Max, our twenty-three-year-old son, was born with an affinity for alcohol; I would say it’s in his genes, and many scientists would agree. “I really like the smell of this stuff,” he said when he was seven. We were in Target’s cleaning supplies aisle, a perfume of chemicals soaked in lavender. “That’s not a good sign, is it?” he asked.
We both laughed, and I replied, “Nope, it’s not.”
He was excited about his first communion and didn’t mind the cloying red wine. He spent his senior year in high school smoking and dealing pot but fully embraced alcoholism his first semester in Syracuse, dropping out after one semester because he forgot to register. Alcohol became the leviathan around which all his actions revolved—where to get his next drink.
But this story isn’t about how Max developed alcoholism; it is a story about his last drunk.
In the fall of 2021, when Max was twenty-two years old, he ended up back in our house. Since dropping out of Syracuse in January of 2020, he had succeeded in getting a DUI, going to rehab, staying sober for seven months, relapsing, going to detox, and applying for and attending college again. We had kicked him out several times over the years by enforcing no-drinking rules that we all sporadically followed. During the summer of 2021, he migrated to my sister-in-law’s basement, doing yard work and small construction projects for friends and neighbors. When it was time for him to move on, he had nowhere to go and asked if he could move home. So that September, he was enrolled at the University of Minnesota, taking classes remotely, and living in his childhood bedroom.
On so many levels, I resent him. I resent his return because it means I am back roaming the house to find a place to work, having used his bedroom as my office. I resent that he sleeps until 12 p.m. while we are up and working by 7 a.m. I resent his late-night nacho making, the microwave’s hum, and the smell of cheese waking me up at 2 a.m. I nurse these and other resentments because I am good at holding a grudge. Still, I appreciate knowing where he is every night, even with my mounting resentments. I tell my husband, Bill, Max’s father, that homelessness is likely in his future, and we should be prepared to accept that. I am telling him, but I’m trying to convince myself that this decision is one I can live with.
After two episodes of him coming home drunk, we tell Max he must leave. He decides to move to Minnesota to take classes in person. As always, we agree to pay for sober housing, but he finds a room in a house with four other people he does not know. On a dark January evening, he and Bill empty his room into a U-Haul. Roy, our then eighteen-year-old, has a friend visiting, and she takes a photo of the four of us on Max’s bed, Bill and me wearing our flannel pajamas. I realize we will never live together again, and I need to document this transition, just like all our family transitions. They leave for Saint Paul in the morning, arriving in what turned out to be the coldest Minnesota winter in eight years.
In January and February, we talk to him regularly. When I see him on Facetime, he looks anxious and fragile, his speech slurred, and his emotions ragged.
Every week, I shuffle through a box of scanned photos, not ready to toss them, even though that was the point of getting them scanned. I find pictures of him with Roy or all of us, Max as a sober person. I want him to remember that things can be different and that he was not always like this. I send the photos with short notes written on postcards collected from museum trips we forced him and Roy to join.
“Thanks for sending me the postcards. They make my week,” he chokes up on Facetime one night.
On March 5, Max comes home for spring break. When I hug him, a yeasty smell escapes from his mouth. His body vibrates with nervous energy, and I suspect he hasn’t slept for a while. His unshaven face is littered with red bumps, and his unwashed hair hangs in clumps. He eats everything I put in front of him. And then he leaves. He drives to Acadia National Park with a high school friend for a vacation.
When he returns at the end of the week, he still looks one step away from homelessness. It takes him several attempts to board his flight back to Minnesota. He can’t find his ID, so he misses the first flight. We rebook for the next day, and Bill drops him off with time to spare. But he walks away from the gate when they are boarding, and the plane is gone when he returns. I am relieved when he finally boards a plane late in the afternoon.
On Monday, March 21, I get a text message.
I NEED 15$ FOR FOOD AND THEN 30$ FOR THE KILOWATT MEASURING TOOL.
I Venmo him the funds. Bill and I agree to pay for food and school-related stuff, like the tool. He admits that he can’t manage his money, and I agree. He scans receipts to prove the purchases, trying to keep himself honest, and I send him his money for the things he wants, but we won’t buy things like cigarettes, vape shit, and eating out. Oh, yeah, and alcohol. We found out later that he bought so much alcohol, but we never got those receipts.
On Tuesday, March 22, I try to reach him on Facetime, but he doesn’t answer and sends a text instead.
YES?
Me: NOTHING. I FIGURED IT OUT.
Sometimes, I just message him, wondering if he is still there.
On Thursday, March 24, at 9:10 a.m., I get this message from Dr. M, his psychiatrist:
ANNE—I HAD A CALL LAST NIGHT WITH MAX, AND HE DID NOT SOUND GOOD—HE ADMITTED TO DRINKING AGAIN (SAID THE LAST TIME WAS MONDAY), BUT I JUST WANTED TO VOICE CONCERN—HE REPORTED HIS MOOD WAS OKAY—I’M PRIMARILY CONCERNED ABOUT THE ALCOHOL. LET ME KNOW IF YOU HAVE ANY THOUGHTS.
I have plenty of thoughts. I confirm that Max has struggled to stop drinking, asks me to send money to pay his roommates back when he drinks their alcohol, and that I am worried he will die of alcohol poisoning. I want his roommates to kick him out so he must deal with the consequences of his drinking. I share all these thoughts with Dr. M., whom Max has permitted to contact us in an emergency.
Me: I CAN’T TALK TO HIM ANYMORE. IT IS JUST TOO PAINFUL TO WATCH. ANY SUGGESTIONS?
I want to retire from my role as a witness to his destruction. I work so hard to stay busy, focusing on what I want to do with my life, fearful that if I don’t stay busy, I would think I could save him. If Max decides to embark on the twelve-step journey, Bill remains an eager and experienced tour guide. My friends remind me that no one gets sober because their mom wants them to.
Dr. M tells me he will contact Max again: HE JUST NEEDS TO GO TO THE ER TO GET THE BALL ROLLING.
In the past, getting the ball rolling has proven to be a Sisyphean task. Max admits he has a problem and is pretty sure he can solve it. Alone.
I start my text thread on Friday, March 25, at 9:59 a.m..
Me: I TALKED TO DR. M. YOU NEED TO GET HELP. YOU WILL NOT GET BETTER DOING WHAT YOU ARE DOING NOW. YOU SAY THE WORD, AND WE’LL HELP YOU FIND A PLACE TO GO.
I wait hours for his response. I take Biscuit, our aging cockapoo, to his cardiology appointment, swim a mile, get a tetanus shot, and see my orthodontist, compulsively checking my phone. I have lived with this fear for five years. You would think by now that I’d have grown used to it.
4:29 p.m.
Max: I KNOW. I JUST DON’T KNOW WHAT TO DO. I’M SCARED.
Me: IT’S SCARY. CHANGE IS ALWAYS SCARY. BUT IMAGINE WAKING UP IN THE MORNING AND LOVING THE PERSON YOU SEE IN THE MIRROR. IT DOESN’T HAVE TO BE LIKE THIS.
Max: I WISH I COULD HAVE THAT MORE THAN ANYTHING, BUT I DON’T KNOW HOW
Me: YOU START BY DECIDING THAT YOUR LIFE IS UNMANAGEABLE AND YOU NEED HELP. YOU CANNOT DO THIS ALONE. YOU HAVE TRIED THAT FOR A LONG TIME, AND IT HASN’T WORKED.
Max: YEAH, I KNOW THESE THINGS, BUT I CAN’T ADMIT DEFEAT FOR SOME REASON. I STILL BELIEVE SOMETIMES I’M NOT AN ALCOHOLIC.
Me: WELL, I CAN’T ANSWER THAT FOR YOU. YOU’LL HAVE TO DECIDE THAT ON YOUR OWN. I THINK YOU HIT THE MARK OF AN ALCOHOLIC BY MOST METRICS.
Not an alcoholic? At twenty-two, he had burned his life to the ground: lost relationships, got fired from jobs, and crashed two cars. His statement defies all logic. Alcoholism is a disease that tells you that you don’t have a disease, perhaps the most dangerous kind. You can convince yourself that you don’t need help for something that doesn’t exist.
Roy and I reach him on Facetime. He keeps the screen blurred and tells us he has a bad connection. He won’t go to the ER, but he agrees to go to detox and asks for help from a sober acquaintance, someone who used to live in Maryland. This guy is well-connected with the sober world in Minnesota and finds a detox that will take him tomorrow, Saturday, at 1 p.m..
I believe Max when he tells me he needs $20 to get through the night. He has run out of alcohol. People with Alcohol Use Disorder can experience seizures and hallucinations and sometimes die without daily alcohol use. That is why liquor stores were deemed essential businesses during the pandemic, necessary to the 15 million alcoholics who need alcohol to stay alive. I tell him to take care, but I’m unsure what that looks like. Keep drinking so you don’t get sick, but don’t drink so much that you do. Am I buying him his last drunk?
Saturday morning arrives, and we try calling him. No answer. My niece, Sarah, her husband, Mustafa, and Leo, their three-year-old son, are visiting from New Jersey, where they had just moved from Minnesota. She calls her brother, David, who lives about twenty-five minutes from Max’s apartment. He drives to Max’s house and pounds on the door, but no one answers.
“I can call the police and request a wellness check,” he offers.
Bill and I look at each other, unsure if that is the correct route.
Roy sighs and then yells, “Yes, fuck, yes, do it!” disgusted by our hesitation. He has witnessed our ambivalent decision-making more times than I care to admit.
The police arrive but refuse to break in because there is no sign of disturbance. David tells them we are concerned he might be dead, and even that doesn’t move them. Apparently, the police only conduct wellness checks on disturbed homes, whatever that means—gun-wielding abusers, crying, abandoned infants? What is a wellness check if you can’t manage to check on the unwell?
1 p.m. comes and goes, and still no answer. We take a meandering walk in the woods behind our house, climbing on fallen logs, wading in the stream bed, and running around with the dogs. Leo keeps us distracted. Roy meditates on a rock overlooking the ravine for ten minutes. I envy his ability to pause during the tumult. I’m still adjusting to the possibility of Max’s death, which makes my eyes ache and my chest tight. Bill stays at home in case anyone calls. He reaches the detox center and learns Max called them to find out how late he could check in. They tell him 6 p.m. We breathe.
When David returns to the apartment at five, one of the roommates is awake, surprised to learn that Max is there too. Max staggers to stand up and starts crying. David tells us later that Max thought he and David had been drinking together. He manages to get Max to the car, but he is unconscious when they reach the detox. The staff tells David that Max is too drunk to be admitted because he must walk into detox. Too drunk for detox? I didn’t know that was possible. At David’s insistence, the detox staff calls an ambulance to take Max to the ER, David following behind.
The ER admits him and calls us later that evening. His blood alcohol level is .57. It is illegal to drive at .08. Between .30–.40 percent, you will have alcohol poisoning. Over .40 can be fatal; you stop breathing or slip into a coma. I think about another time that he was unable to walk. One humid summer day, he drove home in a blackout after work and peed outside the truck in front of our house. I watched him in horror from the screened-in porch. He staggered into the house with his arm over my shoulders and passed out on the kitchen floor. I thought he needed to sleep it off. I called Bill, crying, but neither of us thought to call an ambulance. How many times was he this close, and we did nothing?
By Sunday morning, his level has fallen to .18, and David drives him to detox, where he walks through the door. The staff is surprised to see him alive; they had been told he probably wouldn’t make it. He stays there for four days and then moves to a treatment center in St. Paul, Hazelton Betty Ford Foundation for young adults, for a few months.
Max has been sober for twenty-three months. He still lives in Minnesota with a recovery community of young men who helped him celebrate six months by smoking cigars at a friend’s house around a fire pit. He manages his current sober living house, encouraging his roommates to join him for AA meetings. When I give him shit about smoking, he reminds me of only tackling one addiction at a time. He’s taking classes at the community college, hoping to start his junior year at the University of Minnesota this summer. When we talk on Facetime, he sounds calm and looks healthier. His thinking has become less desperate and more rational. He lists things he is grateful for and talks about his future. He reaches out for help.
Even with twenty-three months of sobriety, I am afraid to believe Max has stabilized. How often did I tell people he was doing better only to witness a setback and regret I said anything? Addiction doesn’t just isolate the person with an addiction, but my recovery community surrounds me, reminding me to stay focused on myself and love him regardless. I can’t prepare for what’s next because I don’t know what’s next. Maybe it was his last drunk. Maybe not. But today, he’s sober.
***
Rumpus original art by Ian MacAllen
Voices on Addiction is a column devoted to true personal narratives of addiction, curated by Kelly Thompson, and authored by the spectrum of individuals affected by this illness. Through these essays, interviews, and book reviews we hope—in the words of Rebecca Solnit—to break the story by breaking the status quo of addiction: the shame, stigma, and hopelessness, and the lies and myths that surround it. Sisters, brothers, mothers, fathers, adult children, extended family members, spouses, friends, employers or employees, boyfriends, girlfriends, neighbors, victims of crimes, and those who’ve committed crimes as addicts, and the personnel who often serve them, nurses, doctors, social workers, therapists, prison guards, police officers, policy makers and, of course, addicts themselves: Voices on Addiction will feature your stories. Because the story of addiction impacts us all. It’s time we break it. Submit here.
