“Let your son grow up. He needs to figure things out for himself,” John said.
Needless to say, the word “codependent” provoked a reaction, especially in an anxious person like me, trying to be The Rock of Gibraltar. Trying to be heroic.
“What?! Me, codependent?” I would say as I launched into my Wounded Mom persona. It was just like being zapped into the cartoon story box of a graphic novel, something à la Roz Chast of The New Yorker. Just like in her drawings, my hands would be thrown up in shocked indignation, forehead furrowed, frizzled hair sticking straight up, eyebrows jumping clear off my face, mouth wide open in a shout of triple-exclamation-point vexation. “Are you kidding me?!!! Me, have issues? Is it codependent to drive someone in Drug Court to another town once to pee in a cup during my workday so he won’t get sanctions, or to arrange a rescue mission out in the boonies, or to help repair a scooter and get yelled at? My feelings about all this? Look, I’m a perfectly in-control, professional person. It’s the other guy I’m dealing with who’s out of control. Can’t you see?”
But I was beginning to suspect John was right. All that damp, anxious, wormy self-doubt—that was the flip side of The Rock. Then, too, sometimes I really was the mom character in a wacko cartoon. Seems I had a few contradictions to sort out for myself. This whole mom business was way more complicated than I ever thought it would be.
CHAPTER 9: NAMI I
A few years before my son’s arrest, I was telling my friend Maureen about some of the problems that came up while he was a student in Cincinnati.
“Why don’t you try going to a NAMI meeting?”
“Oh?” I asked vaguely.
“They meet in a church up in Parksville, about twice a month. I think they have one support group for family and another for persons living with a mental illness. You might get some help.”
At the time, I was slightly irritated that Maureen would even bring this up. Her son Daniel had schizophrenia, so of course she was going to join a group like the National Alliance on Mental Illness. Back then, I didn’t believe my son’s case was that serious. Yes, he had a diagnosis from a psychiatrist. True, he’d had some behavior problems all along, and he’d been on the wrong side of the law with intoxicants a few times. But surely, his life wasn’t going to be as severely impacted as Daniel’s was. Stumbling around as a young adult was just part of growing up, wasn’t it?
After Dylan got arrested, my opinion changed. Only a few weeks before that event, I found out there was a new NAMI group in town. The notice for monthly meetings was posted at the new psychiatrist’s office, along with a contact number. “Why don’t they have meetings for me?” Dylan had asked when he saw it; the notice was addressed to family members. I finally decided to go. That’s where I met Sandra, who was heading it up. Turns out she and her husband, Robert, had gone to the very meetings in Parksville that Maureen had told me about earlier. After attending a NAMI Family-to-Family mentorship program, the couple felt motivated to start a support group here, to raise awareness in our small town.
I wasn’t the quickest convert. Half-curious, half-reluctant, I started attending meetings every month, though I often dreaded it. This entailed leaving my comfortable, predictable educational world to go directly into the chaotic, unpredictable, emotional one shared by these parents. I wasn’t used to shifting those gears—not openly, not deliberately. And I wasn’t sure this was really a tribe I belonged to.
I went first and foremost because I was grateful for the help Sandra had given me in my hour of need. After all, how many people could I count on to go with me to Dylan’s court hearings, especially when John couldn’t be there and the rest of the family lived 700 miles away? And to listen to all my woes with a son whose irresponsible behavior left me feeling like an emotional basket case and a bad parent? I went because Sandra understood, and so did the other parents there. With them, I could start to shed some guilt and look with a clearer gaze on what was going on.
At this particular November meeting, we sat in a circle. After our usual introductions, Sandra turned the floor over to Rita. It was clear that things had been happening behind the scenes. Everyone wanted to know more about Rita’s son, Brett, who had been diagnosed with a severe form of paranoid schizophrenia. He was living in a group home in Owensboro, since there was no such residence for him in our town. He was taking medication now and was doing better, but he still heard voices and was delusional. He had a history of being in and out of Western State psychiatric hospital, but the cost of that was $720 dollars a day (paid by the state), so they kept him in for a maximum of ninety days or less, long enough to be pronounced “stable.” Then they released him. Lately, with budgets tight, the stays were shorter—more like a week, sometimes only four days.
Brett was thirty-two years old, and during his adult life he’d been to Western State maybe twenty times, lived in group homes, wandered off, gotten lost, been homeless, been arrested, and put in jail. Eventually, he’d get court-ordered back to the psychiatric hospital, and the whole cycle would start over again. All this with a family who was doing their best to keep track of him. Hearing Brett’s story made me wonder: What other form of illness in America would condemn someone to wander around in hopeless circles like an inhabitant of Dante’s Inferno? When you heard these testimonies, you wondered which one was crazier: the delusional person with a serious brain disorder, or the mental health care system in our country?
“Brett wants to come home for Christmas,” Rita said, “but I just can’t imagine handling the fallout from that. Just dealing with everyone on top of Brett. No, it wouldn’t work.” Like Sandra, Rita was remarried and had a daughter as well as a son. “Besides,” Rita added, “I remember what happened the last time we tried transporting him between places. Can’t take that on again, just can’t.”
Rita was referring to an earlier occasion, when Brett had been released from Western State hospital to live in an apartment with occasional visits by a case worker. However, he quit taking his meds, and rapidly became delusional again. One night, he became convinced that monsters were attacking him. He smashed his TV and other furniture trying to get rid of them. Both parents agreed he needed to go back to Western State. But what they really wanted was a more long-term solution, something stable for their son. How could someone who already had so much chaos in his head deal with such a disordered pattern of treatment and so many changes of residence? After phone calls to the police, it was decided that Brett’s dad would pick him up and take him to Western. But then, in the middle of the drive while they were making a fast-food pit stop, the young man hopped out of the car and fled.
“You remember, we had to call the police to help find him,” Rita reminded us.
We remembered. The police soon located him, but it took the intervention of two county judges, the police, the parents, and the negotiations of Sandra and Robert from our NAMI group before the young man could be safely escorted back to the psychiatric hospital. Part of the problem was administrative: in non-criminal cases, judges could only make decisions within their jurisdictions, so crossing a county line involved calling to get another judge’s approval. Besides, though the local police were trained to do crisis invention, they couldn’t always be available to round up mentally unstable persons and drive them to a treatment facility ninety miles away. Rita shook her head.
“He’s been through so much already. We all have. I don’t want to ask his dad to pick him up again after what happened before, getting the police involved.”
Rita had a lot to juggle, keeping her regular family life going and also supporting Brett. Earlier on, she’d tried to take care of him at home, but with a full-time career and a new marriage, it didn’t work out. Now, this year’s Christmas would be complicated. What could she do for Brett so that he could celebrate the holiday and not be alone?
Earlier, Rita had shown us a picture of her son, taken maybe ten years previously, when he was an attractive, earnest-looking young man, a photo you might see posted o
n Facebook. Yet Rita had told us there were times within the past twelve months when she barely recognized him. After wandering away from another group home in Lexington, Brett’s hair had grown out wildly, his clothing filthy, with bits of food encrusted on his shirtsleeves. At times, Rita didn’t even know where he was. He needed to take his meds, but he didn’t understand why he should take them. Our group had learned the term for that, anosognosia. It was a Greek-based medical term used for a person who lacked the awareness that he or she was ill, disconnected from reality. People in this condition, due to brain-circuitry dysfunction, were too ill to follow any health regimen. They would be too delusional to benefit from their civil right to make use of mental health services, even those available to them through the expanded coverage of Medicaid under the new Affordable Care Act (2010).
Both Sandra and Rita were devastated by the way illness had changed their sons’ lives. They each said it was as if the true self of the person they’d known earlier had been taken away and some stranger put in his place. Even during the relatively good times, when their sons were receiving better care and in fuller possession of their understanding, it wasn’t the same.
“Seems like my son is in a state of arrested development. Like he’s caught in a time warp when he was fifteen or sixteen years old,” Rita would say. “But I’ve learned to really appreciate the times when he’s healthy and knows who I am. He smiles and says he loves me. Then I know my Brett is still in there somewhere.”
“I feel the same way about Brad,” Sandra said. He was in his early thirties, too, like Brett.
“It doesn’t seem to make any difference what his chronological age is, our son still acts the same way he did when he was a teenager,” husband Robert confirmed. “He rebels the same way, has the same temper tantrums if he doesn’t get what he wants.”
“And sometimes I feel so bad about everything he’s missing out on,” Sandra added. “I look at his younger sister moving on with her life, and I know Brad will never do those things: graduate, get a job, travel, get married, start his own family.”
Whenever this theme came up—and it came up often—it sent her to the edge of tears. Robert handed her a box of Kleenex.
“Well, that’s sad for us,” Robert reminded her, “but Brad—he’s happy most of the time as he is, just staying inside his apartment playing his video games.” Both parents wished he would want more—a job, a sense of purpose. And they were always concerned about his propensity to use drugs or host drug parties in his apartment. But for now, they were glad their son would agree to get his prescribed shot once a month from Dr. Peltay, allowing him to remain relatively stable. Their plan was to explore other possibilities for him, but he had to be open to trying them, and that was something beyond their control.
“Well,” Rita went on, “I’ve thought about it, and I’ve made my decision. I’m going to tell everyone at home that we can do all kinds of activities together over the holidays, but I’m going to spend Christmas Day with Brett. I’ll drive in the morning to where he is at the group home in Owensboro. I’ll take some presents and some food, and that way, he’ll have family for at least one day.”
You could almost hear a collective sigh around the table, everyone thinking about what that day would be like. More questions for her while the Kleenex box got passed around.
“Wow, Rita, that’s amazing,” I told her. From what Rita had shared with us, I figured that Brett was well enough now to greatly appreciate his mom being with him at Christmas, even for just one day.
In my first few months of these meetings, after hearing such heartbreaking dilemmas, I often felt undisguised relief at their ending. Sometimes I would stay to talk longer like the other moms did, but more often I’d be the first out the door, emotionally drained and hungry. That’s how it was this particular evening. After a hug or two, I took off. Facing harsh reality is something I can only stand for a scant hour, maybe once a month. It was all still new to me, this way of being open about something I tried not to look at, not to see. For a pie-eyed optimist, hearing these stories was like sampling the strongest and strangest brew the tap room offered. I hadn’t acquired a taste for the bitters served by this kind of life, this reality. Not yet. But I was working on it.
CHAPTER 10: THE RULE OF TWOS
As Dylan moved through the early months of Drug Court, a number of practical matters had to be dealt with. For one, it was early December and the troublesome moped needed some serious engine repairs. It was clear that Fred had done what he could with the Chinese scooter, but if Dylan were really going to rely on this vehicle for transportation, it would have to be checked out and repaired by an outfit that knew these kinds of engines backwards and forwards. Dylan found such a place in Nashville and came up with a plan for the two of us. We’d rent a truck to transport it there and have it fixed. On the same trip, he decided to put his dirt-jumping Kona bike on Craigslist and sell it, which he did, for $380. Getting the moped fixed was the solution to Problem #1.
Next, he was finding that living with Connor and his girlfriend in the next-door apartment wasn’t working out too well. Even though the apartments were separate, they weren’t separate enough, and the girlfriend came over to talk endlessly about her problems while Dylan was home and Connor was away at work. “Why doesn’t she get a job? Then, at least, she’d have something to do,” Dylan said. “When I’m in school again next semester, there’s no way I’m going to be able to study with her around yakking.” As for Connor, Dylan liked him well enough, remarking, “It’s hard to believe, but he’s even more impulsive than me. I’m sure he has some mental health issues going on, too.” Still, he knew Connor wasn’t going to break up with his girlfriend anytime soon; she was part of the living arrangement.
“I’ve got to find another place,” Dylan concluded. “I want to stay on good terms with Connor, but this house-sharing concept is just not going to work.” Fortunately, he soon found an available apartment. It was nearing the end of the term, and students who had finished degrees were moving. The location and price of the single apartment were excellent; it was a nice one. The only issues now were giving the landlord notice, telling Connor, and doing the physical work of moving. Dylan didn’t seem daunted by any of that. It had to be done. So, moving would be the solution to Problem #2.
Yet another problem loomed in the early months. Dylan’s first sponsor at AA wasn’t working out. First, the sponsor wasn’t available when Dylan wanted to contact him; next, Dylan found out his new guide to sobriety had fallen off the wagon. Oh no, is this going to be a case of the blind leading the blind? That’s when I started hearing about someone named Arlo. Apparently, Arlo went along with what I started calling the Rule of Twos. Just as Dylan’s first residence didn’t work out and eventually he had to look for another one, so his first AA sponsor hadn’t been the right fit, either. According to Dylan, though, the second volunteer for this job, Arlo, was super-reliable. Arlo had been a radiologist who’d lost his job a few years back because his weekend drinking habit started encroaching on the rest of the week. Now he’d successfully quit drinking altogether, went to AA regularly, and worked for his parents, who owned rental properties in town. Arlo did a lot of carpentry and maintenance work. In the summer, he also did some farming on the side. He was low-key and sympatico. If Dylan called to talk or wanted to ask him about something, he responded. Not only that, but occasionally, he could even give Dylan some paid work to do. Also, Arlo had a truck, which could be extremely useful to a guy who only had a moped—and who had to move his household in the winter. There was a limit to how much Dylan could prevail on Connor to use his black Silverado, especially since he didn’t know exactly how Connor would react to his suggestion that they each get separate dwellings. Dylan was highly aware of trying to spread his requests for assistance around, so no one person would feel overwhelmed. So in many ways, Arlo went a long way toward solving Problem #3.
About these changes, Dylan reported that Ms. Winchester of Drug Court wasn�
�t surprised. By now, he was calling her Darlene, as the other DC members did. According to him, Darlene said that if something in your life isn’t working, then you should think about it, and either you need to change yourself or you need to change the situation. As for the housemate situation, she said simply, “Well, I’m only amazed that it’s lasted this long for you and Connor.” She must have heard a few of their complaints. And when Dylan broached the topic with Connor about them each getting their own places, he was surprised to find he accepted the idea without much resistance. Eventually, Dylan signed a new lease, while Connor and his girlfriend found a new place for themselves. The previous landlord received a thirty-day notice, and luckily, no one protested the new arrangements.
As for me, though initially perplexed, I soon came around to the idea that Dylan needed to find a better living situation for himself as a single person. It meant I would be out a month’s rent for the change, but I had to admit: relying on Connor to pay his share of rent had been a colossal headache. Even though he had a steady job, he was chronically late in his payments. In fact, the whole topic of finances continued to be a source of concern. I wanted Dylan to be back in school again. I could better justify my financial assistance if I thought it was going toward a clear goal. Dylan’s dad felt the same way, but since he was a freelancer, I knew he didn’t have the same steady income I had. He wouldn’t be able to pay half of Dylan’s expenses without taking on real hardship. My dad was gone already, and it took his entire pension to support my mother’s expenses as an Alzheimer’s patient at a special facility. So, as the main person working full-time for a salary, I was carrying the major part of financial management. Thank goodness Dylan could be covered by my health insurance up to age twenty-six! That was a real lifesaver, even if I had to pay more.
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