by Brad Willis
Even though I’m groggy and have the covers wrapped over my head, I can sense something in the air. It’s the feeling I used to get in a war zone when there was a moment of silence before an attack. As my head starts to clear, I hear soft murmurs downstairs in the family room. It must be Pamela and Morgan. I haven’t seen them or been able to make any contact for at least five days. It’s been driving me insane.
I roll out of bed and strap on the lighter, elastic back brace I use around the house. Slowly I head downstairs. Holding tightly to the staircase railing to steady myself. Trying to get my blurry eyes in focus. Being careful not to stumble and fall. The murmurs have hushed. They hear me coming. There’s no cry of “Daddy” from Morgan, no “We’re home” from his mother. It’s eerie. My skin begins to tingle with apprehension.
Halfway down the stairs, still decorated with holiday wreaths, bows, and tinsel, I glance at our Christmas tree in the living room. It’s brown. Shedding needles. Dead. Like me, I think as I make it to the last step.
I turn into the hallway and enter the family room. I see several people sitting there: Pamela. My two sisters. My mother. One of my nieces. A brother-in-law. Father David. A best friend of mine, who is also Morgan’s godfather. And a tall, gangly stranger in a coat and tie, looking confident and in charge of whatever is happening here. Morgan is nowhere to be seen. I’m sensing my son is deliberately being kept from me as a means of getting my attention. No one says a word as I lower myself into my reclining chair, lean back, and survey the room. The atmosphere is serious, solemn, like a funeral, with the taste of fear permeating the air.
“My name is Dale,” the stranger says as he stands up and takes the center of the room like a military commander. “I want you to know your family is here to support you.”
Dale speaks in well-rehearsed tones but sounds stiff and mechanical. “I lead interventions,” he continues. “Your family loves you, but they believe your life is out of control. You are taking too many medications and drinking too much alcohol. Everyone in this room is frightened for your future.”
I look around at the somber faces. I can feel their love and compassion, but I also sense their apprehension: They’re hoping I won’t blow up and throw them all out. Dale now yields the floor to each family member, who, with great courage, takes their turn, nervously telling me how much I’ve changed. Everyone has written their words out on a form that Dale provided them. The planning must have been in the works for the past several days. Each speaker shares with me many hurtful things I’ve said. Ugly things I’ve done. Unacceptable behaviors that have worsened with time. My sisters and mother point out that they are always fearful that I might explode over something trivial. My brother-in-law says he believes my mixture of drinking and drugs will kill me. Morgan’s godfather talks about my incessant anger and rage. Each of them says they can no longer be in my life if I continue like this, and they want me to get help now. Today. It’s tough love. A forced reckoning. Incredibly painful to hear.
Father David has never seen this side of me and chooses not to speak. It’s as if he knows I might need a source of spiritual strength during this. Then, Pamela takes her turn. Her hands are shaking as she holds her sheet of paper. Tears fall from her eyes. Her voice cracks as she says, “I love you and I miss you. I have lost my husband and my son’s father. I have lost the man I married. I don’t know who you will be on any given day. I’m afraid for you, and I’m afraid of you.”
I’m in shock when she ends. Multiple voices in my head compete for attention. My ego rages, yelling at me to throw everyone out the door. Another inner voice demands that I defend myself. Remind them of my broken back and terminal cancer. Seek pity. Blame it on the drugs. Guilt-trip them for doing this to me. Then there’s a deeper voice, the one Father Joe from Thailand urged me to listen to and the voice Father David represents as he sits facing me in silence. It’s a voice we all have but so often refuse to acknowledge or heed. It always knows right from wrong, even when we’re in a fit of rage or a drunken stupor. This voice says: Your family and friends are right. No matter how painful it is to accept, they are one hundred percent right.
I can see my reflection on the dark screen of the computer monitor that faces my recliner. Black circles under my eyes, greasy hair sticking out in all directions, a twisted scowl on my face. I look like a madman, and I realize I no longer know who this person is. As the voices in my head continue to compete for primacy, the Get up, Daddy mantra starts looping through my mind. There’s incredible tension in the room as everyone waits for me to say something. Finally, as if I’m outside of my body watching all this unfold, I hear myself say, “It’s about time.”
A collective sigh of relief permeates the room as Dale seizes the moment. “Good. We realize that you are in pain and have a serious disease, but we want you to check into a Betty Ford Clinic in Palms Springs. Quit the drinking and get off as many of the drugs as possible. No matter how long you have to live, things can’t go on like this any longer.”
“What about Morgan?” I ask, needing to see him, wanting to tell him I love him before being locked away in rehab.
“Not yet.” Dale is firm, speaking from a script that’s part of the intervention process. They don’t want me to change my mind, and Morgan is clearly the leverage. “You have to go right now, not later today, not tomorrow, but now. Everything is arranged. We have a car out front. Just get a few things together. Your sisters will help you pack. We’ll discuss a visit with Morgan somewhere down the road.”
My ego starts to seethe again. No one has the right to keep my son from me, especially this stranger in my home. Resentment boils over inside of me. I stare hard at Dale, wishing I had the strength to jump up and strangle him.
“I’ll make the drive with you,” Father David offers quickly, sensing my mood.
I glance at my reflection in the computer monitor again. I look deranged. Someone I would avoid at all costs. A vision of Morgan appears on the screen, like he’s in my lap. I can hear his voice again. Get up, Daddy.
All the other voices in my head subside as a sense of surrender envelops me. If nothing else, I tell myself, I can get off these drugs. I can find some level of clarity. Be present for Morgan. Try to honor my covenant with him. Get up, in whatever way possible, before I die. I take a huge inhalation and let it go like a floodtide. It must be the first time I’ve fully exhaled in these thirteen years of pain and it feels like a river flowing through me, washing away years of fear, anger, and grief. I breathe in deeply again and sigh out loud, “Okay. Thank you, everyone, for doing this. I’m so sorry. Let me get a few things together. I’m so, so sorry.”
Dale’s car is a small compact. It can barely fit four adults. His messy trunk is too full to handle my small suitcase. Anyway, it would be impossible for me to sit up for a three-hour trip to Palm Springs, much less squeeze myself into this car wearing my back brace. Pretending not to be flummoxed, Dale jumps into action and vows to return in thirty minutes with a van. Without saying a word, Pamela drives off with him. Father David stays with me, like a spiritual sentry. He comforts me. Says a few prayers. Tells me it will be okay. But I’m already starting to get steamed, because it’s a much longer wait than Dale promised. He and Pamela are not back until late afternoon.
The drive over the mountains from San Diego to Palm Springs is surreal. Dale and Pamela are up front talking logistics in hushed tones. I’m lying down on a thick pad in the back of the van with Father David sitting cross-legged and hunched over by my side. He whispers more prayers. Smiles. Affirms me the entire way. My mind is still fighting it, like a confused argument with a dozen different people screaming at the same time. My whole body aches from the bumpy ride and the emotional intensity of the intervention. When David isn’t looking, I unscrew the cap of the tiny silver vial that dangles from a chain around my neck. This is where I keep my morphine tablets. I shake one out and slip it under my tongue.
The van is slow and struggles over the mountains. The trip takes
much longer than expected. It’s after 9 P.M. when we finally arrive at the clinic in Palm Springs. The lobby is empty. Dale said everything was arranged, I think to myself, noting that there’s not a staff person in sight. I lie down on the reception couch, dazed, and completely exhausted. As I wait and wait, anger surges through me as I realize this plan was not so well crafted after all. It’s at least another twenty minutes before a nurse appears.
As I continue to wait impatiently on the couch, longing for a stout beer, Dale and Pamela are down the hallway, in hushed conversation with the nurse. I can’t hear them, but I can see them. Their body language makes it clear. Something is wrong. They engage in a tense back-and-forth for at least ten minutes. Now the nurse breaks away and comes toward me with authority.
“I’m sorry. This clinic is for alcoholics, not for cancer or pain patients. We are not equipped to admit someone like you, and no one told us you were coming.”
The nurse is firm as a rock. Dale won’t make eye contact. Pamela is in silent desperation as we pile back into the van and leave Palm Springs for a long, miserable trip back to Coronado.
“We’ll find another place,” Dale says as he drops me at our house in the predawn darkness and Father David begins to help me inside. “Pamela will call you.”
I ignore this and turn to Pamela. “I’m still willing to do this,” I say. “I know I have to.” I gesture toward Dale, “But this guy has no idea what he’s doing. I never want to see him again. Ever.”
It’s far past midnight when I struggle up the stairs, pull off the body brace, and melt onto my bed. Even though it’s been one of the most grueling days of my life, I can’t sleep. I pop a stout and chug it as I click on the TV, which only blares at me with mindless nonsense. I click it off and stare into the darkness. I can hear large waves breaking a few blocks away at the beach, the heaviness of my breath, the pounding of my heart.
I close my eyes and see Morgan. He is standing in front of me, tears in his eyes, begging me to get off the couch. I can hear his little voice, pleading:
Get up, Daddy.
CHAPTER 22
Sailboats and Treasure
You have to demand to see Morgan before you check into any facility.
Don’t make any waves.
You have to do this thing.
There’s no way you can stop taking drugs, you’re in terrible pain. What right did they have to do that intervention?
You have to stop the booze and drugs.
He’s my son, no one can take him from me.
Don’t make any waves.
You have to do this thing.
MY MIND IS STILL RACING with so many competing voices I can’t make sense of anything. It’s been three days alone in the house. Mostly lying in bed, foraging in the refrigerator, watching the television. I haven’t heard from Pamela. Even though I continue to drink and hit the medications heavily, I still can’t sleep at night. The trash can next to my bed is overflowing with empty bottles of stout. What little self-esteem I might have had is long gone. I think about my “last supper” plan. Stare at the box of meds in my closet. Then the Get up, Daddy mantra comes back to me and I see Morgan in my mind’s eye. You can’t do this to your son. If nothing else, get off of everything and die like a man. Give him a chance to remember someone he can be a little bit proud of.
I feel the pain of Morgan’s absence most in the morning. He had been punctual and devoted, always running into the bedroom and crawling onto me when he woke up. Each time I would slowly lift my knees and he would straddle them, his back facing me as he whispered, “Please draw on my back, Daddy.”
I have a nail file we call the “magic drawing stick” on my nightstand just for this special moment. “What would you like?” I would always ask, knowing the answer.
“A sailboat, Daddy.”
“This is the mast,” I’d say each time, drawing a gentle line down his spine. “Here is the right sail. Here is the left sail. Here’s the body of the boat. The ocean is down here. What are these?” I’d ask as I drew squiggles in the ocean of his lower back. He’d giggle and answer, “Fishies, Daddy.”
“Here’s Morgan, the captain at the wheel. Daddy is on board, and our cat Max is right next to us.”
I’d draw little v’s in the sky above the sailboat and make bird whistles. Before I could ask he would say, “Those are the seagulls flying in the sky!”
Finally, I would draw a circle high on his right shoulder and stream an array of lines down his back. He’d beat me to the punch again. “That’s the sun, shining down on us!”
Then we’d take our boat on an adventure with the magic drawing stick, coursing over the high seas of his smooth little back. We would fire our cannons at pirates and make a daring escape. Then we would land on a remote island, hike across the beach, and slip into the tropical forest. We’d peek and poke in all the darkest places, avoiding tigers and snakes of course, and then, behind a thundering waterfall, we’d discover a huge treasure chest filled with gold doubloons.
Sometimes Morgan would ask for rocket ships after the sailboats and we’d blast through space, conquering the dark force. Other times our fire engine would rush to the scene and extinguish the blaze, rescuing all the children. But the sailboat was always his favorite. Before he was taken from me, I had been drawing one on his back every morning for almost a year.
Daydreaming, I can feel Morgan on my knees. I can smell his golden hair, see the soft skin of his gently sloping shoulders, hear his sweet requests for another adventure on the landscape of his back.
I also hear him whispering, Get up, Daddy.
Pamela is all business when she finally calls to say she’s found a place that will accept a patient with cancer and chronic pain. It’s called the McDonald Center, at Scripps Hospital in nearby La Jolla. She’ll be here in one hour to drive me to the facility. There will still be no visit with Morgan before I go. He remains the leverage to ensure I keep my promise. It’s almost impossible to swallow this, and I have no idea what the clinic offers. But I gather my things, limp into the closet, and begin to get dressed.
You should see the stash of medications I’ve been keeping on a shelf in here. It’s a plastic storage container filled with at least two dozen bottles. There are unopened bottles of Vicodin and Motrin, as large as the bottles on a pharmacist’s back shelf, each holding several hundred doses. I have bottles filled with Valium, morphine, and Prozac that are only slightly smaller. This is because my medical insurance contracts with a national prescription company that ships patients three to six months’ worth of medications at a time. Even though I’ve overmedicated myself for years, I still haven’t come close to taking the amount of drugs I’ve been prescribed. As I lift the heavy box down from the shelf, I realize someone could make a fortune selling all these pills on the street. My plan is to take the stash to Scripps, surrender it when I check in, be rid of it for good.
The doorbell rings. Pamela is here. Before I answer, there’s one final thing I have to do. Once I’m downstairs, I call out that I need a few more minutes. I slip into Morgan’s playroom, find his crayons, and a large sheet of paper. I draw a sailboat. He and I are on deck with Max the cat. Seagulls soar in the sky and fish jump over the waves. The sun is shining down on us. There is a small island in the distance, sure to have treasure hidden behind a waterfall, and the wind is in our sails.
I write on the bottom of the page, Daddy loves you Morgan, we’ll sail again soon, then pin it to his playroom wall. I take a few more minutes and glance at his toys, a teddy bear sitting on the window seat, one of his favorite blankets lying on the floor. “I love you, Morgan,” I call out softly as if he were here in the playroom with me. Then I trundle toward the front door.
CHAPTER 23
Dark Night of the Soul
IT’S A SILENT DRIVE to La Jolla. The type of silence so thick you can hardly breathe. There’s nothing for Pamela or me to say. No plans to make. No strategies to discuss. We sit about a foot apart in her car, but there
might as well be a thousand miles between us. The noise of the highway is deafening. The sound of Pamela tapping her fingernails on the steering wheel is even louder. I’m numb by the time we arrive.
Scripps Hospital is a massive facility. It takes time to find the right entrance. The McDonald Center parking lot is packed. We drive in circles before finding a place to park. Pamela gets my suitcase from the backseat and drags the portable lounge out of the trunk. I have my cane in one hand and I tenuously carry the huge box of medications in the other. When we walk into the reception room of the McDonald Center to register, the staff members freeze and stare at me, wide-eyed.
“What are you doing? You can’t bring those in here!” A male staffer exclaims as he runs up and grabs the box out of my hands like it’s a drug bust.
“There are patients in recovery here!” He barks, “These need to be locked up immediately!”
Normally I would defend myself. Tell him to back off. Chill out. But I’m in surrender mode. I don’t say a word. All the other nurses freeze and watch the scene. I’ve just arrived and already feel foolish. Less than welcome. After the drama ends, we’re allowed to approach the reception counter. We complete the registration procedure Pamela initiated over the phone. Then she leaves as quickly as possible without seeming rude.
I’m directed to a chair next to the registration desk. I sit down and stare at my feet. My vitals are taken: blood pressure and temperature. Then the nurse has me step on a scale. 225 pounds. Good God, I’m huge. I feel so humiliated I can’t make eye contact and I answer simple questions with grunts. Finally, I’m escorted down the hall. A professional-looking strip with my name on it has already been put on the door of my room, like I’m an executive rather than a basket case.
The room is antiseptic. Spartan. Efficient. It has cream-colored cinderblock walls, nondescript linoleum floors, and two gray metal hospital beds covered with tan blankets sitting on either side of a narrow window. There’s a ceiling-to-floor closet and dresser combo made of dark brown fiberboard by the entry door. It faces a small sink next to a narrow bathroom, with a toilet and open shower so close together I could almost sit down and run water over my head.