Take My Hand

Thanksgiving has passed and I'm feeling aggitated. Maybe that's not the right word. What I feel is not overwhelming; it's constant. It's an ache that is physical, mental, and deep in my chest. What I want to do is reach out and pull Aaron into our world. He seems so close and I can't touch him, hear him, or see him. My jaw is tight and my brain can't grasp what I can't change. He's here and he's not here. I can live and I can't live. I can see what I want to see and I'm blind. I'm grateful and I'm angry and hurt.

I don't have a clear recollection of the dark and foggy Holiday season last year. This one is identifiable-- It's a blues song.

I'm struggling to be at peace. It's within my control but I am choosing to let some things bother me. All I have to do is turn my head and look to the things that I can change and peace will come to me. Maybe I don't want peace and instead I want turmoil. That's hard to say. I can't change what other people do so I have to change myself and accept some things as they are.

A paragraph which I grappled with to get exactly right was just deleted. The words were selected to make a point of how I feel about the rebuilding of a deadly object. The actions of some person is something I am allowing to fuel my aggitation. At my left hand are two books by Thomas Merton. I knew my writing was not God's work so I picked up the books and looked for something to lead me away from anger. I found it immediately. A summary I wrote of a thought:
Faith in God could mean to accept circumstances as they are, believing the experience is part of the journey of life; an opportunity to testify for God. Is this an opportunity to be led by the spirit when the flesh desires to testify for the self?

If I could reach through to the other side I could grab Aaron by his hand, which I can almost feel, and pull him back. The rescue seems so easy. I'm sure Aaron's on the other side of visible.

Tom

To Patrick

In the shade of an oak tree an acorn rests and contemplates its future.
The oak casts a giant shadow.
An acorn in the darkness of the oak avoids harsh light and pouring rain.
The shadow is a safe and comfortable place.

When the oak is felled, the acorn is challenged.
Exposed to the elements, dynamic reactions break the shell.
Out of the shadow, into the light with God given ability the seed extends roots.
Firmly grounded, an acorn has all it needs to become a mighty oak.

Sun. Rain. Dirt. Warmth. Cold. Wind.
Strength to bend and not break require measures of each.
Neither an acorn or a boy grows to potential in the shade.
I see an acorn using all God has given him to become a man of integrity-- in the light.

Love
Dad

November

Three years ago this week I flew to Redmond, OR to check out Mount Bachelor Academy. November 17th I boarded the plane in Madison to make the first of what would become many trips across the country. The situation at home was desperate. Losing Aaron was, in my mind, a matter of time.

Detach! Detach! Cathy would shout to me when my confrontations with Aaron would escalate. A week before November 17th, I did more than detach--I gave up. I couldn't even see my son in Aaron's skin. What I didn't know then was the destructive capability of today's potent marijuana. As one writer said to me--"This is not your grandma's pot."

Thanksgiving was a week away and our home was in turmoil in November 2003. I had given up...but only for a few days. Cathy was holding on. She was willing to try anything to save her son. Patrick's love of his brother was never in doubt. "I just want my brother to not hate me!", Patrick cried one night. Once we had a plan, I was eager to get on with the mission---Dad's always want to fix things and I was a "fixer" -- of other people, not so much of myself. But, that's another story for another time.

Three years ago we had our last Thanksgiving together as a family of four. Aaron didn't know what was in store for him. He had no idea that he was just weeks away from leaving home. He was the only one at the table that day who didn't know what was coming down. None of us knew what to expect.

Cathy, Patrick, and I know there are families who are living the experience we encountered in 2003. Giving thanks on a day when your child or sibling is under the intense influence of addiction is a challenge. The celebration goes on magnifies your inability to have a healthy family experience. Humiliation, yes. Humility, no.

This year we are thankful for Aaron's recovery and his healthy 17 months. We expected more. We want another day. We accept what we had. We miss Aaron.

Three years ago I flew to Redmond, OR to start the journey to save Aaron.

Treasure Chest

AJ The Winner in '91

The toys last longer than the boys. On a day no different than the other 4,320 before, a Mom picks up the toys, loads them in the toy box, closes the lid and without knowing it, she turns a page; a new chapter. The toys rest in darkness and the boy shines in the light of a new day; a day without the instruments of childhood.

That toy box in the corner of the basement holds memories and magic. My five year old nephew Noah discovered the buried treasure yesterday. Once the lid was lifted, the magic was let loose and I was pulled 15 years back in time. Out came the orange Ninja head band, the wooden sword and shield, the black cape, nerf guns, footballs galore, helicopters, plastic cars, Batman stuff, broken everything, and The Boxing Gloves. How many Dads bought their sons boxing gloves before the son turned four??? I did.

The two pair (father and son set)of red and white gloves have been reduced by Doc to 1-1/2 pair. Three gloves. Aaron had big hands as a little guy so his choppers didn't fit inside the little gloves. Good for me because Aaron could pack a punch and I took a pounding even with him swinging the big gloves. I'm sure Patrick and Aaron did their share of championship bouts in our basement. Aaron let Patrick win no more than a few rounds; just enough to keep him interested enough to come back for more of a whoopin'.

Noah and I dug through the box like kids who knew the really good stuff was going to be at the bottom. Oh, we liked what was on top...the same way a 5 year old likes the first Christmas present of the morning; "That's neat, what's this?!?!" First we mended the wooden shield. The sword was held together by teenage roofing nails. Long ago the sword was repaired more than once to fight another day. Now the shield was healed. The set was a favorite of Aaron's and Noah claimed it as his. I got the usual "Branded" style sword--broken and short.

After slicing me to pieces, Noah pulled out the Boxing Gloves. He got them on in a split second. I was just getting up off of the floor and back to my knees...that's as high as you should get when doing battle with a little person who doesn't swing much more than 3 feet above your's. I should have seen it coming. I fought the kids cousin in '91. This one's got the same style--fast and relentless. The right hook was followed by a left-right-left-right combination. All five punches scored and I was down. There was no letting up from the aggressor. I knew what to do; I'm a child of the nuclear '60's--I ducked and covered.

My first thought while being counted out was one of da-ja-vu. How long had it been since I lost my last title fight? Too long. I want to turn the pages back to the beginning. The ache in my heart hurt more than the stinging in my head.

Noah went home today. We had lunch at DQ in Portage. Noah and I talked about the fun he had with Patrick. They built on their special bond. We talked about his big buddy Aaron. Noah told me he was glad the crying was over. He said it hurt his ears. I told him I agreed--it hurts my ears, and the rest of my body, too.

We left the toys scattered on the floor for Patrick to pick up--the basement is his space now.

Taking a standing eight count,
Tom

World of Magic and Imagination

The elderly man was bent over at the waist. His crooked left arm held the inside of the door he had just opened to the two strangers. His left hand kept the door open and himself upright. Standing a foot above us, straining his neck, the man was able to look us in the eyes. I'd guess his age to be 86 to 100.

Pheasant hunting was the reason for our visit. The topic of discussion became harvesting corn, broke down machinery, and a then the man's son. The son was 65 when he died last year. After eight years "...four more than doctors had given him" the son died of the disease and the father grew older. At the first mention of the son, the father dropped his head, his hand shook, and his voice quivered. When he raised his head again, watery eyes looked back at us. "Tired?" was my only word. In a way another sad Dad might relate, I felt what I was seeing and the word just came out--Tired. Tired of crying. Tired of trying. Tired of missing. Tired of hurting. Tired of being without his son.

The sequel to Peter Pan was recently written. A story that seemed to not need "TO BE CONTENUED" would be an important read for Aaron today. The Air Bear was Peter Pan's biggest fan in the late 80's early '90's. He watched more than one version of the classic story. Aaron played Hook, Pan, the Lost Boys ---all of them, John...and Cathy was Wendy or Tinkerbell. Home with the boys, Cathy did more takes than Mary Martin or Mary Margin as Aaron called the actress. My role was always Hook. Patrick likely had many roles under Aaron's direction.Pixie Dust was in abundant supply in Aaron's imagination.

The story of Neverland is about magic, heros, bad guys, family, temptation, danger, love, bonding with guys, overcoming evil, and the virtue of happy thoughts... surely there's more. In the mind of a Peter Pan person, anything is possible and tragedy is improbable.

As I understand the sequel, Peter Pan grows up, gets married, and wishes to return to Neverland. I saw Aaron as the boy who didn't want to grow up. Neverland is full of life and adventure. Aaron as Pan had an imagination that would wear out his Mom. I don't know if the crock always got Hook in the end of Aaron's Pan adventures. I will guess Aaron had his own version of how the story should end. Playing Pan would eventually tire out our little Aaron. I arrived home often to find a tired Aaron sleeping sound on the couch. With an eye patch and a Cutlass nearby--his work of saving the lost boys, Wendy, and Tinkerbell was done.

The new book would have been an ideal Christmas gift for Aaron.

Rural Iowa has few blacktop roads. It's a world of thousands of miles of crushed limestone and dirt. Lots of white dust. None of it Pixie.

Where's the magic?

Tom