MATTHEW
In the family fellowship of Al-Anon there’s a fair bit of focus placed on how an alcoholic can infect his or her entire family, and on the fact that family members can become alcoholics themselves as well as developing other illnesses. I’d witnessed the damage to my mother and her siblings. In consideration of that, I still felt wholly unprepared for Matthew and his young family. Matthew’s cute three-and-a-half-year-old boy had the same long blonde curly locks as my son, reminding me of Samuel before his first haircut. Mathew’s older brother introduced him to heroin – and instead of stopping him, Matthew’s own addiction only got worse after discovering the three-day-old dead body of his overdosed brother. As a young family, Mathew and his wife had held decent jobs. However, while dealing with his addiction his wife had come down with chronic fatigue syndrome. They’d ended up jobless and had no alternative but to move in with his parents. With his parents’ guidance, and under their house rules, the decision was made for Matthew’s best interest: he needed to step up and take care of his son. To all intents and purposes, Matthew was fulfilling both parental roles.
He’d visited their family physician and was currently on a course of methadone. Except, while still on the methadone he’d been prescribed he regularly met his heroin dealer outside their son’s daycare and used both. Having no knowledge of what mixing these two substances meant, I sought expert advice from two medical doctors working in the field of addiction and from my first sponsor – a recovered heroin addict who had published two academic books on addiction. In their collective opinion, the next time Matthew injected himself could very well be his last. They also suggested an extended treatment program would probably be his best option.
Matthew and his wife approached me while I was busy doing my rounds in the bay area where Jeremy and I had once lived. In our first meeting, I told them what I’d learnt. Still, they were living under his parents’ house rules so even the free ten-day detox program was out of the question for him. Instead, I made them the same thirty-day offer that I’d previously made to Ryan. Over the past two decades, the Tableview area had boomed beyond its capacity. This meant getting in and out had become a bit of a nightmare. However, between the various local fellowships, we had at least ten weekly meetings available for us to attend.
I started walking Matthew and his wife through their first thirty days. The afternoon I spent clearing my head on Table Mountain was day twenty. They’d let me know that Matthew was a survivor of childhood sexual abuse when they first approached me, but it hadn’t come up again. It didn’t have to, now or ever, unless he wanted to speak of it. For now, all that mattered was he’d achieved twenty days of being clean and sober. While I’d done my best to introduce this husband-and-wife team to separate programs, they were still joined at the hip. We were alternating between meetings of Narcotics Anonymous and the family fellowships of Nar-Anon and Al-Anon.
I was busy running all over the peninsula and becoming increasingly anxious about my future. As much as I wanted to believe I was walking in faith, I simply couldn’t shake the feeling of impending doom. I tried to remind myself that at least I was no longer writing. I suspected that living in the past, trying to get in touch with what I was thinking and feeling, was directly responsible for the dark depression I’d gone through. Yes, it was so much better being of service. But damn, now I was dealing with anxiety and was constantly worried about how all this could end. I needed to check in with my sponsor, trusted friends, and three additional associates I’d come to respect. I couldn’t afford to alienate myself from my homegroup, and with their help I was willing to explore if I had essentially switched addictions and was now drunk on service. Additionally, I decided to come clean about my burning-bush experiences, wondering if I’d lost my mind. I’m truly grateful they all listened attentively. I didn’t get much feedback, so I wasn’t sure if they thought I’d lost it or they simply didn’t know how to respond. My sponsor suggested I take it a day at a time and do my best to renew my faith. I started each day rolling out of bed onto my knees to recite my version of the Step Three prayer. I’d repeat it throughout the day until I ended back on my knees with ‘God, I offer myself to You – to build with me and to do with me as You will. Relieve me of the bondage of self, that I may better do Your will. I humbly ask You to take away my difficulties, that victory over them may bear witness to those I would help of Your Power, Your Love, and Your way of Life. May I do Your will always.’
ANOTHER CHRISTMAS
I celebrated a brilliant Christmas evening with the girls from our unofficial dinner club, who well knew how to entertain. I’m not a good cook, although I believe I held my own. On a role of fettuccine and rocket, I served a beetroot and mint salad with lime-crusted seared tuna. I also made a final dish of thickly sliced chicken breasts, baby English spinach leaves, and snake beans all drizzled with a coconut, coriander, and red chilli dressing. Cooking always reminded me of the joy of being a parent and of Samuel’s sophisticated palate. Devastatingly, I hadn’t heard from him again.
As parents, we never stop worrying about our children, especially when there is no contact. I believe at some point in time the duty of keeping in touch passes from the parent to the child. At times, I’d hear the song Say Something – written by Ian Axel and Chad King and popularized on the American talent show The Voice by Christina Aguilera’s vocal delivery – and my spine would crumble. It’s as if I recognized defeat, and I’d cry out to their lyrics ‘Say something, I’m giving up on you.’ Perhaps I’m just too stubborn, but I don’t know how to give up. Whatever reason Samuel might have for not calling, I’d taught him always keep your side of the street clean. Without contact and not knowing what else to do, I decided to continue sending him my best wishes and remind him that he’s always in my thoughts. It hurt like hell. I needed to remind myself that expectations are premeditated resentments. It was time to get over myself.
On Christmas morning I received an unexpected call from Vernon, who urgently needed his hair trimmed. Vernon kind of micro-manages everyone, and he’s very particular about his hair. I used to treat my mum to a regular wash, trim and blow-dry, and for most of their lives I cut my boys’ hair. I have fond memories of conjuring up classical styles for Ellen, but I’m not a professional stylist. So, something else must have been going on with Vernon. I grabbed my hair scissors, comb, and clippers, and drove over to see if I could help.
While still in high-school Vernon had gotten his girlfriend pregnant and their parents had decided that adoption would be the best option for all concerned. Thirty-two years later Vernon finally got to meet his long-lost son, in what was quite possibly the most emotionally charged meeting of Narcotics Anonymous that I’d ever attended. Naturally, their newfound relationship had its moments. On that day Vernon would be celebrating his first Christmas with all of his children, including two grandchildren. I barely touched his hair in two hours, even as I followed his directions to snip a millimetre or two off the odd, offensive hair.
A lot of people struggle during the holidays, which are supposed to be about family. I certainly do. I’d often spend an entire year prioritizing children, without ever getting a break. Then, because their mothers’ families would be visiting, I’d find myself alone. I could have insisted on alternate years, but that felt like depriving my children of the only opportunity they got to see their grandparents and extended family. It felt kind of special to watch Vernon and his wife preparing for Christmas lunch and to be there to support him. It was an unusually busy holiday period for me. After Vernon’s haircut, I joined my sister and her family for lunch at her brother-in-law’s house. While there I got to catch up with an old childhood friend who I’d barely seen since graduation. That evening I attended a meeting, and the following day I drove to a reunion of the Ford family.
As a child, I’d seen more of the Ford family than anyone else. But like so many South Africans who emigrated to the UK or New Zealand, I hadn’t seen them in decades. It was all going well until the wife of one of my cousins decided to give me a piece of her mind. Unbeknown to me, my cousin had married one of Valeria’s old school friends. They’d kept in touch, and their friendship had only strengthened since they’d both left their countries of origin. I was so uncomfortable that I didn’t know how to respond when I was publicly accused of domestic abuse in front of the few people who knew what my grandfather had done and what my mother had been through. I really wanted to let it go. Instead, I suggested my cousin’s wife might want to have a chat with Valeria before making accusations. She might find that Valeria had subsequently admitted to everything being one big ugly lie that she was using to justify leaving her children behind. I’d like to be able to say that as long as my children know the truth I don’t care what others might think – but unfortunately I do care.
The holidays ended on a tragic note with yet another suicide by a member of Narcotics Anonymous. I knew his mother from the Harley Davidson Club. I’d met her son a year earlier when she’d arranged for us to meet for coffee. He was working the program with a sponsor and attending regular meetings. They lived roughly fifty kilometres out of town in a coastal suburb, with arguably more multi-millionaires per capita than any other suburb in the country. The last I’d heard he was still doing well, and I had hoped to run into him when I attended his local meeting on my recent road trip – it was a small but impressive Sunday afternoon meeting, with two of eight members in attendance who both had more than twenty years of recovery and service to their names – but he wasn’t there.
When someone suicides, there’s almost always the speculation about whether the member had relapsed, usually followed by an uneasy ‘There go I, but for the grace of God.’ Unfortunately, there had been a last-minute change of venue for his memorial, and I hadn’t received the message. I couldn’t reach anyone, so I drove around trying to decide if I’d gotten the address, date, or time wrong. I kept thinking that I now knew four sets of parents who’d buried their children. One at a very early age through terminal illness, two in fatal car accidents during that dreaded phase between school and university, and now another to addiction and suicide. Try as I might, I couldn’t imagine the extent of their loss or their heart-wrenching pain. As self-centred as it felt I couldn’t help being grateful because I still had hope. I still had a chance of seeing Samuel again, of repairing and rebuilding our relationship and holding him.
ZERO
I’d had a particularly busy evening collecting individuals for meetings from polar opposite ends of the peninsula. I got home feeling pretty good about being able to coordinate everything. In contrast, all my fears were waiting for me in the form of a simple credit-card statement. I hadn’t received a statement for quite a few months, and I hadn’t followed up to ask why. I’d sold my thirsty American V8, and I was doing all my running around in a tiny 1100cc Hyundai. I still completely underestimated just how much fuel I’d been using. In the normal course of things, it wouldn’t have been a large amount, but all the business deals I’d been working on were still pending.
A discussion about the sexual abuse of children is understandably not one most want to engage in, and after a few follow up meetings about initial funding I’d given up on asking. Perhaps it was my ego because I would have preferred to remain self-supporting. But I could no longer afford to pay for fuel, rent, or even food. I was trying to make a difference, and as such I trusted that I’d be looked after. But the harsh reality hit me: at age sixty, I’d zeroed out.
I was now dependent on the good graces of friends. Vernon was project managing renovations to a home he’d bought in the suburbs. He’d completed the bulk of the work when he decided to take a month’s break. Feeling like a delinquent staying in the unfinished house, I at least had a roof over my head until the room could be remodelled for office space. I moved what I needed to furnish a one-bedroom apartment into storage, and I sold the rest. Jeremy sent me some money, which I used to secure the life insurance I’d had in place since his birth. Samuel, who’d heard from Jeremy, emailed me with the longest bit of communication I’d received from him in years. I understood that he was still young and had a lot to learn. However, being told by my son that I needed to get my act together felt like being kicked while I was down. Even though I shouldn’t have, I chose to reply. I let him know that in the forty-two years I’d been working, I’d always been self-sufficient, I’d always done my duty, and I’d always paid my way. Then added perhaps I’d been extraordinarily lucky, but that’s how life sometimes goes. And other times, shit just happens through no fault of our own. In this case, I made a few decisions that didn’t go as planned and I’d have to live with that. I finished my reply by letting him know that despite my current status as a loser I still felt pretty good about myself, the life I’d lived, and the decisions I’d made.
After I left Vernon’s, I moved in with my friend John from the Atlantic Seaboard. His wife of forty years, who periodically needed space, had recently moved to the south of Spain. John is one of the most decent, long-suffering human beings I’ve ever met. He practically raised and educated his kids on his own. After they’d graduated and moved to the UK, John struggled with being alone. Thankfully, he was all too happy to have me move in. I’d been spoilt by Vernon’s ability to infuse complex flavours into traditional home-cooked meals. I’d had plenty of practice catering for Samuel, but I’m not in his league. As I wasn’t required to pay rent, I offered to take care of our meals. I had several additional credit cards, issued to me without question, which I’d rarely or never used. I’m not sure if it’s even legal, but the idea of paying one bank from another bank’s facility didn’t appeal to me. So, I wasn’t preparing the kinds of dishes I used to put together for my children, but John never complained. On the contrary, he seemed to genuinely appreciate whatever I prepared. Or perhaps it was simply the marathon conversations that accompanied our meals.
I was grateful for the space John and Vernon gave me, but things weren’t going well. Fran, who turned out to be the marketing assistant I’d always hoped to find, got a role she’d auditioned for. She’d studied to be an actress and she’d been upfront from the start, so I honestly couldn’t have been happier for her. I’d always been pretty good at generating new business and finalising sales, so I threw myself back into the game. I followed up on deals that were still pending, but no one was ready to sign. Then I revisited every client I’d ever done business with, who were all happy to see me. But after I’d exhausted a twenty-year list of contacts, there was still no business to be found. I was getting desperate and questioning my faith. Because of this, I asked a member of my Saturday morning group if we could have a chat. I specifically chose him because, much to the dismay of the agnostics, he often bravely shares his faith.
After our meeting, we took a walk and stopped at a nearby park. It was early morning, so we had the park to ourselves. I admitted that I’d strayed from my original Christian faith, although to the best of my ability I’d followed the words of Jesus from Mark 9:35, ‘If anyone would be first, he must be last of all and servant of all.’ Somewhere I must have gone wrong. My friend reminded me that God always has a plan and suggested that I read the Psalms of David, a man who often desperately cried out to God.
I read all one hundred and fifty Psalms, from start to finish, while I updated my resume and started to send it out. Initially, I only applied for experience-related positions. Then for anything and everything that might help pay the bills. While scouring for potential employment I cried out to God, reading Palms 6, 22, 30, 55, 69, and 88 each morning and repetitively throughout the day. I knew it would be difficult for a sixty-year-old white South African male. Just the same, I was surprised that I didn’t receive a single reply to any of my applications. It soon became apparent that if I was going to have any chance of finding employment, it would happen only through a friend or acquaintance aware of my experience and past success. Or it was going to take a miracle. So I added Psalm 69: verses 1-3 to my daily Step Three prayer, ‘Save me, O God! For the waters have come up to my neck. I sink in deep mire, where there is no standing; I have come into deep waters, where the floods overflow me. I am weary with my crying; My throat is dry; My eyes fail while I wait for my God.’
As a last resort, I approached the recovery facility where I’d recently been offered free counselling space. Over the years they had given me many referrals and I had helped with job placements. I would have gratefully accepted a position as a recovery assistant – basically, a babysitting position for evenings or weekends when their counsellors and regular staff need to go home. Again, I didn’t receive a single call back. Finally, my first sponsor called a facility that he was connected to, an upmarket treatment facility primarily for Dutch patients, and arranged for me to see their general manager – I was aware of rumoured changes regarding government funding for patients seeking treatment outside the European Union. When the interview didn’t go well, I wasn’t sure if they simply weren’t hiring or if they could smell the extent of my personal failure. I’d taught my children that nothing succeeds like success and that the same principle can easily be applied to failure. This is why I’d always suggested that if they ever hated what they were doing, they find a way to succeed until they found another job. Well, I’d fucked up and hit zero, and I was fast learning exactly what that meant.
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