Many nights as I try to drift off to sleep, listening to the leaves rustling their way along the driveway, I wonder where my son is? Is he warm? Hungry? Is he thinking about me? Is he alive? The only thing I do know is that I'm the mother of a 40-year old alcoholic and he is missing from my life.
I've read that as many as 18 million Americans abuse alcohol. Some people may feel alcoholism is a problem that a person can easily quit. “They can stop if they want too,” I've heard family and friends say, thinking that my son's disease is a habit. I'd like more than anything in the world to cling to that thought.
The last bit of news I received of Dwayne's whereabouts were from my mother, whom he called in December 2005. Grandma, he whispered. “Tell Mom I'm okay. I am living on the street, but I'm okay.” OKAY? How could anyone living on the street really be “okay?” Dwayne wouldn't call me because, as he repeated many times over the past 25 years, Mom, I won't call you when I am being bad. Bad meaning he is drinking.
When this beautiful child was born-- all six pounds of him--I would cradle him in my arms, run my finger gently across his soft face and smile. I visualized my sweet baby boy growing up to be a productive part of the society. A doctor? Perhaps a firefighter? Maybe even president? He would be capable of accomplishing anything he set his mind to. He'd could climb the highest peaks. There would be no obstacle he couldn't conquer. Except, as it turns out, alcoholism.
Dwayne began drinking at the age of 15. I later learned our neighbor was buying beer for my son and his buddy. I have no idea if those early years were what contributed to my son's alcoholism, or if the disease is hereditary, or both. Either way, he became what he is today; a LOST soul in a dark world of loneliness and detached from family and friends. I miss him terribly. We all miss him.
His grandmother, uncle, brother and I have all--at one time or another--tried to help Dwayne when he's been down on his luck. When we thought he'd hit rock bottom. After he crashed his truck into a tree while driving drunk. When he was evicted from his apartment after trashing it during a drunk. Once when police found him face down in a parking lot and thankfully called an ambulance instead of hauling him off to jail. Doctors later said Dwayne had nearly died from an alcohol level of 0.4. Each time we tried to rescue him, we KNEW This is it !.
He will straighten out!. Each time we reached out, he ended up falling off the wagon, again. He's entered halfway houses, sober living homes, had sponsors, joined AA over and over and over. To this date, however, he's been unable to go longer than nine months at a stretch without a drink. Without going on a big drunk. For Dwayne, even a teaspoon of cough syrup containing ingredients with alcohol, can send him spiraling into his world of alcoholism.
I believe that alcohol dependence is a disease. That the craving an alcoholic feels for alcohol may be as strong as the need for food or water. That an alcohol-dependent person will continue drinking despite serious family, health, or legal problems. My family has experienced this first hand with Dwayne.
I believe that alcoholism is hereditary. When I was growing up, I was surrounded by alcoholics. Thankfully, I did not inherit the gene, but I grew to hate the disease and hate the person with the disease. Holidays, when I was young, always included family members who would drank to excess, then the excess drinking escalated into verbal, mental and physical abuse. Most holidays I'd spend my time outside, squatting beside the old green chest my grandpa built
for me that held my dolls, shielding myself and staying out of reach and earshot of the loud and violence occurring inside. When I began having children, I tried my best to provide what I thought was a normal atmosphere. For me that meant no alcohol inside my home. My household wasn't without problems, however. I was a young teen mother and my then husband was a young teen father.
The young teen father had a violent temper. Though I finally rescued myself and children from this anything-but-normal setting, I've wondered over and over what part of Dwayne's early years contributed to his alcoholism? It had to be partly the environment he was in and partly genetics. And God only knows, I have carried a mountain of guilt for whatever part I played in Dwayne's disease. I suppose I always will.
Each day I wake up and each night just before falling asleep, I hope and pray that the phone will ring and my son's voice will be on the other line. “Hi Mom. I'm really okay.” He'll say. Just to know he is alive somewhere...anywhere, would settle my mind for at least a moment. And that is all I can do; hope and pray until....I hear some news.
