Letting Go of Painful Memories

Thursday morning, E1 and I performed an exorcism of sorts.

We drove to Winston-Salem to a play therapy appointment then stopped at Krispy Kreme on University Parkway and ate a doughnut.

It sounds simple on the surface, and before I made the trip with my daughter and all three Es earlier this month, I would not have been expecting ghosts around every corner. But after the earlier trip derailed me so badly, Thursday's journey was loaded with a bit of trepidation on my part.

Not so long ago, I made the same trip on a monthly basis with Ethan. We followed the same route from Mount Airy down U.S. 52 and across Winston to Stratford Road. We didn't go to the same clinic, but it was on the same street. We always stopped at Krispy Kreme and bought doughnuts on the way home, sitting inside or at one of the picnic tables on the sidewalk to enjoy part of our purchase and catch our breath before the final dash home.

Ethan was visiting an epilepsy clinic for treatment of the seizures he had begun having. His abuse of dextramethorphan was a likely trigger as it is one of the cited risks for overuse. Because it was causing so much physical damage -- he was gaunt and prone to falling in a seizure at any time -- I wrongly assumed that my intelligent son could see the harm and stop. I did not realize he was still using and was, in fact, addicted to the drug during the 18 months or so that we made the regular journey.

Each month on appointment day I would drive to his apartment -- I paid for the apartment and utilities because we were such a volatile combination when he did use that I was afraid to have him at my home where it was often just me and E1. He would come out and meet me and we made the drive down and back in a mostly companionable atmosphere. Sometimes we argued over music; sometimes he slept or feigned sleep. Often we talked, spending the closest to quality time that we managed at all during his adult life as after a few seizures he typically declined invitations to go anywhere. (At the time I blamed the seizures, now I blame the drugs.)

He was on Medicaid and we went from the time the seizures began until his 21st birthday, when he no longer qualified. The seizures were largely under control. He still had a prescription for medication when he was arrested after an altercation with a store manager who caught him shoplifting. He was still taking the Rx when he went into psychosis after taking the DXM and threatened his new roommate (who was also using) with one of his Japanese swords. He spent the next three months in jail and our relationship was irreparably harmed to the point I did not visit him (oh, what I would give for the chance to do so now) although we did write regularly.

So making that journey, even for an almost entirely different reason, was one I dreaded, but felt I needed to do. E1 goes each week for an hour of activities aimed at helping her reprogram her nervous system to be more "normal" and her mom and I have agreed to rotate driving duties while the other adult stays with the smaller girls.

I was looking forward to the chance to see what they do and perhaps gain a better understanding of what we're doing with our at home activities. I also anticipated some fun in the trip, as any one-on-one time is a treasure when I'm generally so badly outnumbered.

Heading down, of course my thoughts turned to Ethan. There was no big boy in the seat next to me, but I was in a different car, so it didn't seem quite so empty -- especially with the back seat full of car seats. I felt a bit teary eyed a time or two.

Then I looked in the rearview and saw E1, with her adorable kitty-cat hat and her focus entirely on the Kindle she had brought along for entertainment. Instead of a tear, I smiled and the ghost that had threatened to occupy the passenger's seat -- a painful, hurt ghost, was replaced by a happier ghost who enjoyed our outings, even if they were part of living a lie. That ghost was more of a happy memory of stops at Taco Bell and a bag of burritos, of missing the turn, getting caught in traffic or failing to set my clock ahead for daylight savings time and being late, of enjoying chocolate-covered, creme-filled doughnuts at a picnic table while we people watched and felt the warm sun on our faces.

Driving home afterwards, E1 was eager for a doughnut treat and wanted to go inside and pick out her own. I was up enough to feel ready to deal with those memories as well, so we did.

There were no unhappy memories there either, just a warm memory of the handsome young man I called a son enjoying himself and new, good ones to be made with the beautiful little girl I call a granddaughter.

While she enjoyed her pick -- the same chocolate-covered, cream-filled concoction he would have chose -- I joined her and added a cup of coffee. We spent a while at the window watching Valentine shaped pastries make their way from dough to glazed.

I came home happy, not burdened with guilt and not dreading a return trip.

I know not all my journeys will be that easy. We're talking about a family trip to the Outer Banks in the spring -- the place Ethan, his sister and I had our absolute best quick vacation, and I know there may be some of the same ghosts there. They should be a laughing, happy little boy who had not yet begun to battle his demons, and I don't know whether they will be easier, or harder to face. But we will find out.

I'm beginning to believe that Ethan's ghosts and I can come to terms with one another, gradually. I'm beginning to believe I can make peace with the past.

Pushing Through an Unexpected First

Earlier this week I made a trip to Winston-Salem to one of the many doctor's offices clustered in the area near Hanes Mall.

With three little ones and the various things they are occasionally tested or treated for that involve more specialized services than we have here, that's not an uncommon thing for me to do with my daughter and the girls. It was nothing serious and we decided to make a day of it and enjoy the trip.

Then when we started talking about the address and planning the route, street names seemed vaguely familiar. When we made our turn, it was an all too familiar street.

I was plunged into one of those firsts I've been anticipating and was totally caught off guard.

After Ethan began having seizures in 2009 and lost his driver's license and ability to work, I found him a small apartment in Mount Airy and got him a referral to a treatment center that specialized in seizure disorders. I didn't understand his addiction and I thought at that time that such a serious physical consequence would make his stop using. I was trying to help him regain his life.

At least once a month we made the trip to Winston-Salem and the turn next to his favorite Taco Bell to take us to the doctor's office. Either before or after the visit we'd stop and load him up on burritos, maybe go in and share a meal. When we made the same turn by the same Taco Bell, I knew what was supposed to be a fun trip was going to be plagued by memories instead.

Those monthly trips to Winston were the most time I was able to spend with my adult son, and for the most part they were enjoyable despite the fact we were going to a medical facility.

We shared music and conversation in the car. Sat down for a meal together (not always at Taco Bell) and usually stopped for Krispy Kreme donuts on the way home -- one box for him and one for me. The drive from his apartment to the far side of Winston took the better part of an hour each way and once we added in the meals, we spent a lot of time together on those days.

Yet now, they're just a dim memory of mostly good times. There's no special memory of a moment shared and nothing to cling to from that time. The seizures got better with medication, but he wasn't really interested in the therapy the psychologist recommended. We weren't surprised when she said he was far smarter than he was letting himself behave or that he had some issues he needed to work through. He never admitted he was still using dextromethorphan.

The only trip that stands out in my mind was one that also included my oldest (and then only) granddaughter, still a toddler at the time, and a bitterly cold December day. On our way home, sometime after our last stop, Ethan snapped. It was totally irrational and I blamed it on having to share what was usually "his" day with the little one. He began cursing me and wanted out of the car while still in Forsyth County, threatening to open the car door at 60 mph. Finally, back in Surry County I pulled over a few miles from his apartment and let him out. He had to walk home in dangerously cold temperatures but I could not persuade him to calm down. I know now he had probably carried some of his little friends in his pocket, dosed at some point during the outing and was high.

I'm sad that I can't remember a smile, or a song he enjoyed and instead can only summons his rage.

But I know we had peaceful times together and perhaps more pleasant memories will come in time. I can remember how he devoured whatever we sat down to eat. I can remember how he loved the fresh donuts and how we'd sit together, often outside in the sunshine, and talk about other people and things in our lives. I can almost summons a memory of his laugh and smile during one of those times. Perhaps it will be clearer in the future.

Despite the fact I wasn't driving and was with a different group, the memory of those trips cast a shadow over our journey. There were odd moments when I just wanted to break down and cry and over the course of the afternoon I became "cranky" as my daughter said. There was nothing I could do to manage that, it was just something I had to push through, something that I'm fairly sure will get easier with time and repetition. Soon new memories will push the old ones aside and as much as I hate to let Ethan fade, trips with little ones will more and more take the place of the trips I made with him.

While we had fun, and I'm glad that I made that trip with my daughter and the little ones instead of stumbling on those memories all alone, I was relieved when we were finally homeward bound. And I'm not sure but what it may have been memories as much as day-old donuts that caused me to not enjoy our final stop at Krispy Kreme (but seriously those were some stinky stale donuts and I even put one in the trash).

Without warning, I find I've survived a first I didn't see coming and I know this year will bring a lot of those, as well as the ones that I'll try to prepare myself for emotionally. I think those times, however they come on me, are just going to be a matter of survival and getting through, an effort to make new memories and find some way to cling to the good while releasing the bad.

Maybe next time I'll be able to eat a donut with a smile at a memory -- or if not next time, before too long.

One Last Christmas

What would you do if you knew this would be your child's last Christmas, regardless of their age or what's going on in your life?

What if it turned out that his last Christmas was already behind you?

A song on the Christmas CD I've been listening to called "One Last Christmas" by Matthew West about a family and an entire town rushing Christmas so a dying boy could enjoy it one more time already moved me to tears before this weekend's events. I think I'll be hitting the skip button when it comes on now.

What if I could have Ethan back for one last Christmas, knowing it were the last one? How many times are we celebrating one last Christmas when we don't even know it at the time?

Why did our last conversation have to be me telling him that I couldn't see any way to give him the expensive gift he most desire when he was so badly in need of day to day essentials? But then, why did Christmas come to mean gifts and financially straining ourselves to give those gifts that we should sometimes say no to? Would I really feel better if that gift he had wanted were sitting unopened under the tree?

Somehow on his journey through addiction, my poor, broken boy had forgotten about everyone but himself. I think that's a common trait of addiction. He blew off Mother's Day, which I was really looking forward to, because he had just moved into his apartment and met a girl (and was probably high). He blew off Thanksgiving, which his nieces were eagerly anticipating, probably because he was still angry with me for telling him I knew he was using and I was not going to fight or make an issue over it. It would probably have required the presence of that gift under the tree to get him to sign on for Christmas.

If I could have had anything I wanted for Christmas, it would not have come from a box, it would have been time with him clean and sober, just one more day, one last Christmas. Now with this year's holiday breathing down my neck, all I can cling to is the memory of Christmases past -- when I did have the gift he wanted; a violin one year, a new Nintendo or game.

The gift I would have wanted is as unreachable as the gift he wanted, even if I'd had his present wrapped under the tree. He wouldn't be here to open it.

Monday was a really tough day. I don't know that it would be one bit easier at some other time of the year, but I do know there wouldn't be this feeling that I need to force some joy into moments that right now aren't filled with joy. I know that routines that help me navigate my week and balance my needs with the needs of the little people in my life are being doubly derailed by death and the holiday and I'm just not sure from one minute to the next how I'm going to hold it together.

Christmas Eve, when the family has for the last several years gathered at my house, is a week away. How am I going to pull myself together for that? How are my parents going to do it? And Ethan's sister?

But just as I'd been trying to focus on what was right about the holiday -- mainly three little girls with beaming smiles who slammed into me with wide arms this morning yelling "I love you, Ma" -- I know that this focus is one I'll have to use to get through the coming weeks. Not everyone in the world is grieving because I am and I can let their joy infect me rather than letting my sorrow pull them down.

We're never promised another birthday, Christmas, or even just another morning to say hello to the ones we love. Somehow, instead of letting the pain of what is missing from the holiday ruin it, I have to let the joy of what is there carry me through. I have to muster up the energy to wrap the gifts stuffed in closets and the man cave. I have to buy and cook the holiday ham.

Just like much of today has been, I have to go through the motions until they feel right. Because I know, eventually, they will.

Sometimes, I know I'm going to falter like I did today when I abandoned the dinner table to take shelter in the bathroom so two little girls wouldn't see me cry, again. Sometimes I'll laugh at the story of the baby's diaper blowout, or smile at getting a dance step right in Zumba, and have a little more faith that it will get better.

This is a rocky road I'm walking, but it's a road that too many of us can suddenly find ourselves on without any warning signs.

So I'm just urging you to treat this Christmas and every Christmas as one last Christmas -- not to be loaded down with gifts that aren't the real meaning of the holiday any way -- but to hoard memories and photographs that will make the day live again for many Christmases to come. Make Christmas really count and wrap your love tight around the people you care about.

Just in case it's someone's last Christmas.

A Bit of History Living Again -- Cuckoo

Earlier this year I became obsessed with getting a cuckoo clock.

It was a combination of things, actually.

When I refinished my kitchen, there was a section in the wall that had previously been behind the refrigerator that just would not do what I needed. It was rough, and there was no amount of paint or anything short of tearing it down and starting over that would fix it. I did not want to be redoing sheet rock, so drew the line there. Something long on the wall, such as a cuckoo clock and weights, would camouflage it.

That wasn't what made me think of the clocks, however. Having two little girls in that magical age when a cuckoo clock would have a special appeal did it. I remember visiting the neighbors who ran the local country store when I was a child on some rare errand. Perhaps someone was sick at their house and I was toted along. I still remember the cuckoo clock hanging high above me and the magic of the little bird appearing. It would be cool to have a cuckoo clock, especially since today's children hardly know what a clock that isn't digital looks like.

Finally, for crying out loud, my last name is German. My mother-in-law immigrated from Germany about 1960 and has the most beautiful accent. Although he doesn't recall the language now, my husband grew up speaking German before he started school and dismissed it as something that made him too different.

I wanted a cuckoo clock.

Naturally, my source for cuckoo clocks had to be Ebay. Back to my old adage that you can find anything on Ebay with patience and the right search criteria.

I did not realize what a daunting number of clocks came under the heading of cuckoo clocks on Ebay. I quickly narrowed down my search to vintage and German. Still, there were a lot of clocks to wade through. There was no way to eliminate "As Is" or "For Parts," unless the seller had categorized it as such. Finally I built a watch list and started bidding, only to be repeatedly outbid at the last minute.

Yes, I wanted a cuckoo clock but I didn't want to pay an arm and a leg for it. I was shooting for the $50 range, and it appeared everyone else was shooting higher. Factoring in shipping, which was high for some of the items, I would enter my maximum bid and try to leave it alone. Often I was high bidder up until the final minutes and then would get a message telling me I had been outbid. It became a frustrating process but I stuck with it.

Finally I won my clock. Shipping was outrageous, but I had only bid about $25 for it. It was small, marked Germany -- not West Germany, which seemed to indicate a pre-1940s manufacture, and supposed to be in working order. It very well packaged, and I happily hung it in the assigned spot in my kitchen, following the original hanging and adjusting instructions, which were included in the package.

A problem quickly became apparent. First of all, the cuckoo popped out and refused to return to his home, and when the weight that regulates the cuckoo was attached, it dropped immediately to the floor. The chain had come loose from the gears inside. I emailed the seller, who said it was simple to reattach, somewhat like threading a bicycle chain. I carefully removed the back of the clock and found it wasn't quite as easy as he'd made me believe. Between missing the gear and getting the small chain on the wrong gear, I finally managed what seemed to be a reattachment.

My efforts, however, were not a complete success. While I was able to get the cuckoo to make his happy sound, he was not synchronized and tended to sing until the weight hit the floor instead of just marking the hour and half hour. I took the weight off on that side and let the clock hang, frustrated at not achieving my goal. The girls were also disappointed as they had been eagerly awaiting the cuckoo for some time. But I didn't know what to do and clock repairmen are few and far between. Another message to the seller and I had partial refund on the cost, since a return would have left me in the hole in shipping.

I did like the clock though. After a bit of tweaking on the pendulum, it kept near perfect time. It just wouldn't cuckoo.

Then one day I noticed someone on Facebook (do you think perhaps I spend too much time on Facebook?) selling a cuckoo clock that had recently been refurbished. I sent her an inquiry about who had repaired her clock. A family member, she said by way of reply. It was his hobby and he'd be glad to work on mine.

In fact he was. I met her in a parking lot with the bundled clock and sent it away. A couple of weeks later we met again in the same lot for a reverse exchange and the repairs cost only slightly more than the refund from the original seller.

Now the clock works perfectly, although it has taken some training on my part to get it there and keep it running right. If you think setting the clock on your microwave after a power outage is a challenge, you've never tackled a cuckoo clock. The timing is controlled by the pendulum. Slide the little maple leaf up and it runs faster; down and it runs slower. For more than a week I was monitoring its chirps and running to slide the leaf one way or the other. Finally, it appears to be off by a minute, but not gaining time so all I need to do is reset it.

Then there is the winding. I wasn't able to get an 8-day clock. Instead this one runs about 30 hours. You pull down the chain and raise the weight to wind it, which is simple and ingenious -- unless you forget, or in the case of my clock, pull it too high. If it is pulled to the top, for some reason the clock stops. You can correct it if you remove the pendulum, let it run really fast a while until the weight drops, and then reset it. If you don't realize it, however, just resetting the clock may not be enough.

We ran into that problem this week and found that the cuckoo didn't recognize the corrected time. No, he thought it was two hours later. Now I've even figured out how to correct that by multiple resets.

No, I didn't get the cuckoo clock of my dreams. I'm sure the one of my childhood memories was larger and grander with a deeper cuckoo, although that could be memory talking. I still browse Ebay occasionally, and may stumble upon the one I see in my mind -- especially since I can consider one in need of repair, not just the picture perfect $500 one that is pictured at the beginning of this blog.

Either way, I've recaptured a bit of the magic for two little girls, so not only was it a learning experience, but far from a failure. E2 will still interrupt what she's doing to tell me the cuckoo is singing. And there is still a race for the clock in an effort to catch him in the act.