Did I Fail My Son?
I’ve taken note of common themes in the feedback provided by readers of my memoir Cover My Dreams in Ink—one of which suggests that I was too hard on myself. Although I value the opinions of others and am continually eager for commentary and critique, I have to say that this particular sentiment is one with which I simply disagree.
Before getting into anything specific about the story of my son, Paul, I want to point out a fundamental truth: Parenting is humbling. It teaches countless lessons, but often after the fact. It’s not uncommon for any one of us to concede that we’d do some things differently if given the opportunity to backtrack. And I don’t think we are terribly troubled by this phenomenon. We take it in stride, accept that regrets are a part of life, and maybe even feel a degree of pride in newfound insights. Experience, after all, is the best teacher and, certainly, we know that wisdom doesn’t come easy.
While hindsight does provide clarity, memory can fade. But when you go back in time to chronicle experiences—as writing a memoir forces you to do—events from the past that may have seemed disparate often converge to reveal connections otherwise unknown. In my case, not all of these realizations pointed to my shortcomings, but some did. Even though I’d never been under the illusion that I was without flaws, my discoveries were eye-opening. I came to see gaps in my self-awareness, plus, I gained clarity on my missteps. And, in spite of the pain, I acknowledged them. Recounting the many hardships Paul endured—some of which were the result of ill fortune, and some at the hands of others—was also painful but helped to make sense of the scope of realities.
In addition my steadfast devotion to Paul—a resource that I do not underestimate—I recognize things I did well. Navigating the challenges of Paul’s learning differences is a case in point. The fight for his right to an appropriate education was pretty much non-stop, but I never took my foot off the gas. Maybe, as an educator myself, I had some grounding that gave me an advantage. Even though our choices most often ranged from marginally acceptable to dismal, I spoke the same language as the “experts” on whom I was dependent. This didn’t save us from bitter disappointments along the way, but it bolstered my confidence as I plowed on. I may not have been able to muster a solution that didn’t exist, but I gave it my all, and I knew that my efforts made somewhat of a difference.
Dealing with a mental illness diagnosis that seemed to come out of nowhere, followed by a hospitalization that made no sense to me, is another story. I wasn’t as sure-footed, nor was I on guard for the pitfalls, borne of the sweep of Paul’s unfolding vulnerabilities, that seeped into every aspect of our lives. With an already wobbly grip on our challenges, I found myself thrown into another world, one where I was even less prepared—the world of addiction. Only in reliving all of it, did I realize the extent to which I was handicapped by my shallow understanding. At the mercy of a language I didn’t understand, I had no footing. I didn’t know when to push back or when to accept the status quo or even whether or not to align myself with those who professed a way out. I don’t recall a conscious decision on my part, but I depended on my instincts, on my track record of negotiating systems, working well with others. This was a tragic mistake.
As I wrote in the Epilogue:
Maybe Paul’s and my fight was ill-fated due to factors beyond our control—such as the multitude of barriers to effective health care—but I’m increasingly aware of mistakes I made, or gaps in my understanding, pieces of the puzzle I didn’t connect. I could try to avoid this reality by telling myself I always had Paul’s best interest at heart, and I never turned my back on him, but that would be only part of the story because there was just too much I didn’t know and, in some ways, I thought I knew more than I did. My instincts are good. I’m capable and attentive. And I loved him unconditionally. But was that enough?
No; it was not.
These pages of the memoir proceed to elaborate on the understandings that emerged as I connected the dots of Paul’s journey. I began to see that Paul fell victim to senseless regulations and ignorance and, as I analyzed the forces at play, I had no choice but to confront the fact that his overdose death was preventable. The realization sickens me still.
It became equally clear that the United States is behind the curve on interventions proven to make a difference; nonetheless, there are pockets of enlightenment and people who could have helped steer us. I just didn’t know about them. It’s tempting to hide behind the fact that we live in a society that still embraces the war on drugs, believes punishment is among the solutions to the overdose crisis, shames those who suffer, maintains restrictions on life-saving treatment, and routinely resists harm reduction initiatives.
But in truth, all of this just makes it more crucial for caretakers—those who are responsible in any way for the welfare of others, particularly the vulnerable—to strive to be in the know. In fact, it is incumbent on affected individuals to seek information, to discern fact from myth, and to resist the temptation to adopt popular belief at the expense of the truth, the scientific truth. I understand the cultural bias is powerful. But tough love almost never works. Another pseudo-scientific notion is that a person has to hit “rock bottom” in order to be receptive to recovery, a belief that serves only to further marginalize people—people who need connections and compassion, not detachment.
I fought for Paul’s survival; I fought hard, but I wasn’t playing with all the cards.
I hope my reckoning with these harsh realities, including the mistakes detailed in my memoir, has the potential for universal application for others in difficult circumstances. We learn from one another, and we learn through the experiences of others. And maybe it’s freeing to just read about someone who acknowledges missteps, no matter how costly.
Whatever you do as a parent, don’t even try to be perfect. Kids need love, and they need our time. They do not need us to be perfect and, certainly, perfection is not the standard we want them to aspire to.
If Paul’s story—told with more lucidity in Cover My Dreams in Ink—can make a difference for one person suffering as he did, then his life was not in vain.