It is January and I am again ensconced in South Florida. This is the annual visit – almost a retreat – to live in my son’s neighborhood and soak up, not so much the sun, but his nearness. With his invitation my husband and I attend one of his weekly meetings. It is an otherwise …
We may never know the full story. A child kills his parents. That’s horrific enough. But what makes the deaths of Rob and Michele Reiner even worse – if that’s possible – is how the revelation further fuels shame surrounding addiction. Even among rich and famous families, shame lives. The news hurls me back, calling …
Fifteen years. That’s how long my husband and I have been attending Al-Anon meetings, most of them in the same kindergarten room at a nearby church. Fifteen years of sitting beside tiny desks in a circle embracing other mothers and fathers, sons and daughters, and friends who care about them. We all come for the …
This time it’s not the expected passing of a close friend from cancer that stirs thoughts of death. Nor is it the sudden loss of a beloved physician from a heart attack. It’s the shocking, gut-wrenching news that another young man has died from addiction. He is the tenth “child” – because aren’t they all …
They sit side by side in the kindergarten classroom. The wife rubs her thumb across the tips of her fingers. The husband stares at every speaker. They are grasping for the answer – the “right” one. In the early years of my son’s addiction, I did the same. I came to Al-Anon knowing surely these …
More than 15 years ago, when Jacob was struggling with drugs and I was frantic to help him, author and educator Libby Cataldi and her son Jeff spoke at our local hospital. Their “talk” followed Libby’s memoir, “Stay Close”, in which she recounts years trying to help Jeff while facing her own crises. The mother-son …
It’s only a 3 x2 inch box. But it may as well be a symbol of addiction. Or at least, how addiction affects the family. At Al-Anon meetings we pass the tissue box to whomever needs it. Recently, it was a mother whose adult son was living in a sober house, one of many in …
Two tall, thin men stand behind a table on the bustling cobblestone crossroads. Pedestrians wander past, never noticing. The taller one sees me watching and beckons me over. He barely speaks English. I speak no Italian. Spread across the table are maps and pamphlets and flyers promoting a serious purpose. I am in the ancient …
The young girl walking towards me was staring into her cell phone. She never saw me coming. For a split second I thought – she’s going to run into me. Should I say something? Or will she knock me down and embarrass us both. I flashed back to other times when disaster was heading straight …
Something about the man’s big, moon face lingers. Maybe it was the way he stared at me, searching. He was sure I had the answer. It was a Saturday afternoon and the first time my husband and I were in this room since pre-Covid. We were speakers at our local treatment center’s biweekly Family Workshop. …