Hmmm . . . the Joey Song?
As Joey wriggled onto my lap, his blue eyes looking up at me, I silently willed the song to come to mind.
Oh . . . the JOY Song.
My heart warmed. For countless renditions, Joey had heard my crooning as a love song—a love song about him. And so I held my little fellow tight and sang the song that had tender, new meaning; the song that was so much more wonderful sung his way.
I’ve got that Joey, Joey, Joey, Joey down in my heart
Down in my heart
Down in my heart
I’ve got that Joey, Joey, Joey, Joey down in my heart
Down in my heart to stay.
Dusting off the old song now, I lean close to Joey’s ear and sing. A damp and croaky whisper. I sing the Joey Song, hoping to reach something deep within this lost child of mine. Hoping to stir up memories of love. Real love. A love so much better than the love he has for the things that feed his addiction. I want to take Joey back to a time before all the pain. I sing softly. I don’t want the addict to hear.
I ache for Joey to believe what can’t be seen. These recent years have been a test of the strength of my heart, but the strength of my love has never wavered. Not even under pressure of the mind-bending contortions imposed by his addiction.
“Joey, can you hear me? It is love that kept me from helping you to hurt yourself any longer. It is love that kept vigil while I waited for you to hit a ‘bottom’ that wasn’t dead. It is love that brought me here to you now.” Joey doesn’t know I am here. He doesn’t move.
Never could I have imagined an illness so cruel. With its insidious ways and nasty grin, addiction not only snuffed out my child’s emerging light; it broke bonds and hearts and all the rules. Addiction is the destroyer of everything.
The intensive care unit nurse asks me to leave the room. She needs to do something with the tube that sucks black stuff from somewhere deep inside Joey.
Buttoning my sweater against the surprise chill of the night air, I step outside the hospital lobby. A few steps away from the door, I sit down on a bench in the shadows. My mind rummages through Joey’s life for explanations.
Why is my son, at this moment, breathing only because of some machine he’s connected to? Why did he slug down so much alcohol that he may never again open his eyes?
Maybe I’m fooling myself, but I see a life full of bedtime stories and family dinners, camping and fishing trips, togetherness and great opportunities. Sure, there were bumps in the road and roads not taken, but there were no ugly ogres or catastrophic events along Joey’s way. Everything was so right before it went so wrong. So full and happy and promising before the destroyer of lives slithered in. There’s no reason for this tragedy. There’s nothing for me to grab onto, dammit. There’s nowhere for me to put the blame.
I do see a long string of missed clues, however. Whatever was happening—whatever was brewing, growing, looming—as Joey’s parents, Joe and I didn’t notice, even though it happened right before our eyes and under our noses. Sort of like not noticing a child’s growth spurt until many inches later. Or like not noticing the chill of the surf on your toes after a long afternoon’s tumble of waves.
The pain of Joey’s addiction has taken a toll on all of us: his father Joe, his brother Rick, and me over the past several years—as a family, as a married couple, and as individuals. We are like the three blind men in the fable, trying to identify the elephant by groping our way along the trunk, the tail, the leg. Each of us feeling the truth of our own experience. We rarely agree on just how okay, honest, or high Joey is at any given time, giving rise to conflict among us. Oh, the toxic corrosion of addiction.
More often than not, Joey is that elephant, and he’s in our living room. Joe keeps reality at bay with loud laughs and big dreams and by running long races. Rick, after so many years of so little brotherhood, can pretend he’s an only child to escape the drama of overdoses, arrests, and chaos. And I disturb everyone’s peace by talking about everything until it hurts all of us with every breath. So I don’t dredge everything up anymore. At least not as much.
There is healing power in putting ink to paper. It draws so much out of my mind besides words. Sleepless nights, spent roaming a dark house, are far fewer now that my thoughts, feelings, and fears are gathered into a notebook. I’ve finally found a way to let go of some pain—and sometimes to fuel it. A vent for the steam of my worries. I write as a way to piece together the tragedy in my family, the arrival of the future often helping me make sense of the past. And I write to remember Joey, the Joey I knew before the addict took his place. I gently fondle old memories—the fragile snowflakes of time—and put them in the safe and everlasting place of words, not to be altered or forgotten in the ravages of this ongoing storm.
I’ve heard it said that if you shake any family tree, an addict will fall out, and sadly I’ve discovered this to be true. More families are dealing with the addiction of a loved one than I ever would have guessed. The tragedy unraveling those families is similar in its destruction—different only in the details—and too often it is kept secret.
When addiction grabs a child, it chokes a parent. I know the life-draining squeeze of its grip. I’ve never felt so incapable and helpless, so sad, so lonely. And so afraid. My child has been stolen from me—stolen from himself—and I mourn Joey’s loss and suffering from a very lonely place. There is no broad community empathy or support for the families of addicts. There is no rallying cry of solidarity, no pretty ribbon brigade, and none of the comfort that so often gets baked into meat loaves and muffins. Instead there are closed doors and mouths and minds and hearts.
I want addiction to be understood, not misrepresented, misjudged, and mishandled. Not hushed up or hidden away. Nasty things grow most freely in dark corners; the scourge of addiction needs to be dragged out into the light.
Addiction pummeled my family. Beating it back has been one long, hard fight. These mother’s hands of mine, these nubby, bloodied claws, have seen battle—the battle between Hanging On and Letting Go; the battle between Barely Hanging On and Hanging in There; the battle to Survive the Unexpected; and the battle Just to Survive. Battered and bruised I may be, but I’m stronger and wiser. I finally understand there’s nothing more I can do to help my son other than support him in a quest to help himself. Still, I carry around the very maternal and human need to do something. And I need to do something with this need to do something.
So, I share my story. One mother’s story of love and loss and learning. And surviving my son’s addiction while coming to terms with the fact that he may not.
Written from the place where I live, the place where love and addiction meet.
This is The Joey Song.
I would get to give and take and know a love bigger than the moon, but when the time came, I would need to love my sons enough to let them go, without hesitation. They would need to know I believed they could fly.
