Silver Spoons and Silver Linings

“No, dad, this isn’t right! I do not feel comfortable doing this.” I hollered as my father sitting next to me begged me to take him to get his next fix.  

 “Please, Alice, I don’t want to get sick.” responded the desperate and frail man riding along. The winding backroads seemed to roll on forever as he directed me where to go. Once there, he quickly jumped out and went to do what he believed he had to do. 

 Dad had always had a drug problem. It was when I was four years old that he reappeared back into my life. It was after he had taken off to the west coast to chase the dragon, chase the rainbow, or whatever it was that made him decide to leave. Either way, he had introduced me to an environment that left me wondering what made drugs so fascinating that he would rather choose them over being a father to me. By the time he returned from California, the drug of choice was crack, which is freebased cocaine. The first time I saw both crack and a drug deal were watching my dad from the living room make his exchange from his bedroom window. Now you know he had to inspect it. I do not think he would have done much if he would have gotten shorted.  

 Fast forward 13 years later, and I had become a mother and a wife. On the other hand, my dad was recovering from a work accident of falling 3 stories from a tree he was cutting down. I suspect he would not have lived if it had not been for the gazebo breaking his fall. He crushed both of his wrists, including his right eye socket. He also developed a small brain hemorrhage. He spent several nights in ICU. It had become a running joke with him and the family of calling dad superman. That was just the beginning of a whole other type of demon that would clutch its evil hands around his throat.  

  I cannot imagine the type of pain one would go through having titanium steel rods for wrists. Yet, that was exactly what my father ended up with. The opiates were forthcoming initially, but it did not take long before he would be spotted in the ER in severe pain. In truth, I felt it was my responsibility to help my dad get proper insurance and into pain management appointments. We talked about it several times, but he never had the paperwork needed to move forward in the processes.  

 Eventually, dad had to seek alternative means to assist with both his pain and dysfunctions. I had not known how deep into the pits dad had fallen until he came to stay with me temporarily. I needed his help financially, and he was still up in the trees like the crazy person he was, cutting them down and making his money. The day I discovered a syringe in his boot when the rumors I had heard were an actual reality. I was livid! My son was right at that age where he would try on big shoes and walk in them. Of course, I let him feel my wrath about the situation, but it is not like he became instantly sober or anything. Still, trying to steer him in the right direction was not the actual issue. It was the drug heroin itself that was the one murdering my dad slowly. Herion runs a similar effect as opiates do, only it's much cheaper than pharmaceutical and easier to obtain in the streets.  

 The shakes and chills are what broke me up the most at that time. Often heroin addicts will express such symptoms including, excessive purging of the stomach. Cleaning up his puke was not exactly my idea of family bonding.  

 Finally, everything came crashing down. I could not live under the pressure of living with my father and the rest of the drama that ensued within that house. We all went on our separate ways. The only time I would hear from my dad was when he needed a ride to pick up dope. I usually did not know until after I would pick him up. It was awful each time.  

 “Dad, I am not doing this anymore. I will not continue to act as an enabler to this any longer. Do not ask me for things like this ever again.” I said to him as we pulled away from what was technically a crime scene.  

 “I know Alice, I know. I cannot help it. It's so hard.” he pouted out with that voice he used when he felt helpless. After I dropped him off to do the deed, we did not speak again. That is until I saw him with one of his tree mates. Just skin and bones I had seen from the truck that pulled next to me as we waited for the light to change. They were turning left; I was going right. It was summer because the sun was hot, and the windows were down. I looked over, and I could never forget the frame of his face regardless of his weight. 

 “Hey, there, dad!” I shouted over. 

 “Hey, kiddo!” he shouted back. Then the light turned green. Even though he was an addict, he was still my dad, and I still had love for him. I mean, he had my name tattooed on his upper arm; how could I not? I knew he, too loved me regardless. A lot of insight I was able to see eventually how he thought I was better without him because he knew he had deadly habits. Yeah, I can catch on to that reasoning. He felt chained to the vice, and it weighed him down. Guilt kept him away all my life. 

 That day was the last time I saw or spoken to him before receiving the call; he had been hospitalized. It was a staph infection located right in his heart. Within 6 days, his kidneys shut down, and the doctors said his lungs looked like swiss cheese. If he happened to survive the infection's removal, his life would be incorporated with an oxygen tank and regular dialysis treatments. If you had not guessed, my dad was a chain smoker too.  

 It was a somber moment for my family and me that day when we all had to sit in a semicircle with the chief doctor in front of us. We all knew that he would not want to live in the new conditions he would have to face if he happened to survive the surgery. So, we had to make that tough choice and take him off life support. He would have wanted it that way. I was not present when they pulled the plug; I knew I would not have been able to process the situation lightly. He died two hours afterward when the last person left the room. That was the last time I had to be struck down with the choice to cut ties with my father. I know what his potential once was and his strengths because I live them out daily. I pass forward his advice of “safety first!” or “hope for the best but expect the worst.” 

 In the end, I know he did not enjoy how his lifestyle caused so much pain to both my family and me. I also suspect he hated himself more for enjoying it so much. Many others out there have experienced the pain of having a family member suffering from addiction. I believe I can speak for others who have had similar experiences like myself. Our loved ones would have been better off chasing silver linings instead of silver spoons.