first. hospital.
Last Tuesday was a milestone of sorts. I went back into First Hospital, the first stop of my son's journey into incarceration. He tried to commit suicide after being responsible for his best friend's death, and First Hospital takes and treats suicides. But this time I went in with a friend I know in Celebrate Recovery who gained entry into the hospital by offering a community outreach program, informing the patients of services in the community available to them after they leave. It is rare to go a full 28 days any more. Insurance does not guarantee a month of treatment. Usually it's a week to ten days, not enough for most people in that condition. Or transfer to another facility with no guarantees of any particular length of treatment. So community programs become a huge part of recovery. But we'd like to see everyone come to CR. It is all inclusive, the person struggling, their families, all are welcome, all are helped. But if someone had told me three years ago I'd be back in that place I dreaded driving to every day while Bran was there, I'd have looked at them like they had three heads.
And there I was, explaining the program to the men and women who had gathered in a dayroom, one very similar to the one Brandon sit in, in thin-soled slippers. When we came to visit, we brought food and some of the loud family atmosphere with us to our son, but somehow that place, and the reality of the situation would leech out the color of the moment and turn it to a faded memory. He sat, comprehending and uncomprehending, trying to be with us, but knowing his fate at the end of a few short weeks. Arrest, incarceration, no guarantees of the mandatory six years being the end. And now I come in offering hope. I can tell them the journey isn't easy, as real life isn't easy, but it is real, and there is life beyond addiction, a bottle, the drama, a life beyond being broken in all the wrong ways. It isn't perfect, but it is theirs for the taking and the making-different this time around.
I don't know if what I said made any difference to them, but it has made a difference to me-all the difference. And I don't know what my son will be when he returns. I just know I've changed. I've grown, and the tragedy of it all has become a rock to climb up and over to a higher view of my life. It looks out into the lives of other people more clearly, and pulls them up, too.
And there I was, explaining the program to the men and women who had gathered in a dayroom, one very similar to the one Brandon sit in, in thin-soled slippers. When we came to visit, we brought food and some of the loud family atmosphere with us to our son, but somehow that place, and the reality of the situation would leech out the color of the moment and turn it to a faded memory. He sat, comprehending and uncomprehending, trying to be with us, but knowing his fate at the end of a few short weeks. Arrest, incarceration, no guarantees of the mandatory six years being the end. And now I come in offering hope. I can tell them the journey isn't easy, as real life isn't easy, but it is real, and there is life beyond addiction, a bottle, the drama, a life beyond being broken in all the wrong ways. It isn't perfect, but it is theirs for the taking and the making-different this time around.
I don't know if what I said made any difference to them, but it has made a difference to me-all the difference. And I don't know what my son will be when he returns. I just know I've changed. I've grown, and the tragedy of it all has become a rock to climb up and over to a higher view of my life. It looks out into the lives of other people more clearly, and pulls them up, too.
posted by Sue O. (aka Joannie, SS) at 5:02 PM
2 Comments:
I just know I've changed. I've grown, and the tragedy of it all has become a rock to climb up and over to a higher view of my life. It looks out into the lives of other people more clearly, and pulls them up, too.
Too Tough
“The road is too rough,” I said,
“Dear Lord, there are stones that hurt me so.”
And He said, “Dear child, I understand,
I walked it long ago.”
“But there’s a cool green path,” I said;
“Let me walk there for a time.”
“No child,” He gently answered me,
“The green path does not climb.”
“My burden,” I said, “Is far too great,
How can I bear it so?”
“My child,” He said, “I remember the weight;
I carried My cross, you know.”
But I said, “I wish there were friends with me
Who would make my way their own.”
“Oh, yes,” He said, “Gethsemane
Was hard to bear alone.”
And so I climb the stony path,
Content at last to know
That where my Master had not gone,
I would not need to go.
And strangely then I found new friends,
The burden grew less sore;
And I remember—long ago
He went that way before.
Olga J. Weiss
Thanks so much, Pixie-that was just perfect!
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