My Testimonial

On March 21, I provided the following testimony before the NJ Assembly Budget Committee.

I’m a mother and an NCADD advocacy leader. For me, “recovery” means holding onto the hope that my son will outlive his addiction. With God’s grace, he will turn 20 in a matter of weeks and today, has 6 months and 1 week without alcohol or drugs, proving that recovery is real.

My horror began 4-years ago; he was 16. We know that people suffering from addiction are stigmatized, but so are the parents. At the time, friends that associated with me – those not afraid of catching what I carried  – reassured me that I was doing the “right thing” by getting him help early. But, they were few and far between.

Most parents avoided me in public. I now know that it wasn’t because they didn’t know what to say, but more often because I mirrored a reflection of themself; the self they didn’t want to see because their truth was that my son was hanging out with their son or daughter. As a form of self-protection, they needed to believe that I over-reacted by pulling my kid out of private school and sending him to wilderness therapy. After all, it was only alcohol and marijuana; boys will be boys; it was a phase.

My son’s “phase” outlasted 14-months of the forced sobriety – a.k.a. treatment – and spanned the miles from New Jersey to Utah, and back again, at an astronomical financial cost, and an opportunity cost of a family. He was back home only a few weeks before the first ticket was issued; passenger in a parked car; marijuana possession; paraphernalia. Before long, he was placed on juvenile probation; more treatment. Despite it all, at 19, he was ticketed; this time, driver of the vehicle; DUI; arrested on felony possession of heroin. 

Until that point, he had no “skin in the game.” He was young, immature, fearless. Only after his arrest and near heroin overdose on two separate occasions was he truly scared. His “friends” left him for dead on both occasions. His last 6 months have been spent in non-private residential treatment. Last week he entered an Oxford House. I have hope.

The problem – for this talented, intelligent, likeable kid – has been that addiction is a disease; not a phase. We know drug use for young people, especially with prescription drugs and heroin, is a serious situation. Two of the kids whose parents snubbed me years ago, today, mourn the loss of their own children. My way of handling the disease wasn’t better than theirs; I know that I’ve been lucky. Too many families have lost loved ones due to drug and alcohol use.

The disease of addiction doesn’t discriminate across socio-economic lines. It doesn’t have a cure but can be treated and young people like my son can find recovery if resources are provided. It can’t be loved away. Punishment, shaming and stigmatizing won’t improve low self-esteem, anxiety, or depression that all-to-often lead to the drugs and alcohol in the first place. We have to do better.

Addiction is a mental health disease that robs our communities of time, talent and treasure. I ask that the $2M be allocated to re-open Mid-State Correctional Center as a dedicated treatment facility to help inmates focus on re-entry and maintain their recovery. Treat addiction like a health issue as opposed to a criminal act because hope leads to recovery and recovery is real.

Pride and Discipline

It was still morning when my co-worker informed me that my cell phone was ringing – albeit on vibrate – for the 3rd time in succession. His words hung in the air as I did the mental math: James was in school; Kinsey worked late and was probably sleeping; Jon was in rehab, his discharge date and entry into an Oxford House imminent. Who could be calling? 

I recognize the area code and know it was Jon. I saw him less than a week ago, we met with his therapist and discussed plans for his transfer. He was 6 months sober. I hope he didn’t get high. Two of his roommates got the boot just days ago after smoking K2.

It wasn’t long before call #4 came through. He had to leave rehab; ASAP; not his choice. Did the reason really matter? I ask anyway. His story had my head spinning as my customer walked in the door. Jon needed a ride; curse this job! I told him to call someone else and I’d reimburse them. Of course, he could come stay with me; for 1 week; firm boundary.

Throughout the day, my mind remained stuck in a place I thought it had left; the space where Jon is manipulative.Why was this happening? I said a prayer that wasn’t for Jon. Instead, I thanked God for giving me the job that was preventing my world from being swallowed by his.

I heard his version of the story; how he, the most senior member of the house got kicked out – on a FRIDAY! – for cursing at the program director. Believable? Well…not really. I visited him every week and knew that cursing was not a violation in that program. He had made it to the elusive “A” Group. He was due to depart the next week. He didn’t get high; no drug test was failed. It didn’t make sense.

The reality of non-private residential treatment is that if a patient is not admitted via drug court and has a paying insurance company, he will have his bed for as long as they can keep him there. Unless…he curses at the newly appointed, was your therapist but doesn’t know your name, and refers to you as “Bieber,” who is having a hard time and needs to make an example of someone, program director. Which is what she did.

For the first time in years, Jon was actually the victim. In the end, he was with me for 10 days; 5 used to prove that he wasn’t lying, followed by the work of a small army of professionals, smoothing the path that lead to placement.

We talked as I drove him to the gym for the last time. Actually, he talked. He thanked me for answering his call and, despite everything, providing him a place to call home. Then, he told me how proud he was of himself. He had’t done anything wrong; the rehab was wrong. He was home for over a week and didn’t get high. He didn’t take money that was left out or any of his brother’s clothes. He told me that it all boiled down to self-discipline, which he believed he finally possessed.

As he got out of the car he asked, “Can you imagine who I’ll be if I stay clean for another 6 months?” He laughed. “Imagine me clean 3 years from now…I don’t ever need that shit in my life again.”

Another chapter in another house with another new group of men of varying ages in recovery begins. This time, I anticipate a bright future because finally his validation comes from within himself.

If slow and steady win the race, Jon’s a decent bet.

Calm Before the Storm – A New Chapter

It’s been a peaceful fall and winter.  Anyone living with addiction knows there is no sleep  comparable to when your loved one is safe within the walls of rehab.

As a selfish reward, this time when my son entered rehab, I took a break from thinking about, talking about, and writing about addiction.

I spent the last 5 months engaging in life while Jon practiced sobriety and returned, in both mind and body, to the person I recognize as my son. In the next few weeks, he will leave the confines of rehab and enter a sober living community; a 3/4 or 1/2-way house. As his discharge day draws closer, my stomach knots when my mind wanders and I contemplate whether a storm will follow this calm.

The above was written one year ago; September 2015. Unfortunately, it was the calm before the storm. Within weeks of entering sober living housing, he relapsed. He spent most of this summer (2016) in rehab in California. He enters sober living in the middle of this week, the same day I start a writing class in which I hope to broaden the use of my Recovery Coach Certification.

As we begin Recovery Awareness Month, Jon and I simultaneously start new chapters. I know that recovery is real. I know everyone deserves it. I hope he remains true to himself.

Unlikely Friends

The tinging indicating the voicemail startled me. The missed call was placed from Jon’s phone, forcing me to remember the scene from earlier in the day. Reluctantly, I listen. The call wasn’t from Jon.

“Hello. This is B.’s father,” he pauses. “Given our sons’ history together, you’re the last person I want to exchange pleasantries with. I’ll get to the point…your kids are on my driveway demanding $100. After hearing 4 versions of the story, I actually do owe you $100. For obvious reasons, I don’t want to hand cash to your kids and would like to talk to you.”

Back when they were high school sophomores, Jon and B. became acquainted, more likely than not through their shared love for marijuana. It wasn’t until senior year, after Jon returned from treatment, that B. stood before me. Immediately, I knew – he was trouble. He looked, talked and acted just like Jon used to…16 months prior…not the healthy Jon living with me.

Despite my threats of punishment, followed by actual punishment, for hanging around with B., the boys remained joined at the hip; I would run into them in the unlikeliest places. Eventually, I gave up the futile effort of keeping them apart and pretending that a relapse would be anyone’s fault other than Jon’s.

The dynamic duo’s friendship over the next year would include lots of mischief, starting with the physical loss of a new MacBook Pro; it was used as “collateral” to score MDMA; they never got the drugs or the computer; at least they realized “dealing” wasn’t their “calling.” Next, was the arrest for possession and paraphernalia; B. took the rap that first time – in exchange for my paying his court fines. They graduated to forging blank checks. There would be many more tickets, another arrest, damaged cars…etc. When we met in court, B.’s family didn’t approach me. Instead, they glared from across the room; clearly I was the “bad” parent and my son was the “problem.”

Although I didn’t like the tone of his message, Mr. B.’s desire to reimburse me was welcome, so I returned his call. He asked if I’d heard what happened.

“Mr. B., my kids came to my office asking for money. I gave it to them. They tried to tell me why they needed it, but honestly, I don’t have time for stories that end up being lies. My son has an illness. I chose not to negotiate with irrational people.”

“Well, the short of it is that B. tried to pay a dealer with counterfeit money. Your kids used the money to save him from a beating. Your kids were on my driveway when I got home from work. Your daughter refused to leave until I promised to make you whole.” People in the community know my daughter was estranged from me for 2 years, so it was nice when he added, “Despite what you may think, your daughter’s words and actions show a deep love and concern for you. She wasn’t taking “no” for an answer.”

“Mr. B.,” I continued, “thank you for that. And, in a way, I’m actually proud of them. Jon’s drug use has caused many problems and although I fear he may forever remain the emotional equivalent of a 15-year old, he also manages to hold onto his inherent kindness. He and his sister are friends again and it’s good to see them unite in a cause [even if it isn’t a cause I approve of] doing what they think is right.”

Mr. B. added, “I can’t imagine what you’ve been through, are going through, and how you survive, let alone sound healthy. I’m hostage in my own house. I don’t know what to do about B.. I can’t keep living like this. It’s killing me and destroying my family.”

The door is open and I walk in, pressing on, pleasantries aside, telling him that recognizing his son has a problem is his first victory. Furthermore, he doesn’t have to live while a 20-year old destroys his home; literally or figuratively. I give him the name of an organization that can help. He is appreciative.

After another 10 minutes, he ends the call stating that if we had met under different circumstances, we might’ve been friends. Along with Mr. B., I hope our sons find recovery. We need to provide hope for our sons while we support one another. At the end of the day, Mr. B., when you are truly ready to see you will recognize that I have been and will remain your friend.

How Can You Help Me?

I didn’t read the write-up about Jon in the local paper. The citations were mailed to my house but I didn’t open them. I did get a call 2 weeks ago from some dude informing me that a car registered to and insured by me had been impounded. I could’ve called Jon, but didn’t; what’s the use?; it’d be lies anyway. So, when I received your texts about how bad you felt when you read the news, you actually had more information than me. I spent 2 weeks avoiding knowing the truth. I knew it was bad, but did I need to know how bad?

One text I received was from someone fairly new in my life. The message – innocent enough – took me to a place of defensiveness. Unfortunately, I lashed out at this person, who is someone I don’t want to hurt. To avoid the same circumstance in the future, I’d like to take several hundred words to explain how you can help me.

First off, let’s raise awareness: this isn’t actually happening to me nor is it because of me. I don’t control my child’s decisions. So, I’m not going to lie in bed with the covers pulled over my head. I’m not going to feel sorry for myself. I’m definitely not going to feel sorry for Jon. It just is!

Secondly, to the certain someone disappointed to hear the news through a friend, I ask -where have you been the last 4 years? The last 6 years? As a matter of fact, Jon’s entire life? Here’s a news flash: he’s the same kid that made a mess in your precious basement on Christmas Eve circa 2008 and has seldom been invited back because of it! Guess what? Jon’s still making messes!  If you don’t like what I write – I’m sure someone is going to tell you about it – I have 11 words for you; you should’ve been nicer to me when you had the chance. It’s my life and I’m free to tell it.

Next, to those of you who deeply care for me, I appreciate having each and every one of you in my life regardless of the fact that I’m bad at returning calls and accepting invitations. I know that you want to help but I don’t want to talk about it! EVER!!!! I know you are there for me. Here’s what you can do to help in 5 easy-to-follow steps:

1.  When I show up to work on my day off, please don’t ask why I’m here, or whether or not I’ve “clocked-in.” Do just like you did yesterday and thank me for helping; it’s a 2-way street.

2.  When I’ve clearly been up all night engaging in that totally useless activity called crying, talk about how bad your allergies are too, then complement my weight loss – by choice; I’m NOT sick – or my hair or dress or shoes…because we all know, even on my worst day, they’re always good!

3.  Don’t ask me about how my writing is going! Writing memoir sucks, particulary so if it’s being used as a form of therapy. Just know that I have clear goals and I work towards them every day…beginnning at 5:15 a.m….when it’s still dark…even in summer. My hope is you’ll be reading some “happy” work in Modern Love at some point in the next couple of years; I’m not worried about Dan Jones; I’m more concerned about getting permission from the 5 guys featured in the essay that, combined, were the “perfect” husband. No, gentlemen…you won’t get a “cut;” I’ve already given you more than money can buy!

4.  When you say we are going to get together at a certain place, at a specific time… unless you or an immediate family member has been maimed (and you have proof of said maiming), you need to be there!

5.  When I give you my lunch order and then forget that I don’t actually have money to pay for said lunch, just friggin’ pay for it, for crying out loud!

That concludes my clearly selfish list. Aside from all that, I need one more thing – I ask that you radically accept the fact that I’ve accepted whatever happens next and I’m good with it…even if it’s the worst possible outcome…and so is Jon!

I spoke to him this morning and hung up with a sinking feeling that it may be the last time I ever hear his voice. His path has been difficult. The fact is that there has been the “mark” and he has “fallen short” too many times to count. That’s as hard for him to live as it is to watch. I believe that God put him on this Earth because he is destined for greater things. He is kind. He is funny. He remains “untapped potential.” He is a good person. He is an old soul. I believe that he can live with and manage his addiction. But, I’m not the one that needs to believe. The motivation to persevere has to come from within him.

I knew I would regret it if the conversation we had this morning was our last, so I called him a second time and, now, if his story ends badly, Jon and I are truly okay. We are tired, but are on good terms; even when I’m kicking him out, I still love him. I will forever be proud that he is my son. I will cherish every moment we spent together – okay, with the exception of 2 Steelers vs. Cowboys games; my “Boyz” came way before my boy. He is forever my Angel Baby and we are still dancing, just the two of us, in a family room in Pittstown.

He is not mad at me. I am not mad at him. We are at peace. So, please, save your tears for someone who needs them while I work to save any one of the thousands that are suffering and may actually hear my voice because I’m not their mother.

Addiction: Not the Result of Bad Parenting

I like cashier at Barnes and Noble. I admire her ability to make polite, intelligent conversation with each new customer based upon their book selection. She clearly is well-read and suited for this job. I have a respect for her.

“Hi,” she says. “And how are you today?”

“Good, thanks.”

“Let’s see what you have here.” She examines the cover. “Danielle Steel…isn’t she that romance writer…the one with all those kids.”

“I think so,” I say.

She looks at the cover again. In addition to His Brigt Light – The Story of Nick Traina, my purchases include the latest issue of In Recovery magazine and Clean by David Sheff; there is clearly a theme, but she doesn’t see it. I decide to educate her.

“This book isn’t romantic; it’s real; her life; the pain of losing her son to mental illness and addiction.”

Without even a second of hesitation she says, “Well…maybe if she had spent more time with him instead of cranking out 30 trashy books a year things would’ve been different. Or, maybe, as women, we need to make better choices; it’s either career or family. No career-oriented woman should think she’s going to be able to juggle her job while raising 10 kids. Maybe she should’ve been more responsible when having sex. How many men was she with?”

I’m dumbfounded. When will we “get” it? Most troubling is that this woman is intelligent; well read, well traveled, in possession of the wisdom that only a woman with 50+ years on this planet can have. And, she believes that the disease of addiction is the result of bad parenting.

Danielle Steel won’t know she was judged by a stranger 3,000 miles away. Writing means sharing your soul with strangers, something she has done many times, so she’s probably numb to it. But, when I go out, I’m still not used to the “tsks” that I hear. I see the looks. When someone asks me how I’m doing, I take pause. Even with my closest friends, I have a decision to make; do they really want to know? Do I underburden myself or protect them from a truth that they most likely don’t want to hear. What they will never understand is that my other children are struggling too. They are scared. They look to me to be their brother’s life-line and want me to help Jon this one last time. Let him just stay one night. They are afraid that he’s going to kill himself.

My kids don’t have the maturity to understand that I can’t “fix” this and I’m scared, too. I’ve been chasing my tail, spinning in circles, for 20 years trying to fix a problem that was never mine. The only way he’s going to change when he’s internally motivated to do so. His life is in his own hands. He has the pen and will write the ending.

I am getting better at radically accepting most things that are outside my control. Your judgement of me doesn’t interest me. You can think I’m a good parent or be disappointed by the way I’ve handled things. All I can say is that more often than not, I’ve done the best I could in the moment that I made any decision. And, the disease of addiction is not “caught” from bad parenting.

Relapse

Well, that was quick.

The inherently vile part of addiction is that the addict is convinced they don’t actually have a problem with substance use; one of their other diagnosis is the “real issue.” Unfortunately, Jon is so likable that this time around his probation officer and therapist bought into his addictive thinking and were the enablers.

Jon –  aren’t you tired of this repeating soundtrack? Don’t worry about me and James. Although we are heartbroken, the crack doesn’t run as deep this time; we are better at protecting ourselves. The thing that you can’t see is that we can see when you start to spiral downward. For us, it has been a long two weeks.

You are right; the collateral damage wasn’t as bad this time. I was able to cancel the check before you cashed it. The bank is giving me back the money you took using the ATM card that I reported stolen. Your brother is both angry and saddened that you’d take money from him, again, and further disappointed when I said that I wouldn’t replace it for him; it was his choice not to put it in the safe. The dog is looking for you.

The physical damage can be fixed. The soot will come off the wall. The closet door can be rehung. This time, I hope you see that although it wasn’t “that bad,” we stood up and protected ourselves; we chose not to live this way. We get stronger.

And, when I said that I hated you, I meant it. I hate the you that you become when you chose to use. He isn’t the person with the qualities we love. You do NOT have it figured out; self-medicating will NEVER be a viable option for your particular brain chemistry. I hope you learn this before the “unfixable” happens.

We understand the disease and know that this closing of the door is temporary. The choice – for recovery – is yours. Instead of asking what I do at the NCADD meeting, come with me and sit in the AA meeting held in the other room. Return the calls from the people I’ve given your number to. You aren’t alone. The rope has been thrown. Your only job is to grab hold of it.

I still have hope. Recovery is real. Get better soon.

Opening the Door

Jon wanted to meet for lunch as a belated Mother’s Day observance. The instant his car pulled onto the driveway, I knew our date was a manipulation; restaurants may have dress codes, but most people don’t bring everything they own to lunch.

So, there it is. He’s back. Living with me. And, I am asking the collective “you” for a favor: when you see me, please resist the urge to express your displeasure with my choice. I know what you think already as May 27th will mark the third anniversary on this road that doesn’t have a destination in sight.

I know he has done nothing to have “earned” a bed in my home – especially over the last few weeks; but, that’s his story to tell. No, I don’t trust him. Yes, I am still angry. I also feel that no one deserves this disease of addiction and jail – his other option – isn’t the answer; he’s been a prisoner his entire life, held hostage by his brain. I may get hurt and my life will be more complicated. But, I’m wiser, too, and it won’t be like the last time.

Last month a twenty-something year old guy “crashed” our NCADD meeting. He planned to go to the AA meeting in the next room, but didn’t like the “vibe.” He asked about us, decided advocacy could be good – people need help – and joined us. He became my partner. We were practicing our “Our Stories Have Power” clips for an upcoming video campaign. I did my 3 minutes first since he didn’t have anything prepared, then he filled the remaining 45 minutes telling his story. When he was done, I wished him well and said that I hoped to see him again.

A few minutes later, I heard my name being called as I got into my car. It was him. He wanted to thank me. “For what?” I yelled over the crowd that was smoking cigs; AA must’ve ended.

“I don’t think anyone – ever – said that to me.”

“Said what?” I asked over the passing cars.

“Told me that they hoped to see me again. Most people are happy to see me leave. They wash their hands of me and hope to never cross paths again.”

So, Jon’s back. I know what you want me to do, but you aren’t me, sitting in meetings, sharing my story, often times the only “lucky” one in the group. If my 19-year old, flesh and blood, needs to have a door open to him, it can be mine as long as he choses recovery. If he loses this battle, I won’t get a do-over. You won’t have to live with that – you aren’t me.

I apologize for all the times I’m going to be late to wherever I’m supposed to be meeting you, but I forgot the new hiding place for my keys, then had to run upstairs to get my credit card from the safe that is locked inside the other safe, and, naturally, I have no money in my wallet and needed to stop at the ATM. If you don’t want to hear about how Jon is doing simply don’t ask. 

And, when you say that you hope my other two kids are learning from Jon, I will nod in agreement. I hope they are learning, too, but not for the same reason as you. I hope they see that they are expected to help someone who is sick rather than turn them away when they are at their lowest. Jon may never “get it” but I couldn’t find a better example of perseverance.

“Things don’t go away. They become you. There is no end, as T.S. Eliot somewhere says, but addition: the trailing consequence of further days and hours. No freedom from the past, or from the future. But we keep making our way, as we have to…..We make our way, and effort and time give us cushion and dignity. And as we age, we’re riding higher in the saddle, seeing more terrain.” – From Darin Strauss’s memoir, Half A Life.

Hitting Bottom: The Enabler’s had Enough

Monday Night Football was playing on tv, but I was restless and agitated because Jon still wasn’t home. His class had ended at 7:30 p.m.. Where was he? He’d never miss the Steelers. My nerves were in the pit of my stomach. The Jon I knew was gone.

The game ended. I longed for bed. The last time he came home this late he was too stoned to try the front door  – intentionally left unlocked – and went around the house banging on windows, yelling for me to let him in. I’m not living that again.

I text him: DO NOT come home tonight. Sleep wherever you are. I need the car by 7.

My phone rang within seconds of hitting “send.” It was him. “Mom…don’t be mad.”

“Don’t tell me how to act!” I spat, blood pressure rising at the mere sound of his voice, what was worry had instantly turned to anger. “Spare me the drama and tell me where my car is.”

“Why are you asking about the car? Don’t you care about me?”

I’m numbed by years of living this way.  Despite how harsh it’s going to sound, I press on. “Not really, just tell me where my car is.”

“Mom,” he’s speaking quietly, trying to calm me. “I know the money you gave me was for gas, but I needed food and cigarettes. Then, I had to give this kid a ride. His house was farther than I thought. When I dropped him off I had 10 miles before empty. He gave me some money and I went to the gas station, but it was closed. Now, I’m out of gas. I don’t know where I am and I’m scared. Plus, my phone’s dying. I need you to get me.”

Jon may not be the sharpest tool in the shed, but he’s smart enough to know that if I had a “spare” car, he wouldn’t be joy-riding in my only mode of transportation, and… the dots slowly connect; he’s high; and driving! My worst fear is playing out.

“No, I’m not finding you!” My teeth are clenched. “You got yourself into this situation…I need my car for an appointment in the morning. I’m turning off my phone and going to sleep. Good luck.”

I hang up and stay true to the promise to power down the phone; I won’t enable. I toss and turn. At the first glimmer of sunlight, I rise and begin pacing, waiting for news that I’m not certain I actually want.

He’s called extended family. The stories vary but none are good: the car is dead, the car  crashed, the car looks like it’s been shot at, Jon is in trouble, and Jon is in court.

News trickles in until he arrives home 20-hours after class ended. Some of what I’ve been told is true: windshield cracked, undercarriage dented, his iPhone shattered to bits…must’ve been one hell of a night.

Jon approaches me. He’s serene while reassuring me that everything is going to be okay. He’s taking responsibility. After making a series of bad choices, he pro-actively fixed everything; can he see the car?; does he see me?; clearly, we aren’t “fixed.” He offers the proof in the form of a contract. He met both his probation officer and therapist and came up with this plan. They all signed it, so it’s official. I notice there isn’t a line for my signature. It’s my life, but I won’t get a say regarding the terms of it; my role is to house, feed, cloth, and pay for his mistakes. I feel defeated.

A few days later, I’m outside, ready for an appointment, and, once again, the car is gone. How had he found the keys? When he rolls up, he plays a cat and mouse game, locking/unlocking the car doors, parking, then inching the car forward and backward, not allowing me to gain access. He’s holding the car hostage!

My other son and his friend stand on the sidewalk, jaws dropped in disbelief. Neighbors playing with their kids on the swings at the playground across the street begin to notice us. I can’t let this continue. Not like in the past. None of my attempts to help him have worked. I have to stand my ground and prove that I am not powerless.

I take out my phone and place what I hope will be the most difficult call that I ever have to make; 9-1-1. This time, I will get the TRO and follow it up in court. I can’t make him better, but I can control the damage. I have to save myself, my other children, my property, and my sanity. October 17, 2014 will forever remain my Independence Day.

 

Jon Going to Work
4/12/15

We are More than the Sum of Our Failures

My son couldn’t wait to be old enough to drive. I remember when he divulged his plan for making my life easier during one of my three daily 36-mile round-trip drives to school with him and his sister.

“In September, it’s going to be awesome! You’ll only have to drive one way each time because I’ll finally have my permit.” Silence. “Then,” he added, “when I’m a senior and Kinsey’s a junior, I’ll have my own car and I can drive us both. When Kinsey’s a senior, she can have her own car. So, really, you only have a few more weeks of driving…well, until it’s James’ turn.” Silence, again. “Then, you’re screwed for three years.” This time the words were followed by his laughter.

In the end, it was moot. He didn’t get his permit at 16 because he was “sent away” for 14-months. By 17, his written driving test score had expired. On the rare occasion that we got to the DMV in time to re-take the test, he would fail it. After finally obtaining the permit, he missed the road test for his license because I had kicked him out of my house just before test day, and the judge placed him in a juvenile shelter for two weeks until his father could take him in.

He was 18 when I allowed him back and he did get his license. Only, this time he  knew better than to ask for a car. On occasion, I allowed him to use my car to get to community college. When he didn’t come home one night – some story about the car running out of gas – arriving after a 27-hour absence with a broken windshield, needless to say, car privileges were revoked. Two weeks and many arguments later, he was back in rehab.

Today, he is 65 days sober, attending I/OP,  going to AA meetings daily, living in a sober house, and working. His recovery feels different. He doesn’t want to relapse and spend 6 months in jail, although he assures me that if that is what happens it will be easy since the last three years  – which should count as “time served” anyway – were hard. He wants me to warn him if I see him becoming selfish because he knows himself, and that’s the true sign that he’s headed for relapse. He wants to help other people because he owes so many people a favor. He has a horrible disease and some days it wins, while other days, he wins.

Lucky for Jon, his grandparents have always believed that there’s something special about him and had his back even if it meant flying 2,000 miles to see him on his birthday, when no one else could spare the time, money, effort, or all three. When she realized how Jon has been living – largely walking in harsh winter conditions in Pennsylvania – my mother decided to give money she and my father had earmarked for a South African safari towards a 3/4 share in a car for her eldest grandson. Today, Jon has hope and is blessed to have the gift of a car from what he calls the meeting of the “three most unlikely people in the world” to make it happen.

This morning before driving himself “home,” he asked me not to count the number of chances he has been given because “everyone deserves however many chances they need to get it right;” even if we’re talking about Greg Hardy in a Dallas Cowboy uniform. He reminded me that we shouldn’t judge people by their mistakes. When it comes to people, to lives, we are more than the sum of our failures.