“I don’t feel good,” he said as he crumpled to the floor, attempting to find comfort. His white undershirt, now soaked with sweat, was sticking to his body. Droplets of the same were trickling down his forehead, presumably stinging his eyes. The hollow, dark spaces beneath his eyes giving away the pain he was probably feeling. Earlier in the week he had doubled up on his methadone dosage, meaning that it was now Sunday and he had missed his Saturday dose and wouldn’t be going to the clinic for another two days. The extreme nausea and insufferable diarrhea would be setting in by now, the beastly, deep, aching bone pain would be coming soon. It’s the kind of thing that I now tell myself I won’t ever have to deal with again, but I say so with the kind of knowing that makes my stomach knot into terrible, twisted pieces. I can’t ever say with any certainty that I won’t be in that predicament. I can only know that the next twenty-four hours are safe. I’ve armed myself with all the tools and spiritual principles that will allow me a one day reprieve. If I don’t do what I can now, who knows what will happen next. (File that one under Obvious Foreshadowing.)

I must be careful with the way I respond to him. I don’t want to set off the kind of hysteria that will surely end with a needle in his vein, but I am scared. Besides methadone, there is only one thing that will keep this kind of sickness at bay. And that was when God decided to answer the first of several times that day. I looked down at my feet, trying to regain some sense of right, and that was when I saw the spike. It was half filled with the amber liquid of destruction, more specifically, my destruction. This was not something I was expecting to see on the floor of my bedroom while holding my tiny son in my arms. This is not the family I have. I live in a nice house, we drive nice cars, my child goes to a good school. This is not the way things are supposed to be anymore.

And I was filled with a blind kind of rage that I have never before had when seeing a needle filled with my death of choice. Whenever I have made the decision to pick up again, I am usually filled with some kind of relief that subtly overpowers the fear I have of what a crushing disappointment I am. Seeing the needle that will inevitably bring this relief always fills me the a warm, dreamy, euphoric recall of the Good Times. (What little there were of those.) Not this time. I am angry beyond words. How could you do this to me? To him? To us? We have become respectable. We are believable, good people. That will destroy everything.

I am holding the needle behind my back. As if to create some wall between it and my son. He will not be this. He will not see this. He will not be a child of this. I breathe and become right again. I begin to understand, to remember, the kind of monstrous sickness that eradicates any ability to differentiate between right and wrong. The kind of sickness that will justify bringing that in the house to help him feel better. I am no longer speaking to him. I am speaking to the beast that has woken up after months of hibernation and he’s starving. Whatever it is I decide to do now had better include feeding the beast or at least finding something to pacify him.

And it comes to me! There is always treatment! And he needs it! Taking methadone is like throwing a rawhide to the beast: it may not be a raw and bloody steak, but it’s good enough. I’m tired of good enough. It’s not really living. It’s like walking through life with a blanket wrapped around one’s brain- it dulls the sharp edges and nothing really gets through. It’s like sex with a condom. He tentatively agrees to go, but not for five more days. Five more days which feel like an eternity. And all we have to do is make it until Tuesday, which seems like forever. And what does he do until then? How is he going to make it?

The answer: He does whatever he has to do. He quiets the beast and then bitch slaps him back into his cave. He smothers that fanged creature with pillows of poison and clubs him for good measure. I would love to say that I’m not really sure how I made it through, but I know. The cherubic faces of my children, their eyes wide with innocence, were my foundation. Brick by brick I lay it down using the desire to keep life as normal as possible for them as cement. I will fight to the death of me, clawing my way with fingers broken and bloody, in an attempt to keep myself sane. That needle doesn’t sing the same siren’s song that used to lull me into stupidity. At least for the next twenty-four hours. Until I reload my gun, aiming directly for the beast’s head and blowing it to smithereens.

For a while, I left. I went to my parent’s house. The safe cocoon feels like my mother’s womb. That, or a plug where I can recharge. I also build my wall with my family’s love. God knows they may be crazy, but they only want the best for me and my children. I won’t be another victim of this disease. I won’t allow my children to become victims of this disease. We are more fighters in a war against it. We won’t stop until this disease lay bleeding at our feet. Now we have one more joining our army. Proud would be the wrong word. It’s more like inspired by his bravery, honored by his fight, and appreciative of his self-respect. It will be a difficult few weeks, but the results will be fantastic. I can’t wait to see what unfolds. Two more days.

“You need to buy fish food,” my mom said into the phone when she called to tell me she was bringing the Older One home. Because we have no fish, this statement would be perplexing if I did not know that Grandma and the Older One had spent a marvelous day dropping ping-pong balls into fish bowls for prizes. And fun! Fish give me the heebie-jeebies. I don’t own them and I certainly don’t eat them. There is just something about that flaky texture that send electric creepies down my spine. Gag.

Meet Sonny and Crockett:

My mom dropped off the Older One, the fish, and a small, plastic, filter-less bowl with the specific instructions to acclimate the fish in their bags to the water in their bowl before ceremoniously dumping them into their new home. I spent 20 damn minutes making sure the water was the right temperature and I wouldn’t shock them before moving them. I took such care organizing the blue marbles and colorful shells the Older One had picked for their tank. What I didn’t realize, however, was that they would most definitely, without a doubt need a filter. I figured that out the next day when the water took on a murky, greenish hue and it was hard to see the fish.

I took my lazy ass on over to the local pet store to find a relatively cheap, nice looking tank with a filter with which to relocate these beasts. I’m really not crazy about fish. All night whenever I glanced in their direction, my stomach felt queasy and my spine tingled and hee-bed-a-jee-bed-a-yuck-yuck-yuck. I don’t know why I just imagine them making some grand escape and sailing through the air to land right in the garbage disposal, while at the same time my hand will involuntarily hit the On switch. EW. I’m grossing myself out just thinking about it.

I bought stones. Wait. Doesn’t that sound ridiculous? I actually paid money for something I could find out in my driveway or back yard. Anyway, I BOUGHT STONES, two bags worth actually. I picked out several different kinds of plant life and also a pretty pink flower because I am the only girl in this house and sometimes I JUST NEED PINK and also a BREAK FROM ALL THE POOP JOKES (although ha ha ha). I grabbed a treasure chest with a diver and a net and the fish food. I also thought we should definitely get a ph and nitrate tester for good measure. I think the grand total was around $75. Which is a whole lot when the fish are probably only 99 cents. For the both of them. But when it comes to my child’s happiness, NO EXPENSE IS SPARED. I spent all day setting up this blessed tank and testing the water and just generally making sure these little farkers would live.

By 4 PM, the water in their old tank was really nasty and I was pretty sure that their new tank was a whole lot more healthy of an environment, so I moved them. I didn’t get the chance to get them used to their new water because I did not have BAGS, but it felt like the right temperature. Plus, they looked like they were totally going to die if I left them in their old tank. The Older One had a tennis lesson, so we packed up and left the Him to keep an eye on the fish.

Fifteen minutes later, after I was installed courtside, watching the Older One smack yellow balls INTO the net, my phone rang. Surely, he can’t be calling to tell me the fish died. Right? I laughed to myself as I hit the answer button. “The fish died. I put them in the garbage disposal,” the Him said. Okay. I made that last part up, but they died! They kicked the can not ten minutes after they moved to their new digs and I spent $75 for absolutely nothing. I’m awesome.

Thus ensued a lengthy discussion with the Older One about death and the great, big fishbowl in the sky. He didn’t cry all that much, but he definitely wanted to know when we would be replacing Sonny and Crockett. Me? I’m over the fish and that whole little experiment. Does anyone need a snazzy, new, barely used fish bowl or should we just get him two more fish for Christmas?

The Him is having surgery today. Which is to say that all week long, he has been a baby petrified. First, he was concerned they were going to overdose and kill him with the anesthesia, and then he was scared out of his gourd that they wouldn’t give him enough and he would wake up and feel everything. I probably shouldn’t have tried to allay his fears about the overdose with the regurgitation of the 20/20 episode where they report on patients who don’t go all the way “under” and come out with some kind of post traumatic stress disorder.* I was only trying to show him that that doesn’t happen. Whoops! Regardless, any number of highly improbably situations he could throw were worried over and relayed to me.

Sadly, I was unable to take him the hour and a half trip up north to the surgi-center where the operation is being performed. My mom took him instead. Which, I realize in hindsight, is probably the most awful thing. To have one’s mother-in-law take one to meet the scalpel. Again, whoops. The Him certainly acted like a brave little soldier heading off to fight the good fight. And, of course, the moment he stepped out the front door, I started to feel a little weepy. I wish that I could be there to hold his hand and to give him a kiss and to tell him everything will be alright. Because even if it is a simple thing, it’s still scary.

I headed out the door to do the school run with the Bug and the Baby Moo and realized that there was no way I would every be able to do all of this without him. It’s safe to say I would not make a good single parent. Although I like to consider myself a strong, independent woman, I still need the Him. And I realized that I definitely don’t tell him that I love him enough. He is the significant cog who makes the whole family machine run smoothly. A wonderful, attentive, present father who leads by a great example for his children. And a supportive, caring, loving husband who always takes responsibility.

I’ve been hot glued to the phone, devouring any tidbit of an update my mom throws at me. I’ve gathered drinks and soups and ice cream and pudding for him to eat, so he is comfortable once he gets home. I’m so excited for when he’ll walk through the front door because it truly is a brand, new start for him. A wholly, second chance to start all over. And I know, underneath all that fear over the actual surgery, he is just as excited as I am. Here’s to his speedy healing and quick recovery.

And now I hear my phone ringing.

* I can’t find the episode in question, but here. That explains it.

I got the ridiculous crazy stupid brilliant idea in my head- wait. That was totally a lie right there. I did not come up with this “brilliant idea.” I completely ganked it off the FAO Shwartz website. Let me start over.

I saw this amazing idea for a stuffed toy the other day on the FAO Shwartz website. Basically they send you the tool with which to create your very own softie. You draw it, pick out fabrics, colors, textures, trim, etc. Then you send your creation back to them and they make it to your exact specifications. How incredibly cool, no? Because I am cheap careful with our money in this crappy economy and Christmas is only right around the corner, I improvised with some construction paper and various colors of cotton velour. The Child created a masterpiece and I shall cut it out and sew it up into the exact doll, wonky ears and all.

I so excited to see how it will turn out. I’m such a dork like that. I thought it would also be a good idea for him to draw one for his brother and he can give it to the baby for Christmas. It’s that damn Handmade Pledge I took.

What I didn’t tell you is that my Perfectionism crept up and bit me in the ass Big Time. While the Child was drawing his doll and selecting the colors, I kept saying things like, “Don’t draw too much hair!” “Make sure the other arm is even!” “Don’t you want both ears green?” So before you start thinking I’m some kind of mother made from awesomeness, you can clearly see how much I suck. Because being yelled at while your drawing sucks. But I’m still partly awesome. There’s just a very nice balance.

Did I mention that it is Red, Ribbon Week at the Bugsy’s school this week? I didn’t? Well, it is. It is the Just Say No Campaign, but they’ve added the color red for flair, perhaps. With this issue being so close to my heart, you can bet I’ve got a few things to say about it. Each day of the week has had a special activity along this theme: Tuesday they wore a red bracelet emblazoned with the phrase “Proud to be Drug Free,” Today they wore their favorite hat in an effort to say, “Hats off to Drugs,” Tomorrow it’s wacky socks the purpose of which says “Wacky Socks will Keep Me Off Drugs I can’t figure out, and Friday they cap it off with a costume parade. Because, clearly, costume parades are completely sober affairs. I know I said I wouldn’t talk about this subject all that much and this would be my second post in a row, but Holy Hell I can’t help myself.

The chances of my children being addicts are, oh let’s see, reallyreallyreally great. I wouldn’t wish this disease on my worst enemy, but I don’t want to be caught being a Patsy. Realistically speaking, the percentages aren’t in their favor. I think the only thing that will protect them from actively using is talking about addiction in real, age appropriate terms. Surely telling my son that to use is to die, is not going to work. One, he isn’t even quite sure what death is (and neither am I) and, two, death never really deterred me. Neither is it okay to say, “Don’t shoot dope,” nor “You can get AIDS or Hepatitis C from using needles, young man. So don’t use drugs!” Somehow, I think, he won’t really understand and that’s a good thing. But certainly there is a way to open a dialogue about this tricky subject with kids of all ages. Me included.

As we sat down to dinner last night, I started asking Bugs what his bracelet meant. Silence. “You mean they didn’t talk about it or tell you why you were wearing it?” More silence. This seriously grabs my gonads and twists in a way that is both irksome and painful. Grrr. So let’s just have this whole week devoted to saying No to Drugs and wearing Wacky Socks, but God forbid we actually talk about it. I mean, that would just be crazy.

More than that, however, the Just Say No campaign really chaps my hide. In part, addiction is the inability to say no despite negative consequences. If I could have said no, I would have. The fact the I, essentially, can’t say no really batters my self-confidence. It has taken me years to grasp the fact that addiction is an allergy. The body’s abnormal reaction to an ingested substance. When I introduce drugs or alcohol into my system, my body responds with a physical, mental, and spiritual answer. Usually something along the lines of, “More. Now. At whatever cost.”

I find it irresponsible of the school to bring up a subject so relevant to today’s society, but to say nothing about it. Not only do I wish that they would invite openly talking about it (or raising awareness of it), as we have done with out son, but I wish they would educate and inform. I realize that it is indeed inappropriate to talk about some of the consequences of drugs. In polite audiences, most people would cringe at the mention of death, they might roll their eyes or sigh at the hint of homelessness, and they may feel that none of it really applies to them. However, to talk about the fact that drugs take you away from your family, they separate you from your spiritual side, they destroy your creativity, and they dismantle your relationships is all very civilized. It was easy for my son to understand the allergy concept. He’s allergic to peanuts, to eat them would certainly require a trip to the hospital. He doesn’t even know what they taste like. Because, in all seriousness, he is very likely an addict and I would like to avoid his slipping into active using, we have spoken about his allergy to alcohol. Basically, we told him, it’s like peanut butter: don’t even try it.

Who knows, maybe our whole approach won’t even work. I pray that this isn’t the case, but I’m trying to keep my eyes open about the whole thing. We started the conversation, which is more than I can say his school has done. They’re certainly willing to bring the subject up, but they’re not willing to talk about anything. I know it can be a loaded subject, with people both for and against educating our children; however, they brought it up and by not explaining the topic it somehow makes it feel taboo. And, I believe, that’s the worst thing. I need to make sure my children always know that they won’t get in trouble for talking about things with me. After all, the More You Know, right? Ha! I kid! Sort of, anyway.