Warrior Pose (37 page)

“I just can't come home right now,” she says in a trembling voice.

“Okay, I understand,” I answer, “just bring Morgan here, please.”

“I can't do that, either,” she says, firmer now. “He is going to stay with me.”

I start to negotiate, bargain, bully, and rage, doing all the things that drove her away, but she is unyielding and I finally realize I'm powerless to impose my will on her. Morgan has been my lifeline, the limb I've been trying to cling to on the cliff above the abyss in my recurring dream. Now he's gone. I'll do anything to get him back, wage any battle, fight any foe. At least that's what my ego says, but it's empty hubris from a thoroughly broken man.

As I lie in bed, loaded with enough medications to knock out an elephant, I can't sleep. My heart is pounding. My body is aching. My stomach is roiling. My mind is screaming:

Get up, Daddy.

CHAPTER 21

Intervention

I
T'S QUIETER THAN USUAL THIS MORNING. I think it was New Year's Eve last night. Or was it two nights ago? A week? I've finally started to come alive after another late night of terrible mental torment. Pamela's leaving with Morgan has forced me to start facing myself a little. I've been doped up, drunk, angry, rude, and out of control for how long? Months? A year? Longer? Not only have I been this way with Pamela, I've done it to my family and even with the few remaining friends who have dared to stop by lately. I've felt like such a victim and been so absorbed in self-pity that I never saw it in its fullness. Until now. There it is. Clear as day. I'm a total mess. I would have left someone like me ages ago, no matter how sick and broken they were.

Even though I'm groggy and have the covers wrapped over my head, I can sense something in the air. It's the feeling I used to get in a war zone when there was a moment of silence before an attack. As my head starts to clear, I hear soft murmurs downstairs in the family room. It must be Pamela and Morgan. I haven't seen them or been able to make any contact for at least five days. It's been driving me insane.

I roll out of bed and strap on the lighter, elastic back brace I use around the house. Slowly I head downstairs. Holding tightly to the staircase railing to steady myself. Trying to get my blurry eyes in focus. Being careful not to stumble and fall. The murmurs have hushed.
They hear me coming. There's no cry of “Daddy” from Morgan, no “We're home” from his mother. It's eerie. My skin begins to tingle with apprehension.

Halfway down the stairs, still decorated with holiday wreaths, bows, and tinsel, I glance at our Christmas tree in the living room. It's brown. Shedding needles. Dead.
Like me
, I think as I make it to the last step.

I turn into the hallway and enter the family room. I see several people sitting there: Pamela. My two sisters. My mother. One of my nieces. A brother-in-law. Father David. A best friend of mine, who is also Morgan's godfather. And a tall, gangly stranger in a coat and tie, looking confident and in charge of whatever is happening here. Morgan is nowhere to be seen. I'm sensing my son is deliberately being kept from me as a means of getting my attention. No one says a word as I lower myself into my reclining chair, lean back, and survey the room. The atmosphere is serious, solemn, like a funeral, with the taste of fear permeating the air.

“My name is Dale,” the stranger says as he stands up and takes the center of the room like a military commander. “I want you to know your family is here to support you.”

Dale speaks in well-rehearsed tones but sounds stiff and mechanical. “I lead interventions,” he continues. “Your family loves you, but they believe your life is out of control. You are taking too many medications and drinking too much alcohol. Everyone in this room is frightened for your future.”

I look around at the somber faces. I can feel their love and compassion, but I also sense their apprehension: They're hoping I won't blow up and throw them all out. Dale now yields the floor to each family member, who, with great courage, takes their turn, nervously telling me how much I've changed. Everyone has written their words out on a form that Dale provided them.
The planning must have been in the works for the past several days.
Each speaker shares with me many hurtful things I've said. Ugly things I've done. Unacceptable behaviors that have worsened with time. My sisters and mother point out that they are always fearful that I might explode over something trivial. My brother-in-law says he believes my mixture of drinking
and drugs will kill me. Morgan's godfather talks about my incessant anger and rage. Each of them says they can no longer be in my life if I continue like this, and they want me to get help now. Today. It's tough love. A forced reckoning. Incredibly painful to hear.

Father David has never seen this side of me and chooses not to speak. It's as if he knows I might need a source of spiritual strength during this. Then, Pamela takes her turn. Her hands are shaking as she holds her sheet of paper. Tears fall from her eyes. Her voice cracks as she says, “I love you and I miss you. I have lost my husband and my son's father. I have lost the man I married. I don't know who you will be on any given day. I'm afraid for you, and I'm afraid of you.”

I'm in shock when she ends. Multiple voices in my head compete for attention. My ego rages, yelling at me to throw everyone out the door. Another inner voice demands that I defend myself. Remind them of my broken back and terminal cancer. Seek pity. Blame it on the drugs. Guilt-trip them for doing this to me. Then there's a deeper voice, the one Father Joe from Thailand urged me to listen to and the voice Father David represents as he sits facing me in silence. It's a voice we all have but so often refuse to acknowledge or heed. It always knows right from wrong, even when we're in a fit of rage or a drunken stupor. This voice says:
Your family and friends are right. No matter how painful it is to accept, they are one hundred percent right.

I can see my reflection on the dark screen of the computer monitor that faces my recliner. Black circles under my eyes, greasy hair sticking out in all directions, a twisted scowl on my face. I look like a madman, and I realize I no longer know who this person is. As the voices in my head continue to compete for primacy, the
Get up, Daddy
mantra starts looping through my mind. There's incredible tension in the room as everyone waits for me to say something. Finally, as if I'm outside of my body watching all this unfold, I hear myself say, “It's about time.”

A collective sigh of relief permeates the room as Dale seizes the moment. “Good. We realize that you are in pain and have a serious disease, but we want you to check into a Betty Ford Clinic in Palms Springs. Quit the drinking and get off as many of the drugs
as possible. No matter how long you have to live, things can't go on like this any longer.”

“What about Morgan?” I ask, needing to see him, wanting to tell him I love him before being locked away in rehab.

“Not yet.” Dale is firm, speaking from a script that's part of the intervention process. They don't want me to change my mind, and Morgan is clearly the leverage. “You have to go right now, not later today, not tomorrow, but now. Everything is arranged. We have a car out front. Just get a few things together. Your sisters will help you pack. We'll discuss a visit with Morgan somewhere down the road.”

My ego starts to seethe again. No one has the right to keep my son from me, especially this stranger in my home. Resentment boils over inside of me. I stare hard at Dale, wishing I had the strength to jump up and strangle him.

“I'll make the drive with you,” Father David offers quickly, sensing my mood.

I glance at my reflection in the computer monitor again. I look deranged. Someone I would avoid at all costs. A vision of Morgan appears on the screen, like he's in my lap. I can hear his voice again.
Get up, Daddy
.

All the other voices in my head subside as a sense of surrender envelops me. If nothing else, I tell myself, I can get off these drugs. I can find some level of clarity. Be present for Morgan. Try to honor my covenant with him. Get up, in whatever way possible, before I die. I take a huge inhalation and let it go like a floodtide. It must be the first time I've fully exhaled in these thirteen years of pain and it feels like a river flowing through me, washing away years of fear, anger, and grief. I breathe in deeply again and sigh out loud, “Okay. Thank you, everyone, for doing this. I'm so sorry. Let me get a few things together. I'm so, so sorry.”

Dale's car is a small compact. It can barely fit four adults. His messy trunk is too full to handle my small suitcase. Anyway, it would be impossible for me to sit up for a three-hour trip to Palm Springs,
much less squeeze myself into this car wearing my back brace. Pretending not to be flummoxed, Dale jumps into action and vows to return in thirty minutes with a van. Without saying a word, Pamela drives off with him. Father David stays with me, like a spiritual sentry. He comforts me. Says a few prayers. Tells me it will be okay. But I'm already starting to get steamed, because it's a much longer wait than Dale promised. He and Pamela are not back until late afternoon.

The drive over the mountains from San Diego to Palm Springs is surreal. Dale and Pamela are up front talking logistics in hushed tones. I'm lying down on a thick pad in the back of the van with Father David sitting cross-legged and hunched over by my side. He whispers more prayers. Smiles. Affirms me the entire way. My mind is still fighting it, like a confused argument with a dozen different people screaming at the same time. My whole body aches from the bumpy ride and the emotional intensity of the intervention. When David isn't looking, I unscrew the cap of the tiny silver vial that dangles from a chain around my neck. This is where I keep my morphine tablets. I shake one out and slip it under my tongue.

The van is slow and struggles over the mountains. The trip takes much longer than expected. It's after 9
P
.
M
.
when we finally arrive at the clinic in Palm Springs. The lobby is empty.
Dale said everything was arranged
, I think to myself, noting that there's not a staff person in sight. I lie down on the reception couch, dazed, and completely exhausted. As I wait and wait, anger surges through me as I realize this plan was not so well crafted after all. It's at least another twenty minutes before a nurse appears.

As I continue to wait impatiently on the couch, longing for a stout beer, Dale and Pamela are down the hallway, in hushed conversation with the nurse. I can't hear them, but I can see them. Their body language makes it clear. Something is wrong. They engage in a tense back-and-forth for at least ten minutes. Now the nurse breaks away and comes toward me with authority.

“I'm sorry. This clinic is for alcoholics, not for cancer or pain patients. We are not equipped to admit someone like you, and no one told us you were coming.”

The nurse is firm as a rock. Dale won't make eye contact. Pamela is in silent desperation as we pile back into the van and leave Palm Springs for a long, miserable trip back to Coronado.

“We'll find another place,” Dale says as he drops me at our house in the predawn darkness and Father David begins to help me inside. “Pamela will call you.”

I ignore this and turn to Pamela. “I'm still willing to do this,” I say. “I know I have to.” I gesture toward Dale, “But this guy has no idea what he's doing. I never want to see him again. Ever.”

It's far past midnight when I struggle up the stairs, pull off the body brace, and melt onto my bed. Even though it's been one of the most grueling days of my life, I can't sleep. I pop a stout and chug it as I click on the TV, which only blares at me with mindless nonsense. I click it off and stare into the darkness. I can hear large waves breaking a few blocks away at the beach, the heaviness of my breath, the pounding of my heart.