14. What our Beloved Addicts did during Covid

James, my son

What I found searching for the children’s parents on the internet was an ugly, very public fight on Facebook. I assumed they were no longer a couple. The next day, when I tried to show Ned, (the argument was so ugly that I needed time to support him before he read it) Facebook had pulled the text and frozen their accounts for what seemed like weeks. Ned who doesn’t use computers tried searching. His results were amazingly fruitful compared to mine. Ohio is one of four states that do not have a centralized court record search. By clicking on each county’s clerk of courts site, Ned found court dockets and case numbers to see charges and outcomes. During the pandemic, both parents were caught and charged with felonies related to what I term, multiple “hard drugs”. Jennifer was sentenced to jail immediately, possibly because she was pregnant… She was released to have the baby, then put back in… a few weeks later.

I called Job and Family Services in the parents’ county because there was a court order for paternity testing for Addie. We had been asked in letter from Job and Family Services, to inform them of either parents whereabouts, for the purpose of collecting child support as well. (Oddly, paternity testing requires collection of BOTH parents DNA. Isn’t it obvious who the mother is?) I filled them in on her incarceration so they could collect the sample and clearly referred to it during our conversation. I even stated that both parents would be released within two weeks. When I called them two weeks later after her release to see if they’d gotten it, I was told, “Oh Honey, we have thirty cases each a month to work as a caseworker…” The next letter from them informed us that the agency was planning to drop pursuit of the parents for child support since WE couldn’t tell them their whereabouts! I called them and with icy calmness stated that they should NEVER drop their responsibility to find them, and that if necessary, I hoped they garnished the parents social security in their old age since the statute of limitations on collecting child support is life in our state. It wasn’t about the money. I was sick of them having no consequences. I was going through an angry phase that didn't last long. I’m not proud of it, but I want people to know that it’s normal to get mad occasionally.

We got another call from Children’s Protective Services, (CPS). The woman on the telephone told Ned that although Jennifer hadn’t told her about us taking care of her first two children, she had found us in her records search. She asked us to take in a third child, a little girl. I’m going to pause here because just writing this stirs up such emotion and even though years have gone by since, I grieve. We talked this time not giving her an answer right away. We were maxed out. Covid had me depressed. My son, James, was breaking my heart, and we simply couldn’t handle any more. When Ned returned the call back to CPS, declining the child, we both cried. It was one of two times in all our years I saw him break down. I often wonder if there is a limit to our capacity to feel intense sorrow? Where is the breaking point?

Three months later, CPS called again. This time they asked for phone numbers of all Jennifer’s adult biological family members, which we supplied. They even called Ned’s older brother, who is in his seventies, and someone I can’t picture with a baby in the least (like ever). I called the woman back to see if the child was safe, loved, but I got no answer. I saw Jennifer on her friend’s Facebook page holding a baby, but never saw another Facebook post of any kind after related to the child. I have no idea when the picture was taken, but the baby looked newborn. Last year, shortly before Christmas, Jennifer had a fourth baby. This time she shared a photo with a relative. She looked radiant. The dad, not Andrew, looked happy but tired. The baby seemed angelically perfect. Had she moved on and forgotten us?

During all this, James, my adult son, had checked out of a rehab center that dealt with the homeless, which he was, after going through tens of thousands of dollars and losing his apartment. Like Andrew and Jennifer, he hadn’t emptied his home, but at my urging, he and a friend moved some of his furniture into our basement for safekeeping before I dropped him off at the shelter that got him clean. He made it a month but didn’t stay on against everyone’s advice to continue counseling and learn tools to cope with the real world. I was horrified dealing with the cockroaches that he brought with the furniture. The bugs I had never seen before became a nightmare that took an exterminator a month to get rid of and years for me to mentally get over. I kept a contract with the exterminator for a year after just to make sure the bugs were not coming back.

James got a job thanks to the help of a new girlfriend, in her forties. (He was in his late twenties.) He liked his new job, but the pandemic quickly made it a remote position. Ironically, he found and assisted homeless connecting them with benefits. He also was frequenting a local bar nightly where he had met Darcy.

When he arrived for his birthday dinner at our house in early 2020, it became clear that he was using again. He had arrived soaking wet from walking in the rain. He and Darcy had had a fight and he had gotten out of the car on their way over. It took me awhile to figure everything out regarding the absolute tragedy of his chaotic life as the stories from people I knew filtered to us. I wondered how he would ever get out from under the debt he was accruing, and I only knew a small part of it at the time. I had no idea till much later that he had several trips to various emergency rooms because of overdoses.

What I did know broke my heart. He was a threat to the health of my “pod” during a pandemic. Ned and Addie were the “vulnerable” population. Unless a get together was outside, I couldn’t invite him. I did however, against the rules of science, take my chances visiting him on occasion with baskets of home cooking, in his new apartment with a friend, Ryan, from the bar. Ryan had a solid job working in insurance, his dad’s business. Ned and I returned furniture James needed for his room, cockroach free. I wore a mask in the beginning but couldn’t maintain it with the isolation stress over the year. We hugged and chatted.

How do you turn your back on a loved one? How do you stop worrying and caring? Alanon helped a little, but on the last holiday of his life, Christmas, he asked me, “It’s just because of the pandemic right? There will be more family dinners?” I assured him that there would be. “Please hold on. I love you, unconditionally.” He knew what I meant and I could see that he was moved by my declaration. With every fiber of my being I loved James, drugs and all. I’d rather have him with his problems in my life than not. He always gave the best hugs and I remember standing on the sidewalk with his strong arms around me.

Looking back, I take small comfort in remembering some of the things James told me over the course of his later years. “I had the perfect childhood.” “You were the best mom.” “I want to help you with the kids.” (I believe he was sincere but because of his drug problem, I could never take him up on it.) “I want to take care of you when you get old.” “I love you Mom.”

On January 7, 2021, around seven o’clock at night, days from James’s thirtieth birthday, the doorbell rang. A detective in a police uniform was waiting on our front doorstep when I opened the door, with Addie clinging to my leg. As I looked at his face, I knew what he was going to say before the words were out of his mouth. In slow motion I heard, “Your son is dead.”

James was many things. I prefer the good things to remember. He was a college graduate. He built houses for Katrina flood victims with a mission group. He’d been a camp counselor for our local Catholic Church and they had given him the special needs kids because he was so responsible and kind. He was an excellent student with almost total recall of anything he read. He was an exceptional saxophone player and made first chair in the city’s Woodwind Symphony. He was a gifted artist. He was a light in my life for most of his. He was the cutest little kid with his blond hair and blue eyes.

When my daughter and I went to the emergency room to see his body, we were fortunate to be allowed in. Covid was in full force. The ER doc was extremely kind. He sat and talked to us when he realized I had been employed at that hospital for over twenty years. “The opioids are a tough addiction. Almost no one gets better until they are ready, and without help. No one is usually successful on their own.” James died of fentanyl that looked like oxycodone. He died with the cross Ned had given him around his neck. He believed in God. We did not have an immediate funeral because of the pandemic, but his boss told me that she would need two people to fill his shoes at work. Really. He was that good at his job, and to please let his coworkers come to the funeral. His funeral wasn’t till May, when we could have it outside because of the risk of spreading the disease, and it was still chilly. I only invited family because of the fear, and I regret that I couldn’t include his friends and coworkers, but then, I was also concerned who might show up…

If one good thing came out of my son’s death, it was a plan to take care of the children if something happened to Ned or I, or both.

We realized our own mortality with his death. Who would care for the kids if we died? I will be 73 when Addie graduates high school. Ned will be 82. The possibility that they will need someone before they become “adults” is there. I should mention that I do not consider eighteen adulthood no matter what the law says. My definition is that when you can pay your own bills and take care of yourself, you are officially grown up-with a whole lot more to learn. Who will guide them when we no longer can (assuming their parents haven’t returned healthy in the meanwhile)?

It was time to make a plan “B”.