On Pills and Needles

by Rick Van Warner

  The journey with Tommy helped me understand and finally shed some of these feelings. Like my father, I am a flawed man who, though far more engaged in his sons’ lives, wasn’t always emotionally present when physically there. Instead of holding my father to some vision of what I thought a good dad should be, I began to see him in a more realistic light, and thankfully forgave him for his shortcomings a few years before his passing. Had I understood this earlier and forgiven him sooner, I may have avoided years of self-doubt and inner unhappiness. Perhaps I would have become a better husband, father, and friend. My father has been gone for more than a decade, and my middle son’s journey is far from over. Yet whatever happens I now sleep peacefully knowing I gave all the love in my heart and did the best I could, just as my dad did the best he could for me.

  As Tommy helped me discover over time, my own upbringing had far less to do with who I became than I once thought, just as who Tommy has become had much less to do with me than I once blamed myself for. A parent can no more control their postpubescent child than they can control the weather. Sure, you can influence a child’s values, faith, and behavior, but once they reach the middle-teen years, the more you try to control instead of counsel, the worse the results will be. Maybe a daughter’s rebellion won’t occur until her freshman year of college. Under the thumb of a controlling parent, perhaps a son will learn to hide his rebellion from you. But it will come out eventually. Part of a child’s evolution into an adult is the transition to making independent decisions as a teenager, including enjoying the results of good decisions and suffering the natural consequences of bad ones. The more you try to control their decisions, leaving teenagers ill-equipped to manage the real world when away at college or at their first jobs, the worse the results usually are.

  If you pause to think about it, the same applies to all our relationships, not just those with our children. Ultimately, the only person we can control is the one who greets us in the bathroom mirror each morning. What comes out of our mouth has perhaps the most important impact on the lives of others. Words of acceptance, love, and encouragement are absolutely critical to instilling our kids with self-worth. Disparaging and hurtful words have the opposite effect. How we choose to react to the actions and moods of others is also within our control. Just because someone else is having a bad morning does not mean that we have to. Why not ignore a negative attitude or, better yet, attempt to thaw an icy stare with a smile? Our culture is harsher and more self-centered than ever before, and our children are surrounded by negativity every day. We can’t shield them from an unkind world, but we can make our homes a safe haven—but only if we control our own words and actions.

  When a teen or young adult is abusing drugs, the control dilemma is magnified. Only they can choose to help themselves, something it took Mary and me many years to fully recognize. Instead, we repeatedly denied this reality, disrupting our lives with ill-fated rescue attempts and plunging our family into extensive debt by flushing tens of thousands of dollars down the recovery-industry bowl. Our physical and mental health, as well as that of Tommy’s siblings, was negatively impacted by our relentless efforts to heal him. We could have saved ourselves immense grief and much money if we’d recognized earlier that we had no more chance of “saving” Tommy than we had of changing the tides and that family love was the key to his survival.

  23

  Battleground Musings

  We both scrambled to get our shorts back on, giggling in embarrassment. Skinny-dipping in this pristine lake in the mountains of Arkansas had seemed like a perfect way to cool off and refresh ourselves for the long drive ahead. The late afternoon sun and beautiful foliage reflected off the clear water like a mirror, causing us to slow down, make a U-turn, and head into the state park. We found a spot near the boat launch where we could swim out of sight of the road.

  Suddenly, Tommy and I saw what looked like a park ranger pickup truck heading down the road toward the launch ramp, and we realized that not taking the time to dig out our bathing suits from the suitcases inside the roof rack had not been a wise choice. At least he stopped one hundred yards away to give us time to rush out of the lake and get dressed. The anticipated tongue-lashing was brief.

  “You’re not supposed to be swimming in this area,” he said. “You are allowed to swim only in the designated area.”

  We had seen the signs. But since it was past the summer season and there wasn’t a soul around, we had thought there was no harm in taking a dip somewhere more private than the roped-off area in plain view from the road.

  “Sorry, there was no one around and we were just taking a quick dip to cool off while passing through,” I replied.

  “This is a state park, and you are also supposed to pay to use it.”

  “Again, sorry about this. We’ll pay on the way out.”

  We tucked a five-dollar bill into the honor system park box and headed back up another mountain. We were traveling west, taking nearly all back roads through the most rural areas we could find on the map. Just two days into our cross-country voyage, we were fully enjoying each other’s company and appreciating the beauty we were seeing. It struck me on this trip that Tommy was the most like me out of all our children, something I had never seen before. When our children were little, we often drove back and forth between Florida and New York or other points north, a couple times even pulling a waterski boat behind the Suburban. On many of these voyages, when the rest of the family was asleep and therefore unable to protest, I’d snuck onto back roads, leaving the interstate to see what the areas really looked like. I now recognized that Tommy was the only other family member who shared my love of back roads and discovery along the way. The other four favored detouring only for spectacular points of interest; otherwise they preferred to get to the final destination as fast as possible.

  “Another one of Dad’s shortcuts,” they would often moan once awake.

  Not this time. Tommy and I had abandoned the interstate shortly after entering the Florida Panhandle, opting to meander through the cotton fields, crops, and woods of rural Alabama and Mississippi on our way to Oregon. We stopped for gas, food, or water in tiny rural towns that seemed stuck in a time warp, seemingly unchanged for decades.

  Our Independence Day together in the western North Carolina mountains two months earlier had been perfect—until now. Throat parched, ankles and back screaming, bug bites driving me mad, I leaned my back against a tree growing vertically out of the 45-degree-pitched slope we were climbing to take some of the weight off my legs if just for a few moments. Sweat poured down my face and out of every pore as I realized I was hyperventilating.

  “It’s got to be up here,” Tommy shouted as he neared the top of the forested incline.

  “Make sure,” I yelled back. I was spent and miserable. How could I have been so stupid as to let him drag me so far up and so far off trail without enough water and the proper footgear?

  We had begun the day in Asheville before venturing south into the Blue Ridge wilderness. We got a late start and the summer day was hot, so we decided to find a good spot to go river tubing instead of hiking. The problem was that there was almost no water flowing through the first river we found due to a severe drought.

  “I hear the Green River still has plenty of water,” said one of the guides at the first rafting outfitter. With that, Tommy drove his lime-green Subaru Forester south into the mountains while I checked potential destinations and routes on my phone. Before long, we were floating down the river in tubes, contentedly enjoying the peace, beauty, and refreshing water. By the time our two-to-three-hour excursion was over and we climbed back into the rickety, old school bus for the ride back to the starting point, my back was aching, and I’d already exhausted much more energy than during a typical day. Tommy had waterfalls on his mind for the next adventure.

  “Look, I’m old, I’m heavy, and I’m not sure how much energy I have left to hike to a waterfall,” I warned. “I’m all for finding a cool waterfall to check o
ut, but it’s got to be a short and relatively easy hike to get in and out.”

  “That’s fine,” he said.

  When we struck out and were unable to locate the first trailhead we sought, we found a much larger falls described in a trail app, this one deeper into the mountains. We drove several miles down a gravel road, using hiker comments online to find the unmarked trailhead. At that point, we lost cell service and proceeded on faith. Not expecting to do any serious trekking, I hadn’t even brought my hiking boots along. Instead I wore OluKais—good rubber tread underneath but a clog-like sandal on top with no ankle support. They were certainly not shoes suitable for climbing up and down steep grades through dense woodlands. About halfway to the waterfall, we ran into another couple on their way out.

  “This way to the waterfall?” Tommy asked.

  “Yes, it’s straight up the trail,” the woman answered.

  “Is it worth it?” he asked.

  “It’s awesome,” the man said. Eyeballing my size and footwear, he added, “But it’s not easy. There’s a rope to get down at one point.”

  As we proceeded up the trail, we began to hear running water. Relieved, I thought it was a short hike indeed. Unfortunately, particularly for the old guy of the duo, it was a river crossing we’d have to navigate before continuing. The depth, at about two feet, wasn’t the issue; sloshing the rest of the way in soggy sandals was my biggest worry. Yet I also knew that trying to cross the slippery, hard rocks under the fast-moving water was not going to be easy. Even if my feet could take it, there was still the possibility of slipping and breaking an arm or cracking my head open. Slowly I was able to get myself across. But when we reached the falls the rope down was much more than I’d bargained for. Rather than the side-handrail-type rope I’d seen on the Appalachian Trail and elsewhere, this rope hung about thirty feet straight down a rock face, requiring you to rappel down.

  “End of the line for me,” I said.

  “Are you sure?”

  “I’m sure.”

  Tommy rappelled down much more quickly than I’d thought possible and soon disappeared into the woods. I found a rock to catch my breath and hydrate. Through the trees I could barely see the falls, which were beautiful, and I took pictures of wildflowers and the river. Then the black flies decided it was time to feast, and I was their main course. After what seemed like an eternity, Tommy scrambled back up the rock face, and we were on our way. We made a dumb mistake though by believing the trail made a huge loop and at some point meandered far from the trail that had led us there. For the next hour or more, we bushwacked our way up and down steep hill after steep hill, hanging on to trees to keep from tumbling down on several occasions.

  Gasping for breath, the sun setting over the mountain, and with no way to summon assistance, I began to suspect we might be spending the night here.

  “I’m sorry, Dad,” Tommy said. “It’s gotta be over this ridge.”

  “It’s not your fault, it’s both our faults. Let’s just keep trying before we lose the sun altogether and have no direction to follow.”

  Just as darkness was falling, Tommy found the trail and led us out. By now I was limping, unable to speak beyond an occasional grunt, and hoping I had the strength to get back to the car. We had turned the “easy” 2.5-mile-round-trip hike following a very busy day into a 7-mile challenge course complete with ropes, river crossings, and hazards. The water back at the car never tasted better, and after watching the 4th of July fireworks finale from our car on the drive back into Asheville, the same could be said about the local craft brews.

  We are all born with the need to be loved and affirmed, something I was becoming more and more attuned to while making up for lost time with Tommy. Whether you’re a dockworker or a corporate chieftain, being recognized and accepted remains an important part of feeling you have value. When a father or mother spends quality time with a child, the activity doesn’t matter nearly as much as the conversation and even silent time spent together. Receiving pats on the back, hugs, and other signs of approval from a parent are absolutely vital for a child to build confidence and self-worth. Without these, life is a much more difficult journey.

  It was clear that July that the open communication and new relationship we’d developed in Orlando were paying off as we traveled toward Tommy’s next chapter north of Asheville. He was excited, cheerful, grateful, and thoughtful. His silliness and constant attempts at making me laugh were back, and although they at times bordered on being annoying, this was far better and something I warmly accepted. It felt like we were making up for all the years we had lost, and we found ourselves laughing, joking around, and simply enjoying each other and the beauty of each day. This camaraderie continued on our back-roads drive across the continental United States a few months later. Tommy was in a new place, and so was I.

  The spiritual connection with nature that Tommy had discovered at the beach continued to grow in North Carolina. After detoxing at home with his beloved dog, Mo, and reclaiming his belongings from pawnshops with Mike and me, Tommy joined us on the drive to the annual music festival in northern Florida. By now Mary was fully on board that what he needed most was his family, and his father particularly, she kept saying, and the four days together were relaxing and fun. I spent one-on-one time with Tommy during several sets of music throughout the festival. Although he was still very fragile and a little paranoid that a laugh or comment might be at his expense when it wasn’t, he mostly seemed relaxed and happy. He and our other sons and a couple of their friends slept in tree hammocks or tents outside the adjacent RV spots we had secured. Mary would joyfully prepare breakfasts and lunches for the masses each day, and the vibe was positive throughout.

  Tommy decided he wanted to take his love of nature to another level by pursuing a career in organic farming. His first job was on the edge of the Pisgah National Forest, a mountainous area just east of Burnsville, North Carolina. He spent the remainder of the summer living and working on an organic farm in exchange for room and board. The agricultural science professor who owned and ran the place taught his green troupe such things as the difference between poisonous and nonpoisonous plants and which types of forest mushrooms and other legumes could be consumed, and exchanged a practical organic farming education for labor. About 85 percent of what the men and women working on the farm consumed each week was grown and prepared on the property, with the other 15 percent purchased in town weekly.

  Similar farms existed elsewhere in the area, and on certain nights the entire community of mostly young men and women seeking a more natural and sustainable way of living came together to play music, sing songs, play volleyball, or just swap stories around a fire. Tommy loved it and fit right in. He told me it was the first time in his life he was surrounded by people who thought like him and the first time in his life he didn’t feel judged by his wild hair, tattoos, or colorful clothing.

  At the end of summer after the harvest, the professor, who was ready to return to college for the fall semester, asked Tommy if he wanted to stay on as caretaker for the winter. He briefly considered the offer. As the first autumn winds stirred the mountain air, members of Tommy’s summer community scattered like the leaves floating from the trees. He wisely decided that he’d had enough isolation over the past few years and worried that spending the winter alone on a remote mountaintop was too risky and might trigger depression. After a brief conversation about this, I urged him to return home to see his dog, enjoy some of his mom’s cooking, and spend time together. He agreed.

  I told him how proud I was of him as I reflected how far he had come since his nearly fatal fall that spring. Both Mary and I were relieved and excited that he was coming home. It was time for Tommy to catch his breath.

  24

  Twenty-Four and So Much More

  Tommy stood on the edge of the canyon, arms outstretched, briefly reminding me of a moment in the Who rock drama Tommy when Roger Daltry stood in a white, flowing, fringed shirt, arms similarly outstretched,
his pinball disciples below.

  Although Tommy had chosen the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame for a father-son outing years earlier when his namesake rock opera was the featured display at the time, today had nothing to do with then. Tommy was taking in huge gulps of the high desert air in the northwest corner of Colorado near the border of Utah. He was stunned by his first ever glance at the vast canyons and mesas created by the Colorado River over many centuries. He was connected with his spiritual center and drinking in every second of it.

  Just a day earlier we had enjoyed a spectacular and challenging hike to both a waterfall and gorgeous lake nestled high in the Rockies of Rocky Mountain National Park. As in North Carolina earlier in the year, we had gone too far, pushed too hard, and run out of water. It was also far colder than anticipated, and as we emerged from the woods at sunset we both were chilled. At least this time I was wearing my hiking boots.

  It struck me during the voyage westward that I was no longer teaching Tommy; he was now teaching me. Although he still had much to learn about the wilderness, beginning with always having enough water and wearing layers of clothing, particularly in high altitudes, his view of the world was beginning to make a lot of sense.

  “You know, Dad, it’s only been in this century that humans really started consuming more than they needed,” he said during one of our long drives.

  “That’s not really true,” I challenged him. “Look at the Vikings, the kings and queens of ancient times, the conquerors. All of them raided and killed for more land, more gold, more treasures, and more power.”