From Anne Lamott's new book Stitches: A Handbook on Meaning, Hope and Repair...
"When we try to see a damaged person as one of God's regular old customers, instead of a lost cause, it takes the pressure off everybody. We can then loosen our death grip on the person, which usually results in progress for everyone, also known in certain circles as grace."
Amen.
Thank you, Anne.
Friday, November 8, 2013
Thursday, November 7, 2013
Goodbye to a four-wheeled friend
This past Monday I took our 2002 Pontiac Montana minivan in for service because the heater hadn't been working right for a week or so. When I turned the heat on, I'd get cold air. I discovered if I fiddled around with all the heater/fan controls like a little kid trying to break them, warm air would eventually start blowing. But then it would stop just as soon as it started. Not a good thing with winter approaching.
So I took the car--affectionately known as "Tony Montana"--to the dealership's service department and explained the funkiness that was going on with it. The service advisor said they'd check it out and give me a call. "Could be the thermostat," he told me. "Or something with the heater core. Or it could be the controls. It's hard to say."
As I walked home from the dealership, I had six blocks or so to start "running the numbers" in my head. Since I know absolutely nothing about cars, my "calculations" were anything but that. I was simply trying to answer the "How much is this going to cost me??" question. A hundred bucks? Two hundred? Three hundred? I really had no idea. I just didn't want it to be a big number because things are always tight financially in my world.
When I got home I Googled "Pontiac Montana heater core repair" and found some site that estimated the cost at about $600.00. Ouch. That was not what I wanted to see. But I remained cautiously optimistic and got my work day started while I awaited the call from the dealership.
A few hours later, I got that (as it turned out) dreaded call. You know it's bad when the service guy starts out the conversation with "I don't think any of these things are things you're gonna want to take care of." Ohhhhhhh, shit.
He then proceeded to tell me all of the "things" that were contributing to my heater not working properly. The radiator was leaking. The head gasket was leaking. The intake manifold was leaking. Something called a bypass tube was also just about shot. And, as a special bonus, whatever the power steering fluid runs through? That was leaking, too.
As the patient's diagnosis was recited to me over the phone, my heart sank. "This is it," I thought. "This is the end of this car." Mr. Goodwrench finally told me that he ran a rough estimate of what the repairs would cost and came up with something in the neighborhood of $4,000.00. "But it could be more," he added, because the car was old and deteriorating and once you get in there and start messing with stuff...well, then other stuff can break, too.
I was heartsick. I know: A car is just a car. But we got that minivan in December of 2001. Almost 12 years ago. It was a part of the family. It took us all over. To Florida and back for an awesome vacation. To the Little League Great Lakes Regional tournament in Indianapolis after my son's team won the Michigan state tournament. To my wife's family cottage in Canada many times. To New York several times, to visit my sister and for weddings. Hell, my younger son grew up in that car.
It was indeed like losing a member of the family. That car held sooo many memories. Including one of the worst memories of my life: When my wife and I drove our son to rehab while he was in the throes of heroin withdrawal. I'll never forget seeing him in the back seat, shivering, shaking, sweating, and moaning from the pain. It was all so surreal. (That is definitely one memory I hope will fade away someday.)
So after 12 years and 182,717 miles, Tony Montana was toast. I thanked the service advisor for the call, hung up the phone, let my wife know the bad news, and then called Volunteers of America to tell them I had a car to donate. Hopefully they can get some money out of it. After all, I just put a brand new set of tires on the car in August (ouch). At the very least, maybe they can sell the thing for parts and help some needy people out.
When they came to pick up the car last night, I got a little choked up. I watched the tow truck driver load Tony onto the flat bed and all the memories of my family's times in that car raced through my head again. Except that one. Oh, it tried to sneak in. But I wouldn't let it.
So I took the car--affectionately known as "Tony Montana"--to the dealership's service department and explained the funkiness that was going on with it. The service advisor said they'd check it out and give me a call. "Could be the thermostat," he told me. "Or something with the heater core. Or it could be the controls. It's hard to say."
As I walked home from the dealership, I had six blocks or so to start "running the numbers" in my head. Since I know absolutely nothing about cars, my "calculations" were anything but that. I was simply trying to answer the "How much is this going to cost me??" question. A hundred bucks? Two hundred? Three hundred? I really had no idea. I just didn't want it to be a big number because things are always tight financially in my world.
When I got home I Googled "Pontiac Montana heater core repair" and found some site that estimated the cost at about $600.00. Ouch. That was not what I wanted to see. But I remained cautiously optimistic and got my work day started while I awaited the call from the dealership.
A few hours later, I got that (as it turned out) dreaded call. You know it's bad when the service guy starts out the conversation with "I don't think any of these things are things you're gonna want to take care of." Ohhhhhhh, shit.
He then proceeded to tell me all of the "things" that were contributing to my heater not working properly. The radiator was leaking. The head gasket was leaking. The intake manifold was leaking. Something called a bypass tube was also just about shot. And, as a special bonus, whatever the power steering fluid runs through? That was leaking, too.
As the patient's diagnosis was recited to me over the phone, my heart sank. "This is it," I thought. "This is the end of this car." Mr. Goodwrench finally told me that he ran a rough estimate of what the repairs would cost and came up with something in the neighborhood of $4,000.00. "But it could be more," he added, because the car was old and deteriorating and once you get in there and start messing with stuff...well, then other stuff can break, too.
I was heartsick. I know: A car is just a car. But we got that minivan in December of 2001. Almost 12 years ago. It was a part of the family. It took us all over. To Florida and back for an awesome vacation. To the Little League Great Lakes Regional tournament in Indianapolis after my son's team won the Michigan state tournament. To my wife's family cottage in Canada many times. To New York several times, to visit my sister and for weddings. Hell, my younger son grew up in that car.
It was indeed like losing a member of the family. That car held sooo many memories. Including one of the worst memories of my life: When my wife and I drove our son to rehab while he was in the throes of heroin withdrawal. I'll never forget seeing him in the back seat, shivering, shaking, sweating, and moaning from the pain. It was all so surreal. (That is definitely one memory I hope will fade away someday.)
So after 12 years and 182,717 miles, Tony Montana was toast. I thanked the service advisor for the call, hung up the phone, let my wife know the bad news, and then called Volunteers of America to tell them I had a car to donate. Hopefully they can get some money out of it. After all, I just put a brand new set of tires on the car in August (ouch). At the very least, maybe they can sell the thing for parts and help some needy people out.
When they came to pick up the car last night, I got a little choked up. I watched the tow truck driver load Tony onto the flat bed and all the memories of my family's times in that car raced through my head again. Except that one. Oh, it tried to sneak in. But I wouldn't let it.
 |
| Rest in peace, my friend. |
Monday, October 14, 2013
Change = Courage
One day last week I changed the signature on both of my personal e-mail accounts to a quote from Anne Lamott's book Help, Thanks, Wow: The Three Essential Prayers:
"If we stay where we are, where we're stuck, where we're comfortable and safe, we die there. We become like mushrooms, living in the dark, with poop up to our chins. If you want to know only what you already know, you're dying. You're saying: Leave me alone; I don't mind this little rathole. It's warm and dry. Really, it's fine."
I added that quote as my e-mail signature because it spoke to me. For much of my life, I was a person who hated any kind of change and was afraid to take any risks. I was, as a dear friend of mine would say, a "settler," as opposed to a "pioneer."
Doing what was safe and the "sure thing" was nice and comfortable for me. If it ain't broke, don't fix it, right? I was a full-blown cheerleader for the status quo.
My son's addiction and depression changed me, though. When you discover that you're the parent of an addict, the status quo gets dumped in a blender and pureed like the squash soup I make every Thanksgiving.
When you're the parent of an addict, pretty much everything that was "normal" isn't anymore. And you realize you have to adapt and change; not just the way you live and the things you do, but the way you think, too. You have to step outside of your comfort zone, be willing to try new things, listen to advice from others, admit and accept that things you thought in the past might be totally wrong, and roll the dice once in a while. Goodbye, "settler." Hello, "pioneer."
Yes, I have been changed by my son's issues. But, believe it or not--as I've written before--it's been a change for the better. I am no longer "stuck" and am no longer a "victim" of comfort and safety. I can accept change, and little things that used to bother me so much--e.g., Is the air pressure in my car's four tires equal? Is the little scratch on that new CD I just bought going to make it skip someday?--don't bother me at all. (If you think those examples are ridiculous, I invite you to ask my wife how much I used to totally obsess over them.)
My son is 15-1/2 months clean and sober. It's been a long, difficult road; not only for him, but for me, my wife, and our younger son, too. But I am a better person because of my son's depression and addiction. I'm no longer a mushroom, living in the dark, with poop up to my chin.
By the way, a couple of days after I added that Anne Lamott quote to my e-mail signature, my amazing mother called me to talk about it. She said she had opened up her copy of Help, Thanks, Wow that morning and happened to turn to the exact page on which that quote appeared. She reminded me what the quote continued on to say:
"When nothing new can get in, that's death. When oxygen can't find a way in, you die. But new is scary, and new can be disappointing, and confusing--we had this all figured out, and now we don't.
"New is life."
Eight years ago, before my son's journey began, I would've read that entire quote and been so scared I probably would've run and hidden under my bed. But today? Those words--especially "New is life"--give me courage that I've never had before.
(Note: Anne Lamott quotes are Copyright © 2012 by Anne Lamott.)
"If we stay where we are, where we're stuck, where we're comfortable and safe, we die there. We become like mushrooms, living in the dark, with poop up to our chins. If you want to know only what you already know, you're dying. You're saying: Leave me alone; I don't mind this little rathole. It's warm and dry. Really, it's fine."
I added that quote as my e-mail signature because it spoke to me. For much of my life, I was a person who hated any kind of change and was afraid to take any risks. I was, as a dear friend of mine would say, a "settler," as opposed to a "pioneer."
Doing what was safe and the "sure thing" was nice and comfortable for me. If it ain't broke, don't fix it, right? I was a full-blown cheerleader for the status quo.
My son's addiction and depression changed me, though. When you discover that you're the parent of an addict, the status quo gets dumped in a blender and pureed like the squash soup I make every Thanksgiving.
When you're the parent of an addict, pretty much everything that was "normal" isn't anymore. And you realize you have to adapt and change; not just the way you live and the things you do, but the way you think, too. You have to step outside of your comfort zone, be willing to try new things, listen to advice from others, admit and accept that things you thought in the past might be totally wrong, and roll the dice once in a while. Goodbye, "settler." Hello, "pioneer."
Yes, I have been changed by my son's issues. But, believe it or not--as I've written before--it's been a change for the better. I am no longer "stuck" and am no longer a "victim" of comfort and safety. I can accept change, and little things that used to bother me so much--e.g., Is the air pressure in my car's four tires equal? Is the little scratch on that new CD I just bought going to make it skip someday?--don't bother me at all. (If you think those examples are ridiculous, I invite you to ask my wife how much I used to totally obsess over them.)
My son is 15-1/2 months clean and sober. It's been a long, difficult road; not only for him, but for me, my wife, and our younger son, too. But I am a better person because of my son's depression and addiction. I'm no longer a mushroom, living in the dark, with poop up to my chin.
By the way, a couple of days after I added that Anne Lamott quote to my e-mail signature, my amazing mother called me to talk about it. She said she had opened up her copy of Help, Thanks, Wow that morning and happened to turn to the exact page on which that quote appeared. She reminded me what the quote continued on to say:
"When nothing new can get in, that's death. When oxygen can't find a way in, you die. But new is scary, and new can be disappointing, and confusing--we had this all figured out, and now we don't.
"New is life."
Eight years ago, before my son's journey began, I would've read that entire quote and been so scared I probably would've run and hidden under my bed. But today? Those words--especially "New is life"--give me courage that I've never had before.
(Note: Anne Lamott quotes are Copyright © 2012 by Anne Lamott.)
Saturday, October 5, 2013
15 months
This past Tuesday marked 15 months of sobriety for my son.
He is doing so well right now: clean and sober, working a lot of hours at a job he likes, living with a great woman he is totally in love with (and vice versa), and maturing more emotionally every day. It all makes me smile and tear up at the same time.
As I posted on Facebook the other day..."Today I can honestly say I am at peace with myself and my life. Just two years ago, I could never have envisioned where I am now." I am so incredibly grateful.
If you are the parent of an addict, don't ever give up. Good things can happen.
"The movement of grace toward gratitude brings us from the package of self-obsessed madness to a spiritual awakening. Gratitude is peace." --Anne Lamott
He is doing so well right now: clean and sober, working a lot of hours at a job he likes, living with a great woman he is totally in love with (and vice versa), and maturing more emotionally every day. It all makes me smile and tear up at the same time.
As I posted on Facebook the other day..."Today I can honestly say I am at peace with myself and my life. Just two years ago, I could never have envisioned where I am now." I am so incredibly grateful.
If you are the parent of an addict, don't ever give up. Good things can happen.
"The movement of grace toward gratitude brings us from the package of self-obsessed madness to a spiritual awakening. Gratitude is peace." --Anne Lamott
Tuesday, September 10, 2013
One day at a time x 1,826 = 5 years sober
Back in September of 2008, I sat in a family therapy session at Brighton Recovery Center with my son and my wife. My son was 18 at the time and in treatment for heroin addiction.
During that family session the therapist looked at me and strung together a 10-word sentence that would end up being some of the greatest advice anyone has ever given me. Advice that would change my life forever:
"Be the change you want to see in your son."
Her message? Don't tell your son not to self-medicate if you yourself are self-medicating with wine or beer or bourbon to take the edge off after a long day of work. Or when you're feeling stressed. Or just for "fun" on weekends. Or at parties. Etc.
Her words hit me like a ton of bricks. I would do anything to help my son in his recovery and quitting drinking seemed like a very small sacrifice in the grand scheme of things.
Fast forward 1,826 days: Today I celebrate five years of sobriety.
Being sober has made me a better person. I am more in touch with reality. I've lost a lot of weight and am healthier. I've saved money. I'm happier. I feel much more positive than I ever have before. And--best of all--I've set an example not only for my older son, but for my younger son as well.
I thank that therapist at Brighton for changing my life. Sobriety is only as dull as you make it, people. Not drinking doesn't mean not living. In fact, life without alcohol is...
LIFE.
"We begin to find and become ourselves when we notice how we are already found, already truly, entirely, wildly, messily, marvelously who we were born to be." --Anne Lamott
During that family session the therapist looked at me and strung together a 10-word sentence that would end up being some of the greatest advice anyone has ever given me. Advice that would change my life forever:
"Be the change you want to see in your son."
Her message? Don't tell your son not to self-medicate if you yourself are self-medicating with wine or beer or bourbon to take the edge off after a long day of work. Or when you're feeling stressed. Or just for "fun" on weekends. Or at parties. Etc.
Her words hit me like a ton of bricks. I would do anything to help my son in his recovery and quitting drinking seemed like a very small sacrifice in the grand scheme of things.
Fast forward 1,826 days: Today I celebrate five years of sobriety.
Being sober has made me a better person. I am more in touch with reality. I've lost a lot of weight and am healthier. I've saved money. I'm happier. I feel much more positive than I ever have before. And--best of all--I've set an example not only for my older son, but for my younger son as well.
I thank that therapist at Brighton for changing my life. Sobriety is only as dull as you make it, people. Not drinking doesn't mean not living. In fact, life without alcohol is...
LIFE.
"We begin to find and become ourselves when we notice how we are already found, already truly, entirely, wildly, messily, marvelously who we were born to be." --Anne Lamott
Monday, September 2, 2013
14
My son is 14 months clean and sober today.
Every day is a gift from God.
For those of you who have children battling addiction: I pray for all of you every day and night.
Keep your hope alive.
Don't give up.
Things can get better.
Every day is a gift from God.
For those of you who have children battling addiction: I pray for all of you every day and night.
Keep your hope alive.
Don't give up.
Things can get better.
Saturday, August 31, 2013
Fighting another battle
I've found myself fighting another battle with another store that just doesn't seem to understand anything about prescription drug abuse. (Remember the Urban Outfitters fight?)
They are actually selling shirts that resemble football jerseys. Except instead of a player's name above the number on the back, they've emblazoned the shirts with "ADDERALL," "XANAX," and "VICODIN." They're charging $58.00 for a t-shirt and $98.00 for a sweatshirt.
I was going to post a photo of the shirts, but decided not to. I don't want to give them any more exposure than they've already had.
I have worked tirelessly over the last several days fighting against these ridiculous, sickening shirts and the store selling them.
After contacting the pharmaceutical companies that own the registered trademarks to Adderall, Xanax, and Vicodin, I am confident that legal action will be taking place. And that "big pharma" will prevail. (Crazy how I'm actually rooting for big pharma, isn't it?)
The store selling these shirts has no absolutely no clue what they're doing. It's so sad.
If you're on Facebook and want to help support my fight, please go to the page I created and "Like" and "Share" it. There is power in numbers.
CLICK HERE FOR THE FACEBOOK PAGE
Why am I fighting this fight? Because of messages like these three, which I received via the Facebook page I created:
"this [is] totally absurd.....and just plain wrong.....to glamorize drugs and drug abuse in any way is just evil. my daughter was addicted to vicodin and soma. her 31st birthday is in a few days...too bad she has been dead for 2 years leaving behind a then 5 year old daughter at the time. I am outraged!!!!"
"Thank you for this page. My stepson died of an overdose in 2011 and these shirts are absolutely horrendous. Not only did it take him away from us, but almost destroyed our marriage. It has been hard and we are just now starting to learn how to live with the pain. He had other substances as well as prescription drugs in his system. They should be ashamed of themselves."
"You are doing a wonderful thing with your page and your fight. I don't know you, but I truly appreciate what you are doing. My cousin passed 9/25/10 at 31 from prescription overdose. I know some people will never understand the fight that is in all of us that have loved ones that battle this disease. But please, keep up the great work. You are making a difference."
Enough said.
They are actually selling shirts that resemble football jerseys. Except instead of a player's name above the number on the back, they've emblazoned the shirts with "ADDERALL," "XANAX," and "VICODIN." They're charging $58.00 for a t-shirt and $98.00 for a sweatshirt.
I was going to post a photo of the shirts, but decided not to. I don't want to give them any more exposure than they've already had.
I have worked tirelessly over the last several days fighting against these ridiculous, sickening shirts and the store selling them.
After contacting the pharmaceutical companies that own the registered trademarks to Adderall, Xanax, and Vicodin, I am confident that legal action will be taking place. And that "big pharma" will prevail. (Crazy how I'm actually rooting for big pharma, isn't it?)
The store selling these shirts has no absolutely no clue what they're doing. It's so sad.
If you're on Facebook and want to help support my fight, please go to the page I created and "Like" and "Share" it. There is power in numbers.
CLICK HERE FOR THE FACEBOOK PAGE
Why am I fighting this fight? Because of messages like these three, which I received via the Facebook page I created:
"this [is] totally absurd.....and just plain wrong.....to glamorize drugs and drug abuse in any way is just evil. my daughter was addicted to vicodin and soma. her 31st birthday is in a few days...too bad she has been dead for 2 years leaving behind a then 5 year old daughter at the time. I am outraged!!!!"
"Thank you for this page. My stepson died of an overdose in 2011 and these shirts are absolutely horrendous. Not only did it take him away from us, but almost destroyed our marriage. It has been hard and we are just now starting to learn how to live with the pain. He had other substances as well as prescription drugs in his system. They should be ashamed of themselves."
"You are doing a wonderful thing with your page and your fight. I don't know you, but I truly appreciate what you are doing. My cousin passed 9/25/10 at 31 from prescription overdose. I know some people will never understand the fight that is in all of us that have loved ones that battle this disease. But please, keep up the great work. You are making a difference."
Enough said.
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