Surrender

I lay awake listening to the chickadees. With all their predawn chatter, I usually wanted to wring their sweet little necks. Anybody who chirped so loudly at 3:30 in the morning deserved a good swat, I figured, and I would have been happy to oblige if only I had the energy to do it. Pulling a pillow over my head to block out their incessant happiness was more my style. But today, their innocent song soothed me as I stared at the ceiling of my dark bedroom; they kept me company, like friends singing their support and encouragement to me. Bolstering my strength for whatever daylight would bring.

Their song held me while I listened for Tristan to come home.

I didn’t believe in God, but I prayed anyway. I prayed Tristan would remember today and have the strength to face it. I prayed he was alive and not damaged beyond repair. I imagined my prayers calling to him, finding him, guiding him home. I spent all night praying and trying not to cry. And almost succeeding.

Dawn had lost its glow by the time I heard the front door close and his sneakers thud in the front hall. Sweet relief lasted a brief second before anxiety crashed through me again; one hurdle down but many more ahead.

Today was the day my son had agreed to get help. Finally, he said he’d go to rehab. But time was not friendly to addicts, and every minute of every hour offered a thousand ways and a million reasons for Tristan to change his mind.

I spoke gently to myself, trying to calm down. Breathe in, breathe out. Stop clenching your jaw. Try to relax. I gulped a few breaths of air, but my neck still twinged, and my stomach roiled. Goddamn it, Kathy, you’re still clenching. Never mind, go get your tea. Just don’t look at him. It doesn’t matter. He’s here, that’s what’s important.

I found my housecoat in the pile of clothing on my floor and went downstairs, glancing at the lump on the couch despite myself. See? He’s here. You can do this. You just need to be calm and careful. Very, very careful. Now breathe. 

I didn’t let myself think as I made my cup of Earl Grey, focusing my mind on the mundane task in front of me, the task I could control: boil the water, get the tea bag, add a splash of milk, go sit down in my comfy chair by the window. Success.

I watched the birds flit from branch to branch in the backyard, mindlessly, for a few moments. It struck me as odd that they could carry on as if it were any other day. As if there was anything more important than what was happening inside, here, today.

This day that could change everything. 

Over the last nine months I’d stepped back—trying only to soften his fall, rather than prevent it. Ever since Tristan’s twentieth birthday, when I helped find his apartment, paid the deposit, and filled his cupboards with food.

And said, “No more.” 

Nine months. The amount of time I needed to conceive and give birth to him was all he needed to burn his life to the ground, twenty years later. Amid the wreckage, though, there was hope. Finally, today, there was hope.

I sipped my tea and let my mind wander over the path that led him here. Led us here. Addiction is greedy, it never takes just one. I was a spinoff, also damaged, also broken. They say that being a parent is a lesson in humility, but it’s nothing compared to parenting a teenager in addiction. That pushes you past humility into humiliation. I thought of things I’d done that I wasn’t proud of, things that sickened me. I’d given him money for drugs and driven him to his dealer. I’d paid his debts. I’d lied about him, for him, and to him. All from a place of love. Dysfunctional love. But honest to God, if you can’t understand how that happens then count yourself lucky for never having been there.

I remembered back to when he was fifteen, when I was first confronted with his addiction. When I threw my whole self into trying to stop him from losing his talents and dreams amidst the devastation of too much cocaine. And when, losing hope, I even thought he might be better off dead. What kind of mother could ever, ever, think that, even for a split second? Not a good one, I told myself.

Those memories washed over me, tears rolled down my cheeks, and a familiar tightness set up camp in my chest until I could barely breathe. I hated those memories, and I hated myself, but I loved wearing the masochistic cloak they provided. I relished in the pain I surely deserved. I could not justify the unjustifiable things I had done, or thoughts I had had, but at least I could admit them to myself and accept the consequences.

For crying out loud, Kathy, stop it. I told myself, frustrated. You’ve been on that merry-go-round in your head for years and it goes nowhere. I acknowledged the truth of that and took a few deep breaths, loosening a bit of the tightness in my chest. Then, I could speak more kindly to myself. Things are changing. Today is about hope. And, anyway, you weren’t all bad. You deserve some credit too, I told myself.

I leaned into those thoughts for a bit, giving myself the gift of those memories, too. I had kept Tristan off the streets as a teenager. At fifteen, his beauty and innocence would have been a beacon for demons who fed off the light of others, their own light having been eaten up years ago. Instead, when he was sixteen, I sent him to China for a year, to train in Kung Fu, to hang out with Shaolin monks, to work hard and win gold medals. At eighteen, he went through culinary school and then spent most of a year cooking in the best restaurants in Vancouver. I did my part to make those things happen, too.

And, I reminded myself, I had a life beyond Tristan’s addiction. Even during his addiction. In the past couple of years, I’d started a business and learned tai chi. I’d bought graduation dresses for my daughters and baked birthday cakes and laughed with my friends. One magical Christmas morning, I’d held my newborn granddaughter. And Tristan held his niece for the first time. Those were our stories too.

But those stories hurt worse than the pain. They reminded me of all that was lost, and all that was still at stake. God damn addiction! Fuck it all to hell for stalking my sweet, eager child. For obliterating such a kind, athletic kid. A kid who earned his black belt before he had hairs on his chin. For turning him into a liar and thief. Into someone damaged— mind, body, and soul. For breaking him. 

And yet… it was not long ago that he’d woken me up with the smell of home-made cinnamon buns. He came into my bedroom, that morning, and served me a perfect cup of tea and love on a plate, dripping with cream cheese icing. Only last month he gave his Grandma a gnocchi-making lesson. And just days ago, as always, he put his head in my lap and asked for a head massage.

He was still himself, somewhere, swirling around in the mess of addiction.

I finished my cold tea, and looked outside. The stark brightness of day had swallowed the soft morning light. Time to put my thoughts aside and focus on what needed to get done. 

Tristan had to call the rehab centre before noon, or he’d have no place to go. They’d held a bed for him all week and this, they said, was the last day they’d keep it for him.

I hauled my carcass out of the chair, put my cup in the sink, and then went to look at him. I don’t think I breathed for the next three hours. I couldn’t breathe when I saw Tristan’s beautiful face, now scabby and gaunt with a newly swollen lip. Or when I dialed the phone and passed it to him, listening to him mutter incomprehensibly. I don’t know how they could understand him. Maybe it was enough that he grunted his assent when they asked if he was coming in. I still couldn’t breathe an hour later, as he sat at the kitchen table, coffee untouched in front of him, lashing out at me, vaguely abusive, largely incoherent, threatening to walk away from it all. Nothing prompted his outburst. He’d just been staring out the window—watching a squirrel, I thought—barely there. But his world was ending, and he was scared and hurting. That was enough.

I looked at Tristan from across the table. Gently, I asked him to pack his things.

“Fuck off, already!” he yelled, wrapping his arms around his head as if to keep it from falling off, and then bringing it to his knees, burying his face. “You’re such a bitch,” his voice trailed off, broken. He muttered a few more muffled curses, and my heart broke for him. This was not my son. This was addiction.

 I tamped my emotions down to numbness and put one foot in front of the other, unthinking, unfeeling. Moving forward. Trying my best to keep Tristan moving forward with me; cajoling him, feeding him, and, ultimately, telling him firmly that there was no more time to delay. The treatment centre was only half an hour away, but if we weren’t on the road in 20 minutes, he’d miss his 2:00 intake time, and he really had no other options. 

Tristan went upstairs, had a shower, and came down with his bag in hand.

As we walked to the car, warm sunshine washed over us, and Tristan stopped and looked at me. In that moment, he seemed almost like himself again, his face full of love, fear, and fragile determination.

He looked me clearly in the eye and said, “I’m doing it, Mom.” He flashed a sad smile and put his arm around me.

My heart ached from the potency of hope and hopelessness, pride and shame, in him and in me. The final surrender. It wasn’t a soft surrender, but a desperate tap out after a long hard fight. An acknowledgment of defeat. But we were betting on something new rising, something yet unknown and unnamed, but something stronger. We were betting his life on it.

“Yes, you are, love.” I smiled and hugged him back, tightly, then kissed his fuzzy cheek. “You’re doing it.”

As we drove, I held my breath. I put one finger on the auto-lock button in case he changed his mind and tried to jump out at a red light. I don’t know what I thought I’d do if that happened. Kidnap and deliver him, against his wishes, to the rehab fairies to work their recovery magic on him? God help me. But Tristan was quiet, dozing, until he suddenly sat up.

“Wait!” he said, his voice course and crackly. He cleared his throat and tried again: “Which one are you taking me to? I’m not going to the shitty one with all the fucking doctors. I’ll live on fucking East Hastings before that. I want the fun one.” Earlier that week, in return for a place to stay and food to eat, I’d made him phone three rehab centres. I’d read it helps when a person chooses their treatment facility. Tristan had made the calls, but had no opinion, made no choice. Thankfully, the one I wanted for him, the one I’d added to my contact list two years earlier, was the “fun” one. On the phone, the other centres talked about their routine, and therapeutic approaches, and certifications, but this one told him how much fun they have in recovery. This one talked about good food, going to the gym, dirt biking, movies, laughter, being “a part of.” Of course, Tristan wanted that one. What twenty-year old wouldn’t choose the promise of fun over therapy? Even if it meant he had to give up smoking, as well as everything else.

“It’s the fun one,” I said, relieved I had chosen correctly.

~

Tristan finished his last smoke, tossed the butt, and we crossed the road to the unobtrusive low-rise apartment building, older but well kept. He carried his duffle bag with the few clothes and toiletries he’d haphazardly thrown in. Four or five guys sat out front. They each greeted us with a polite “Hi” or “How’s it going” and plenty of eye contact. One tall, good-looking guy in his late twenties stood up, smiled at Tristan and said, “Hi, are you a new guy?”

“Yeah, I guess,” Tristan mumbled, eyes down.

“Welcome. I’m Von,” he shook Tristan’s hand. “You’re gonna love it here. They’re going to fatten you up—you’re skinny, bro! Come on, I’ll find someone to do your intake.”

Von held the door and got us seated. In the few minutes we waited, half a dozen men of all ages walked past. Every one of them welcomed Tristan. Many gave me words of encouragement, too. They told me he was in a good place, that I could stop worrying and sleep again. They called me “Mom”. I smiled at them, blinking back tears at the simple feeling of being understood; of being in a place where young men smiled.

One guy asked if I wanted coffee and, when I told him I drank tea, seemed near giddy that he could get that too. He returned a minute or two later, apologizing for taking so long. “I didn’t know what you liked so I brought one of each option.” He grinned, pulling an assortment of crumpled tea bags from his jean pockets, front and back. I wasn’t thrilled about the teabags in his pockets, but he seemed so earnest that I couldn’t say no. I chose Mint Medley.

As Tristan did his intake, one of the case workers showed me around. The centre was spread across two small apartment buildings and one large heritage home on a typical suburban street. Nothing fancy, but clean, comfortable, homey. There was a huge bowl of apples, oranges, and bananas in the living room, which felt good. Nobody was starving here. Some guys were playing chess, another strummed a guitar, a few wrote in notebooks, and a bunch sat in the sunshine talking. There was an abundance of tattoos, but everybody looked healthy and happy. 

Just normal guys.

I soaked it in, knowing this would be Tristan’s home for the next three months, at least. These were going to be his people. The unknown began to take shape and had a name: Recovery. It had a feeling: Hope. I wanted it so badly for Tristan. For me too. Seeing the guys, hearing their laughter, made it seem possible. I didn’t know these people I was trusting to look after my boy, but I sensed that Tristan’s experience wouldn’t be about them, anyways. Not specifically. I was giving Tristan to the care of something greater. Something these people were part of, sure, but that was much bigger than them. Something with endless possibilities.

Surrounded by these young men, it occurred to me that Tristan was not my responsibility anymore, and never would be again. No matter what happened after this, he’d have somewhere else to turn. Other people. Other resources. I was handing him over to Recovery.

God, it felt good.

Back on the front steps I hugged Tristan goodbye, breathed him in, and told him I loved him. His arms hung at his side as I wrapped mine around him. He was uncomfortable in my hug, uncomfortable in his body. One of the guys walked by just then, chuckled, and said “Go on, give your mom a hug. She deserves it, man.”

Tristan gave me a quick hug, then, all edges and nerves. “Love you, Mom,” he mumbled, and went inside.

Driving home, alone, I was overwhelmed by the relief that eluded me earlier. I was still anxious, What if he didn’t stay? And scared, He’s not going to stay! But above all that was relief. I’d done my part. He was safe. I could breathe now. Deeply, in and out. I had so much space around me and in me. Where did all that space come from? What was I going to do with it? 

I said a silent prayer of thanks, let the tears fall freely, and just breathed.