult.   Still, I’m a big fan of the concept of love.  Love makes you feel good.  At least it should.  Now, I’m talking about love as experienced by two people who are in love with each other. There is a very real, physiological response that goes with the condition of love:  There is an increase in dopamine levels in our brain that cause the same kind of “high” that someone using illicit drugs would feel.  Then, there’s a
drop in serotonin levels that cause the positive emotions we feel toward that person to become stronger.  We literally crave that other person, the source if you will, of this chemically induced “addiction.”  Those are some seriously powerful feelings being thrown around!  So, I guess it stands to reason that when love is unrequited (or not returned), there can be physical pain involved. The person who is not “feeling the love,” as my kids would say, is like a drug addict going through a withdrawal.  Feelings of anger, resentment, or sadness can be overwhelming.  Sometimes that person just cannot take, “No,” for an answer, so they live in a sort of denial about the feelings of the other person.  They think that if they keep trying, or stay “connected” to that person, or at least to their friends or family, that someday, they will come around and realize that they feel the same way.  Well, it just doesn’t work that way.  The best advice I can give to the person who loves without being loved in return is to Just. Move. On.   Clearly, you aren’t right for each other for one reason or another.  Oh, and if you were friends before you “fell in love,” with that person…the friendship is over.  That can be very hard to accept, but you must if you ever expect to regain some semblance of sanity again.  Trying to stay connected to them by communicating with their friends or family members only intensifies the feelings of loss, preventing healing.  After awhile, the person you’re using to give information to the object of your affection can interpret your behavior as desperate, or even unstable.  Soon, they will feel as though they are trapped in the middle of the drama, and that is not an appealing place to be for anyone.   Please…cut them loose.

Look, I’m no expert on this topic, but I’ve had plenty of experience from both ends of the spectrum.  Yeah, love is powerful and all-consuming, but it can also be very hard and cruel.  I guess that’s what they call “Tough love.”  Deal with it.  Move on.

I promise, you’ll survive it.

Reinvention

I hear stories everywhere about people “reinventing” themselves.  What does this mean, exactly? Are they starting the 195th diet of their life, or getting extreme plastic surgery?  Are they switching jobs, or going off to “Eat, Pray, Love,” in some remote corner of the world?  Are they having a baby at 40, or are they toying with the idea of adding a pet to their mix?  All valid questions. I suppose reinvention means something different to everyone who seeks to experience it.  I never thought I was the kind of person who needed to reinvent themselves, but over the past few years,  it has happened without my immediate knowledge or consent.  For instance, I’m no longer the woman I was when I began writing this.  I was reading one of my first posts where I describe myself as, “…a year and a month away from ‘older-than-dirt’ status” (please see April 18 2007 “Day One” https://carajo2009.wordpress.com/2007/04/page/2/), and I realized that nearly a DECADE has passed me by.  In fact, in one year and just under 2 months I will reach the half century mark, and I am actually….looking forward to it!  Yes, you read that correctly.  I’m ecstatic about turning the big 5-0!  Ok, so let me back and up and explain how I reached this point…

The kids are grown up and doing their own thing.  Tyler is 23 now and has a girlfriend with a 4 year old daughter.  They met when little Rylee was 2.  I became “Grandma,” before she was 3, which suits me just fine.  MacKenzie turned 21 this year…yes, 21.  She is now legally allowed to drink, which really doesn’t change her behavior much except that now, she can go to a nightclub and do it.  The short of it is that I have raised my children.  They are semi-productive adults, semi-contributing to society in semi-meaningful ways. I sense another blog post about this subject in my near future.

My marriage is at the end of its proverbial rope.  Ten years ago, loving my husband was as easy as breathing.  Today, not so much.  It is more like a perpetual asthma attack that threatens to suck the very life out of me.  Honestly, loving him was never the problem.  I still love him to some degree and do not wish anything bad to happen to him; bubonic plague is treatable now, right?  In all seriousness, he is a good man and he was a good father to my children when they needed a stable father figure the most.  Over the last 4 years or so, we have drifted apart as many couples do.  There is no affection (not for a lack of trying on my part), or communication (again, see previous), or shared interests.  I discovered that everything we mutually participated in had to do with activities the kids were involved with. His interests are singular and do not involve me.  Mine are social and he is decidedly anti-social. So…there isn’t anything left to do except move on, and that is precisely what we’re doing. I am entirely too young to live in a loveless marriage when there are so many things I want to see and do out there!

As I’ve matured (I like that term better than the phrase, “grown older.”), I’ve come to realize that things I once deemed unimportant, really are very important.  Throughout my married life, I’ve forgone the closeness of friendships, trading them for acquaintances we both knew so that we can get together as “couples.”  What I’ve learned is that I need my friends more than ever; female AND male.  My circle of friends is small, as I prefer a few very close friends to a large group of acquaintances.  My friends know me and love me for all that I am; flaws and all, and I love them the same.

I look at this time in my life as a new beginning.  It is time for me to challenge myself to try new things, visit new places, improve my health, and maybe even find love along the way.  My priorities have changed.  I’ve spent the majority of my adult life taking care of others.  Now it is my turn.  Selfish?  ABSOLUTELY and I OWN IT.  I do not want to be 97 years old, looking back and not knowing who I was or what defined me.  I want to be 97 and STILL LEARNING! I want to look back at a life full of experiences, accomplishments, and every box on the bucket list checked off. Maybe I will, maybe I won’t, but the journey to the end is gonna be grand!

An Epiphany

*As is typical for me, I found this saved draft from 7 YEARS ago.  I’m still going to post it, though the “relationship” described no longer exists.  I will update that soon.*

I am an idiot. While this may not be news to many of you who have known me for any length of time, it IS news to me. I have always thought myself somewhat articulate, educated, not particularly sophisticated, but I can hold my own in a room full of strangers, and strike up a meaningful conversation with someone who just may become my next best friend. Today, for perhaps only the second or third time in my life, I found myself speechless. You have to understand, this RARELY, IF EVER, happens to me. I have something to say to practically anything! Politics, religion, pop culture, music, love, life, parenting, medicine, law, you name it, I can talk about it…and not sound like a total moron. But today, I stopped dead in my tracks at the words of one young woman.

We were heading to Target, MacKenzie and I. My daughter is 14, she is looking more and more like a young woman and less like a child everyday. She reminds me so much of me at her age; and she thinks the world revolves around her. She smiles easily and cries even easier. She is quick to anger, but even quicker to apologize. “So much like her mother,” I have heard my mother and grandmother both say from time to time. Anyway, she has a show choir competition tomorrow morning and “needed” some brown eyeliner. Mind you, this young lady has the most beautiful emerald eyes with long, black eyelashes that have ever seen…eyeliner? Please! So, there we are in the car, radio blaring some country song I can’t remember the name of, but I distinctly remember her asking me, “Mom…guess what?”
“What?” I ask, ready to field some adolescent diatribe about how unfair her teachers are or how she is tired of being short, or how she thinks that while we are there, we should pick up another bathing suit. I was not expecting, nor was I remotely ready for, what she was about to say next.
“Guess who my boyfriend is?”  and there is was, dropped in my lap, searing through my clothing like a hot cup of coffee…my daughter has a BOYFRIEND.   When did this happen?  Who is the little pervert?  What has he done to my daughter?  All of this running through my mind at 90 miles an hour, while I desperately try to keep the car between the lines in the parking place I worked so hard to find.  Boyfriend.  She’s too young.   “Mom?” she asked, looking at me as though she thought I was in the middle of some kind of seizure, touching my arm, “Are you ok?”  Yes, Mac, I’m fine…though you are growing up right in front of me, and I’m not ready.

        “I’m fine, Sweetie,” I managed to say with so much sincerity I thought I might choke on the words.  “Who is he?”   She told me the story; he is one of her best friends.  A young man I always thought was so cute, but when I suggested he would be a good match for her, she would always stick out her tongue and say, “Gross!  No way!”  Yet, here she is, “going out” with the same.

The revelation is that she is no longer a baby, and I’m the idiot for thinking that I could keep her as such.  The good news is, she won’t let him kiss her.  (YES!  WAY TO GO, MAC!)  My little girl is turning into a young woman, and deep down, I am perfectly ok with that.  She is courageous, strong, and beautiful.  I love her mind, her many talents, and her lust for life.  Her laugh is contagious, as is her magnificent smile.  I cannot imagine loving anyone as much as I have loved her all of her life.  From the moment she came into this world, she demanded attention, showered me with hugs and kisses, and to this day, remains one of the most important people in my life.  This young man had better thank his lucky stars – anyone that MacKenzie deems worthy enough to spend time with, must be pretty special themselves.

People Watching

Do you ever see people and just…wonder?  I do.  I do it at the grocery store, while I’m driving, at the park, Doctor’s office, or wherever I happen to be at the time.  Yesterday, I was shopping for groceries I was in the milk aisle and at the other end was a young woman with a child that looked to be about 10 or 12.  He looked like most boys his age; completely disinterested in what his mother was shopping for, and clearly anxious to leave.  He was shifting his weight from one foot to the other; checking his phone every 5 seconds and rolling his eyes at his mother each time she asked him a question. As always, my mind began to wonder, does he throw darts at a picture of his mother behind the locked door of his bedroom?  Is he really a sweet boy who would do anything for his mom except act like he likes her in public?  I mean, really…what if one of his friends saw him?!  I wondered about Mom too, Is she a single mom, doing her best to raise this pre-teen on the meager child support she gets from her no good, deadbeat, ex?  Or is she a stay at home mom who drives a Lexus and just brings her son along for the company?  Hmmmm…I wonder.

Every now and then, I’ll be stopped at an intersection; you know, the ones where they only let one direction go at a time…4 lights…4 minutes each.  I’ll look to my right, or left, or both, to check out the people in the cars next to me.  Today, at this particular intersection, to my left, was a man about forty.  He was driving an older, white SUV-type vehicle.  He was drumming on the steering wheel with one hand, and nervously eating the fingernails off the digits on his other hand. My mind began to wonder, does he spend his workdays as an anxious percussionist?  What radio station is he listening to?  Is he worried about something, hungry, or is the nail-biting just a habit?  These little details interest me.  In the intersection to my right, is a woman about my age.  She is looking at me and when she sees me looking at her, she smiles.  I wave at her and smile back; this IS the friendly Midwest after all!  The voice in my head asks, “Do you know her?”  No…no I don’t.
“Then why did you smile at her?”  Because she smiled at me…DUH!   “She could be some kind of psycho.”  Yes, that’s true, but I doubt it.  “Yes, but how do you know?”  No, she was just a nice person.  “Yes, but…”  Enough!  By the way, this “conversation” with myself was a silent one.  I wouldn’t dare talk to myself, and then answer myself, when alone in the car!  How would that look to other people?

At work: yes, that’s right, not even my co-workers are safe from my inquiring mind.  I rarely wonder about those I work closely with. I know most of them quite well, and like me, their lives aren’t that interesting.  I know too much, therefore, I cannot come up with anything truly fantastic about them.  Reality gets the best of me in that situation. However, there are a few people I see in passing that put my mind to pondering.  There is the one lady I’m acquainted with.  She is older than I am, and she is very quiet.  She is always dressed smartly, her hair put up in a professional looking ponytail thing, sometimes with a braid, sometimes not.  She looks like the epitome of a career woman.  Sometimes when I see her, I wonder about her home life.  Is she married?  Is her husband a career man and hardly home?  Do they have 1.5 children and 1.7 pets?   Is she one of those domineering kind of women?  Does she expect her spouse to have dinner ready when she gets home?  Does she collect souvenir shot glasses?  Is that ponytail real?  For all I know, she is independently wealthy and only works here for something to do.  If that’s the case, I hate her.

I’m nosy.  Yes, I know I am.  I come by my inquisitor’s brain honestly.  My paternal grandmother was born in Virginia and raised on southern values.  She wanted to know EVERY BODY’S business and possessed no tact, nor diplomacy when asking about EVERY BODY’S business!  She even admitted it herself, and used to say, “If you don’t ask, you will never know!”  When I was younger, I used to think she was talking about knowledge in general. Like in school; when you don’t know the answer, you ask!  No.  What my sweet Grandma meant was that if you want to know something, ANYTHING, about ANYBODY, it is absolutely OK to ask!  I sure loved her!  God rest her sweet, nosy, soul.

Maybe the next time some strange woman smiles at me when I’m stopped at an intersection, I’ll take a different tack than the “smile and wave.”  Maybe I will casually roll down my window, smile, and shout, “WHAT ARE YOU SMILING AT WOMAN?  DO I HAVE SOMETHING ON MY FACE?”  Then, I’ll leave her looking after me, stunned, and eating my dust.  Only if the light turns green.

My Baby Bird is Ready to Fly

 

 

What happens when the baby of the family graduates from high school?  Does one celebrate because the kids are finally out of the house?  Does one rejoice because they survived to reach their 18th birthday?  Or, does one grieve for the loss of innocent childhood, missing their chubby little cheeks, wrinkly toes, and soft baby scented hair?  For me, It is all of the above.

When she was born, 7 lbs. 1 oz. and 18 inches long, Mac had a tiny, little head and these HUGE, beacons for eyes!  My brother came to visit us in the hospital, took her in his arms, looked at me and said, “Congratulations, Sis!  You had an ALIEN.”   Well, her eyes are still huge, but the rest of her face grew into them.  As she grew, so did her sparkling personality.  She was, and is, so expressive; a champion at rolling her eyes.  Her adorable baby voice could sing before she was able to speak, and did at every available opportunity.  I remember when she was about 4 or 5, her favorite song was, “Write This Down,” by George Strait, and she would sing it at the top of her lungs in the car when it came on the radio.   She has a heart full of love and kindness that she isn’t afraid to wear on her sleeve, an infectious laugh, and an impervious sense of humor; or fluent sarcasm is more like it!  

My baby graduated this spring and began her freshman year at our local community college.  She was accepted at the University of Iowa to begin her Pre-Med studies this year, but decided she would rather take care of her basics closer to home. This was a very mature decision on her part, and a wise one! She will be able to transfer to Iowa as a Junior in 2016, and have a lot of the boring stuff behind her.  I’m proud of my little girl.  She is a beautiful, intelligent, and responsible child (adult?), and I’m confident she will do something worthwhile with her life.  Perhaps she will develop a cure for cancer, Alzheimer’s, or Parkinson’s Disease.  Maybe she will become a world-renowned neurosurgeon or pediatrician.   Or maybe, she will just practice medicine close to home and take care of her aging mother (me) — “Not likely,” she says. Regardless of whether she pursues medicine, or opts to major in philosophy, I am proud to call her my daughter.  She is more to me than just one of my offspring.  She is a trusted friend, a confidant, and yes, my baby.  Always my baby. 

I love you, MacKenzie Jo.   — Mom

The Rapidly Emptying Nest

A baby no more

It seems like yesterday  I was changing diapers, wiping snotty noses, and stepping on stray Legos in my bare feet.

Oh wait!  That WAS yesterday! 

Seriously though, time has flown faster than I could have imagined.  I watched Tyler grow from a busy little boy who could melt my heart with just one, “I love you, Mommy,” to a young man of 19 trying to find his place in the world. 

I have witnessed the “firsts,” like:  First steps, first words, first love, first broken heart, first day of school, and his first job.

He was my shadow when he was little; always next to me, asking questions and sharing his dreams.  Now, he is enjoying his freedom, away from Mom, and trying to exercise his independence. 

He has a girlfriend, a job, and an apartment and he’s living about 30 minutes away from me…too far by my standards.  There are plans for college this fall and dreams of a career in music someday. 

Just a few short years ago, he was dreaming of growing up and never getting married, because “girls are disgusting!”  He wanted to be a policeman, a fire-fighter, and a Marine.  He was afraid of monsters under the bed and made me spray “Monster Repellant” in every corner of his bedroom.   A spider could send him screaming like a little girl, out of his room and into my lap until I went to kill the offending arachnid.

In middle-school there were icky girls, fights in the cafeteria and….show choir.

Show choir was Tyler’s “sport.”  While other boys were getting suited up for football games, playing basketball, and trying to be tough, Tyler was taking dance lessons and singing all—the—time.  He discovered a profound love of music that has never left him.  It is in his DNA having musical parents, and being surrounded by it all his life.  Music is the compass he uses as he journeys through his life.

Tyler’s high school years were spent trying to figure out who he was, just like any other teenage boy.  He is a smart kid and never had to study hard to do well.  Applying himself was a challenge though.  Heaven forbid he would get good grades and be labeled a “nerd.”  Tyler’s strategy was to do the bare minimum to get by, graduate, and move on. Unfortunately, that did not work to his advantage.  He began experimenting with illegal substances, starting hanging out with a rough crowd, and got into more trouble than I could hope to protect him from.  As a family, we endured his treatment for substance abuse, learned a new lingo, and I became his “warden.”  It was hard to watch him struggle, knowing that there was NOTHING I could do to heal him.  As a parent, it was the first time I felt utterly helpless.  Then, before I knew it, he was better. He was productive, had good friends, and was moving on with his life.

On May 17^th 2013, my son Tyler graduated from high school.  As I watched him cross that stage and accept his diploma, 19 years of memories flashed through my mind.  Although he has left my nest, I’m pretty sure he will be back again from time to time. 

I look forward to watching him grow as a man, a musician, maybe even a husband and father someday…no hurry though!! I already see great potential in my “little” boy.

Tyler, I’m proud of you…of your talents and gifts, of how you overcame the obstacles in your young life, and of your heart. That loving, giving, and open heart that you wear proudly on your sleeve.  I’m proud of your creativity and your sensitivity.  Most of all, I’m proud that you are my SON, and I love you so much.

Good luck and God’s Blessings on your future Honey.  Remember, I’m never far away.

 

Now, one more to go….

Looking for Serenity – Chapter 2

   I’m slowly learning that serenity is not achieved on my own.  I must enlist the help of others who are going though the   same things as I am.  I must contact and learn from specialists and former addicts. I need to remember that this is not my fault.  Most of all, and above all else, I MUST trust that GOD is going to take this burden from my heart and heal me.

In Matthew 11:28-30, Jesus said, “Come to me, all you who are weary and burdened, and I will give you rest. Take my yoke upon you and learn from me, for I am gentle and humble in heart, and you will find rest for your souls. For my yoke is easy and my burden is light.”

Who am I to question the Son of God?

Jackson

March 16th, 2011– We arrived at Jackson Recovery Center in Sioux City, it suddenly dawned on me that I was putting my son in the care of strangers.  I began feeling the nagging pull of what can only be described as – guilt.  By bringing him here, I was effectively saying that I could not heal him. I was admitting that there was nothing I could do for my son to make him stop using drugs, or to protect him from a very grim fate should he continue.  I felt utterly helpless.

We walked into Jackson, none of us speaking, just assessing our surroundings.  The worn façade of what used to be a hospital, painted yellow concrete, several floors with small, locked windows.  Inside, cheesy second hand furniture in the waiting areas, an antiquated elevator that was badly lit and stripped to bare metal.  Tyler was vey quiet and I could only imagine what was going through his mind…fear.

Stepping off on the Administration floor, we were shown to a small office with a friendly receptionist, who greeted us warmly.  Her smile was infectious and I couldn’t help but return it to her.  We were seen first by the intake coordinator who explained the paperwork, the insurance coverage, and ensured that we understood everything.   All in all, very typical of any medical admission.

We would be expected to attend family education sessions during Family Day every other Friday.  We could visit every Friday if we wanted, but we were strongly encouraged to come to Family Day. We learned that Tyler would have to earn off-campus visits starting at 2 hours at a time, working up to weekends home.  There was no prescribed length of time that he would be required to stay but the average was about 90 days.  Three months.  Without my boy.  God help me.

We waited a few minutes more, making small talk, and waiting for the Bridges Unit supervisor to come and collect Tyler and his belongings.  When she arrived, she wasn’t alone.  Instead she was accompanied by several other boys that were patients there.  They were all shapes and sizes, and colors.  Some wore the garb of hip-hop aficionados,  Others were tattooed, pierced, or clean cut and “preppy” as MacKenzie observed.  They were ready to receive Tyler with open arms and suddenly, he was ready to go.  He got up from his seat, hugged me hard, and said, “Ok, Mom.  I gotta go.  I’ll be ok.  I can tell these are my people.” 

My people?  What does that mean?

I released him, he gathered his stuff and headed out the door with his new “brothers.”  I noticed one thing in common between these boys that came to meet Tyler.  It was the look in their eyes that could only mean one thing….hope.

Family Day

The following Friday was a Family Day and we would also be meeting with Tyler’s addiction counselor.

We were in a room with several other people, all families of addicts there at Jackson.  Some of them had kids or siblings that had been there for two months already, and were starting to look forward to taking their loved ones home.  Still others were newbies, like us.  In this room, we were to learn about the disease of Addiction.  I had always viewed addiction as a choice someone made.  I figured they chose to use, therefore, they chose to be addicted to whatever it was that landed them here.  I couldn’t have been more wrong.

Addiction is NOT a choice.  While its true that the addict chooses to use drugs or alcohol that first time.  What they don’t have any control over, is what that substance is going to do to their body and their mind.  I took notes, I participated in discussion and for the first time, my eyes were opened to this  twisted reality that Tyler was living in.  The two hour session flew by and I craved more information.  I wanted to know more!

Next was the Family Group Therapy session.  Nothing could have prepared me for what this entailed.  I imagined it was a group therapy session for the families of these addicted young men, to talk about our feelings and find some way to get through this torment together.  What I wasn’t prepared for, was all the boys on the unit were there too!  Some of them had family there, and some didn’t.  There were a couple of boys who had been there the longest, proudly announcing that they were 60 or 80 days clean.  They all encouraged each other and in turn, they encouraged us.  I found them intelligent, articulate young men, who as they wrestle with this disease, have an awakening of sorts.  They are learning that they are worth something, that they are not their disease.  I found that I was learning things from these kids, things I would never learn in a classroom.

I met other parents going through the same feelings and anxieties that I was.  I no longer felt alone, and that was a very liberating place to be.  Too soon, the hour was over and it was time to meet Tyler’s counselor.

Meeting Jackie

OK, so I’m not sure what I was expecting, but I definitely was not expecting that Tyler’s addiction counselor would be so…young.  Jackie wasn’t tall, but she wore really high heels.  She was thin, but in an athletic way.  She was friendly and accommodating, acknowledging the information overload we had just encountered earlier in the day.  She introduced herself and then asked, “So, how are YOU doing?”  I was speechless, overtaken by the flood of emotion that I had kept pushed down since we got there.  I was so embarrassed to be crying like a baby in front of a total stranger.  No, I was mortified!  Jackie simply handed me a tissue and remained silent while I composed myself.  MacKenzie and Larry were there too, wearing their masks of concern for the wife and mother that had just fallen apart in front of them.

Once I had recovered from my emotional outburst, Jackie proceeded to tell me that all the feelings we were having; anger, fear, sadness, guilt, etc.; were completely normal.  She explained the routine that she was working on for Tyler’s therapy and assured me that he would undergo psychological testing while he was there.  It was explained that not only would his addictions be dealt with, but his psychological needs as well.

Jackie said that we absolutely did the right thing by bringing Tyler there, and in doing so, very likely saved his life.

Saved his life.

Her words would echo in my mind for the duration of his stay.  It was at that moment I knew that she knew what she was doing, and I trusted her.She said that this would be a battle for Tyler and that he would need all of our support.

We left for the long drive home and as we pulled away from Jackson I prayed, “God, please grant me the strength I will need to be strong for my son.”

The truth is, I was terrified.

Looking for Serenity

What IS “serenity” exactly?  Is it peace?  Is it a feeling of calm?  Or could it simply be a feeling that all is well?  Dictionary.com defines serenity as: “the state or quality of being serene,  calm, or tranquil; sereneness.”

Serenity for me means less worry, less stress, and…well…freedom.  It is the freedom has eluded me for the last few years, making brief appearances only to disappear again.

You see, my son is an addict.

Our Story – Part One

Our story actually begins in early 2011, though, Tyler’s struggle began much earlier.  In March of 2011, it came to light that Tyler was using various substances on a very regular basis.  He was stealing to support his habit, staying out all night long, and school wasn’t a priority for him.  My husband and I decided that he needed help and since he was not open to getting it on his own, we had him involuntarily committed.  We went to the courthouse, filed the paperwork, and then wait for the boys in blue to come and take him .

On March 3rd, at about 10:00pm, two uniformed officers came to our door to collect Tyler.  They found him in our basement, surfing the web and listening to music.  They handcuffed him, escorted him up the stairs and when he saw me, he asked,” Where’s MacKenzie?”

He did not want his sister to see him in cuffs, but it was too late.  MacKenzie was standing right next to me.  He wasn’t struggling, resisting, or fighting this extraction from our household, in fact, I would describe him as…serene.  He looked at me, sadness in his eyes and asked, “Did you call them?”

“This has been in the works for several days, Tyler.  You need help and this is the only way you are going to get what you need,”  I replied with tears in my eyes. He simply nodded and was led from the house.

I waited 48 hours until I went to visit him in the Adolescent Unit at St. Luke’s.   When I finally saw him, he was in the middle of his detox; shaking, paranoid, and very depressed.  He felt so ashamed of himself, and very concerned about his sister’s emotional state.  He put his arms around me and cried for what seemed like hours.  I assured him that he would be feeling better once all the toxins were out of his system, but he was certain that he was going to die.  I could not convince him otherwise.

As a parent, one of the primary responsibilities is the comforting of one’s children.  Regardless of what I said to him, no matter how much I tried, I could not console my son.  He was 17 and in those first few days, he was a small, frightened little boy who was afraid of the monsters under the bed.  Nothing I did chased them away and I felt utterly helpless, even useless.  It was one of the hardest days of my life, leaving him there alone, while he was in such pain.  Leaving the unit through the security door, I looked back thru the tiny square window and saw my baby walking down the opposite hallway.  He was dressed in green scrubs, head shaved, heaving from his sobs.   My heart ached for him, I cried until there were no more tears to cry, and I screamed at God, “WHY MY SON?”  I had no idea where to turn for solace…I, too, was alone.

Finally, on March 13th, Tyler was transferred to Jackson Recovery Center in Sioux City, Iowa.  It was a 5 hour drive, and rather than the police escort, we opted to take Tyler there ourselves.  It was a long road trip, and a quiet one.  None of us knowing what to expect when we got there.  Tyler slept most of the way, and I was grateful for the silence.  I watched him in the rear-view mirror, sleeping soundly, and I wondered when the last time was that he slept so hard.  He looked so peaceful, and so little.  In this state, he reminded me of the little guy who insisted that I lay with him at night before he went to bed.  Oh how I missed those simpler times.Still reeling from the start of this emotional turmoil, I silently wondered if our family would ever survive such upheaval.

..more to come…