Category Archives: Alcoholism

Therapy update: starting over

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Right after I wrote the post on rethinking the direction of Ethan’s therapy, I got an email from R, Ethan’s therapist. He attached a link to the neuropsychologist evaluation process and a list of professionals at the local children’s hospital. As I suspected, he was pushing an evaluation, ignoring my concerns that Ethan’s grief wasn’t being addressed.

I let the email sit for a week before responding. Then I responded (this is the actual email – except I used his name, not “R”):

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Thank you, R. I’ve done a lot of research in the last six weeks or so, and I’ve talked to several people on the issue as well. As I mentioned in Ethan’s last session, I was leaning toward an ADD/ADHD diagnosis when we first started seeing you; however, as I’ve become more aware of the grieving process in children, I think there’s another issue that needs to be addressed before he is evaluated. Ethan *might* very well be ADD/ADHD to some degree, but until the core issue of Ethan’s grief is addressed, it will not benefit him to be labeled. 

To recap what Ethan’s been through: Within weeks during the summer of 2010, Ethan became a big brother, his grandpa died (and my mom moved in with us), his father was sinking deeper into alcoholism (and Ethan saw many things relating to that), and my marriage was crumbling. Literally, all this happened over a four-week period. As if that wasn’t enough to deal with (and he was seeing a counselor at school and another one outside of school), a year later, Mike and I separated, and I decided to relocate the family to Wisconsin. Five months after the separation and just weeks after Ethan moved here, Mike died. 
That’s a lot for a child to take in, absorb, and figure out how to deal with. A lot of his behavior issues at school (and to a lesser degree at home since we don’t see the same behavior outside school) mirror what other children go through as part of the grieving process. The acting out, the aggression, the anger are all part of the process that many children go through. 
You’ve done a good job helping Ethan become more aware of the symptoms and finding ways to deal (i.e., handling his anger), but I think there needs to be a focus on dealing with the grief aspect. If this isn’t an area of expertise, please let me know. I truly believe this is where Ethan needs the most help right now.
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It was a week before I heard back from R. I wasn’t surprised by his response. Turns out, he has very little experience helping younger children with grief issues, and he recommends taking Ethan to a different therapist. Not surprised, but a little ticked off because:
  • My reason for seeking help was very clearly spelled out for R from the first meeting. We spent two hours talking about what Ethan had been through in the last few years, including (very much including) dealing with the deaths of his grandpa and his dad.
  • R had adequate opportunity to indicate this was not an area of specialty. Every session, R prompted Ethan and I to talked about upcoming (or recently passed) anniversaries like the date of my dad’s death, Father’s Day, my wedding anniversary. Hearing me talk about Ethan’s reaction to these dates might have been opportune time to say, “hey, that’s not really my thing, you know? But let me refer you to someone else…” Unfortunately, that didn’t happen.

Ethan really clicked with R, and I haven’t told him that we will be changing therapists. The therapist to which R has referred us has requested that I meet with her alone the first time. I’m a little hesitant to go with someone who R has recommended, but it’s worth (at least) meeting her. I’m going to lay it on the line though – we need to address Ethan’s grief. He needs the tools to comprehend and process these two deaths.

New therapist is going to get grilled: I want to know what kind of experience she has with kids E’s age, and what kind of processes she has for working with kids dealing with grief. And I won’t hesitate to find a different therapist if I don’t feel she can address the issues and REALLY HELP Ethan.

I’m making the call tomorrow to schedule the first meeting with new therapist.

Last conversation: REVISITED

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So what would I have said to Mike if I knew it was our last conversation? I don’t know…

Would I have reminisced about the old days? When we met in college and started dating? What about his confession of love at the reflecting pond? Remember the corner of my dorm room that I let him decorate with beer signs? Or how about when we moved to St. Louis in the heat of the summer? How about when he proposed in our tiny campus apartment (still my favorite engagement story of all time)? How about our wedding reception at the haunted brewery – and getting locked in the haunted B&B the next morning? Remember what a fun time everyone had, some even calling it the “best wedding ever!”?  Remember how we didn’t even know if we’d have wedding guests, since it was weeks after 9/11 and people weren’t sure if they’d be safe? How we didn’t know if there’d be a honeymoon since it was supposed to start in NYC? What about finding our first house and moving into it – how excited we both were that we could afford a brand-new house? Oh, and what about the home improvement projects (the deck and the “Dr. Seuss shelves” and the tiled backsplash), and how we always joked that Mike was “handy for a lawyer”? Remember when I decided I wanted to be a mom, and how Ethan was born almost EXACTLY nine months later? Remember taking Ethan home the first time and not knowing what to do? How about when he let Ethan slide out of his car seat in my parents’ living room and his panicked “don’t cry, don’t cry!” plea to a tiny baby? Remember why we bought our second house because I said our first house was too small for another baby? And how Lauren was born nine months exactly after we moved into the Highcliff house?

Or maybe I would have just screamed at him, begging for answers. When did the drinking start? Why did it get so bad? Was this the reason he lost his last two jobs? Was he even applying for jobs in the two years he sat in the basement? How many times did he blame OD’ing on his depression meds, but it was really because he was drunk? Why couldn’t he just stop? Didn’t he love us enough? Why did he throw everything away for a bottle of cheap ass vodka? Did he ever drive drunk with Ethan in the car? When did the smoking start? Did he not care that he was putting our lives at risk when he smoked in the basement (and put out the cigarettes on the carpet – which we found after he moved out)? How COULD he trash the basement with his empties, cutting open the couch to hide bottles in the cushions, pushing aside ceiling tiles to hide cans, pulling out insulation in the storage room to store empties between the cement wall and the drywall? Rehab, AA, detox – nothing worked, but why? Couldn’t he stick with a program? Weren’t our kids “enough” for him to get his act together? Wasn’t I “enough”?

Or would I just say goodbye, hold his hand, and watch him go?

Would there have been a message he wanted to share with our kids? Or would he just say good-bye? Would he have even wanted to see the kids? (After all, Mike refused to have Christmas with the kids last year because he “didn’t want the kids to see him like this.”)

I just don’t know what I would have said to him…

Last conversation

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It was a Monday evening in January when Mike and I had a phone conversation about urinal etiquette.

I know it was Monday because it was the last time Mike and I spoke. My last conversation with my husband was an argument about bathroom behavior.

Earlier in the day, Ethan’s school called me. There was an incident in the bathroom involving a group of boys who were acting inappropriately. All the parents were asked to have conversations to discuss the appropriate way to act in the bathroom, specifically the urinal area.

This was a little out of my area of experience.

I called Mike on my way home. He answered, sounding tired and pissed off.

“Hey,” I said. “I heard from school. We need to talk to Ethan about how to act in the bathroom. I don’t know any details other than all the parents of the boys are having the talk with their sons tonight. Maybe you can call later and have that conversation with him?”

After months of calling every night at the same time, it had been days since Mike called to talk to the kids.

“That’s not happening,” Mike said.

“What?” I asked. “I just need you to tell Ethan how to behave at the urinals. You know, boy stuff.”

“Why can’t YOU do it?” Mike asked.

“Because I’m not equipped, pun intended, to talk about urinal stuff. All I know is you’re not supposed to look at anyone around you in the bathroom.”

“That’s it, just look straight ahead. No talking. Honestly, I don’t know why you can’t do this,” Mike replied.

“Because it’s your chance to be a dad. To have a man-to-boy talk with Ethan about something important, a life lesson.”

“I don’t feel like it,” Mike said. “You do it.”

“Fine!” I yelled. “I have absolutely no credibility in this area, but I’ll handle it, just like I’ve handled everything else! There’s nothing weird or awkward about a MOM having a talk with her son about urinal etiquette. Thanks for nothing, asshole!”

I hung up the phone, furious that Mike was refusing to man-up and talk to Ethan about “boy stuff.”

That was the last time we talked.

On Tuesday, I had two missed calls and messages from Mike’s cell number. I didn’t want to listen to the messages or return his calls. I was so mad that he wouldn’t talk to Ethan, and I didn’t have anything nice to say to him.

I wouldn’t listen to those messages until after I knew he died. The messages were pocket dials, obviously not planned or intended. I could hear background of the TV and rustling of something. I heard Mike cough. I heard his mom offer him something to drink. Everything was muffled, in the distance. I was just eavesdropping on those last hours.

Those pocket dial messages are now gone forever from my phone. But I’ll always have the memory of our last conversation. Urinal etiquette. Not the topic I would have chosen, if I would have known.

Musical Flashback: Silly Little Love Songs

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Driving to Target today, the Paul McCartney / Wings song “Silly Little Love Songs” shuffled to the speakers from my iPhone.

It was the song Mike would sing after Lauren was born. I remember him singing it (accompanied by Ethan) to Lauren while I was giving her a bath. Night after night, for months.

They sang it dramatically. They sang it humorously. They sang it seriously. They sang it together to Lauren. It became a nightly ritual.

It was just about the time I realized Mike had a drinking problem. Still, it’s a happy memory because Mike seemed (somewhat) in control. He was still (somewhat) involved with the kids at that point.

The song would make Lauren smile and giggle. It made Ethan happy. It brought a sense of “things will be okay” to me.

Mike stopped singing the song around Christmas 2010. I don’t think I’ve heard it since.

I listened to it today, and it made me feel nostalgic. I didn’t cry but felt a sense of peace. Someday I will play the song for Ethan and ask if he remembers. Someday I will play it for Lauren and tell her that her daddy used to sing it to her when she was a baby. I hope they remember.

Anniversary, part four (The End)

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If you’re just joining the story, you might want to start with parts one, two, and three.

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“Come on,” I said to Mike’s parents as the ambulance drove away. “You can follow me to the hospital.”

His parents looked shell-shocked. Mike’s dad just kept repeating that they couldn’t care for Mike when he was discharged from the hospital and couldn’t he come live at the house? “But where will he go after the hospital?” his dad kept asking, to no one in particular.

I drove to the hospital and walked into the emergency room. “My husband was just delivered here by ambulance,” I told the check in person in the waiting room.

“He’s probably getting checked now, it’ll be a while before you can go back,” she replied.

“Oh, I’m not going back there. Just wanted to get his parents here,” I gestured to Mike’s parents standing behind me. “And to make sure you have our insurance information.”

I handed over the insurance card. I didn’t want to get saddled with medical bills later, so wanted to make sure the hospital had what they needed. Then I walked out and drove home. In a strange way, I felt relieved, almost peaceful.

I called the hospital later that night and talked to Mike’s nurse. His blood alcohol level was five times the legal limit. (SIDENOTE: I will wonder, for the rest of my life, what in the hell Mike’s parents were DOING when they were at my house. They claim they never saw him drink, yet his BAL was FIVE TIMES the legal limit and alcohol bottles were thrown around the basement.)

Mike would spend a week in the hospital, shuffling from a rehab unit to the cardiology unit (his heart was showing signs of distress – even then). Over the course of the week, his parents came by the house a few times to get Mike’s belongings, but they never expressed interest in seeing the kids or having a conversation. And they would always come when the kids were in bed.

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When I picked Ethan up from school that day, I didn’t know what to say. His dad was gone and so were his grandparents (opting to stay in a hotel as opposed to staying at the house).

Of everything that’s happened over the last year, it’s how I handled it with my son that I regret. I should have thought that through better, but how could I have anticipated the ambulance, going to the hospital or getting the court order so quickly? I was prepared to tell Ethan about the separation, but now it was so complicated.

I told Ethan that his dad was sick. “It’s the alcohol, isn’t it?” he asked. He was way too wise for his own good – and he had seen and heard too much in his young years.

“Yeah,” was all I could say.

I stayed on the dad-is-sick message for weeks. When he told his therapist that he was worried his dad was going to die, I knew I had to be more forthcoming. Originally, I thought Mike and I could co-present the separation to him. Display a united front to show that we had Ethan’s and Lauren’s best interests in mind. I believed that we could act as adults and have a productive, loving co-parenting relationship.

That wasn’t going to happen. I was on my own. I shouldn’t have waited as long as I did, but I can’t change time. I was as honest as possible with Ethan, telling him that daddy was dealing with his drinking and that he was going to live with his parents in Indiana, but that Ethan and Lauren would have two houses someday. “So, two Christmases?” he asked. I guess that is all that matters to a six-year-old.

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When Mike was discharged, his parents took him back to Indiana. The kids and I saw him in-person only two more times between when he was taken by ambulance and when he died.

After the second court date a few weeks after the first (in which a second judge upheld the court order), he Skyped with the kids on occasion, and, at first, called every night to talk to Ethan. In November, the calls became fewer and fewer with more and more time in between. Skyping became even more rare.

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That’s the story of this anniversary. I’ve been meaning to write this for a while, but, well, as you know now, it’s a long story. It’s been a bittersweet time (man, using that word a lot lately) and it seemed the right time to get these thoughts out since I’ve been thinking about it a lot lately.

There’s more to write, but not today. Today, I’m going to wrap up some work stuff and go play with the kids.