It was a Friday and I had had a particularly difficult week. As Executive Director of a Music Foundation in Chicago, the buck stopped with me. The board was upset over the cancellation of the pianist for the season’s opening concert, the program notes would have to rewritten, and the printer had called to say the brochures would be late. The only good thing at the moment was that it was six p.m. and I was driving home with a double martini in a paper cup next to me thinking, “I hope, as promised, Bryan got the leaves raked up in time for the trash.” I pulled up in front of the house just in time to see Bryan dash out the side door, hop into his van and take off.
“Damn it,” I said to myself, “he didn’t even rake the front.” I picked up the mail from the box and, as I walked in the door and set my briefcase down, I couldn't help but notice a large package on the bench in the hall. It didn’t take long to recognize that it was at least two pounds of marijuana neatly bound up in a plastic bag.
Leafing through the mail, I singled out and anxiously ripped open a letter from Evanston High School where Bryan was to begin his junior year in a month or so. It was from the Office of Student Affairs informing me Bryan was not be registered for next year because of his attendance record and missed work.
I set the letter down and went into the kitchen, opened the cupboard and cradled the bottles of gin and vermouth in my left arm while I grabbed the cocktail shaker with the other. I mixed a double martini and, as I was gently coaxing the last few drops from the shaker, I thought, “That’s it! I’m not putting up with this any longer. He had stopped going school, didn’t have a job and was obviously dealing pot.”
I’d made up my mind. I was not putting up with his shenanigans any longer. I also knew it would take all my strength to do what I needed to do. So, that evening I fortified myself with a few extra straight scotches to build up my courage and decided that when Bryan came home, I would give him an ultimatum. I think it’s called “Tough Love.”
He tiptoed in very late that night and found me in the dining room waiting. Holding it an arms’ length in front of me, I confronted him with the package I’d found and scolding him said, “Bryan, I’m very upset with you. To live in my house and eat my food, you must either get back into school or get a full time job. Otherwise, you are out of here. I’ll give you three months.”
Just like a typical teenager, he blew me off with a perfunctory, “Whatever, Mom!”
He picked up his package of pot and started for the stairs to the basement. I followed him, stopping at the top of the stairs and escalating my voice, I continued enumerating all the reasons why I was doing this, “You have to stop this, Bryan. You’re going to get in trouble with the law. Time is running out for you and you won’t be able to do anything worthwhile without a high school diploma. Think about it!” It appeared as if he was totally unconcerned because within minutes I could hear blasts of loud music from Led Zeppelin wafting up from the basement. I closed the door and went upstairs to my bedroom.
Twelve weeks later, on October 1, because there was no change on Bryan’s part, I threw him out. It was one of the hardest things I’ve ever done in my life. He sponged off a few friends until those mothers got tired of it and then he slept in his van parked anywhere that he legally could, in parking lots, on side streets and even in alleys. That lasted for several weeks. This “Tough Love” thing sucks. My maternal instincts were to take care of and protect him. He was my youngest and my only boy. I paced the floors at night when I couldn’t sleep and I remember reciting out loud, “I know he can figure this out. A hundred years ago, a boy of seventeen was considered a man. He’s got to be a man now. I know he can do it.”
For weeks, every other day or so, Bryan would show up at the front door. “Can I come in and at least take a shower?” he’d ask. Sometimes he had a bag of laundry in his arms. I’d open the door and allow him in but at the same time, tell him something like, “Yes, you can take a shower and wash your clothes and then you have to leave again.” I guess, as his mother, I never really want to completely cut the apron strings. Down deep I wanted him to know I believed in him.
Much of the time with Bryan gone, I felt relieved. What I didn’t know wouldn’t hurt me and now there was no one around to carp at me when I fixed my double martinis each night or sat up until the wee hours sipping scotch until my eyelids wouldn’t stay open any longer. I could do as I pleased, eat when I wanted, watch the programs I wanted to see, and play music I wanted to hear.”
I’m not certain if it was out of guilt or selfishness or just plain addiction, but my consumption of alcohol escalated exponentially and soon I was drinking in my office, drinking in my car, drinking alone at home, drinking whenever and wherever I could. My job was in jeopardy, my health was deteriorating, and I was hungry, angry, lonely and tired all the time.
My whole life was a mess, but that was all about to change.