Actions Speak Louder

"I'm sorry, Mom."

His words echoed, glitching in my head like static. How many times can a person utter the same words before they lose their meaning? I tried to muster a tear, some kind of outrage, anything to keep the numbness at bay. I slammed a cupboard door and scared the dog.

"It's ok," I whispered, rubbing between his ears. He blinked and gave me the cute puppy eyes. Darkness peered from the windows, so I forced myself into my morning routine. The sun would be up soon, and the girls would be hungry for breakfast. I was happy to keep my mind elsewhere.

Yesterday's lunch was what I expected. He couldn't meet my eyes for long; glimpses of rage burned from his core. The dark energy of it hit like a physical force. Sometimes, I would rather he just punch me right in the face.

I put the filter into the coffee pot and filled it with my favorite brew. I used to tell him when he was young that actions speak louder than words. People will say a lot of things, but it's what you do that defines you. Once upon a time, he was someone I could always count on. Those days are gone.

Birthday balloons and cute decorations mock me from the calendar as I walk by to fill the pot with water. He'll be thirty-five this year. Closing my eyes I tried to still the images of how it used to be before it guts me.

Jacob. My only child. One of the greatest loves of my life. The boy who never gave me a moment's concern. The child who always thought of others, the first one to lend a hand. His teachers adored him, smart, funny and helpful, they'd said. Outstanding report cards showed hard work and effort. He'd had dreams, plans for his future, but most of all, he was looking forward to being a parent and having a family of his own. I was probably the proudest mother on the planet. Once.

April 1, 2008, on his way home from a job interview, he was involved in a bad car accident. He went by ambulance to the hospital and was treated before I received a call. I thought he was pranking me. I drove like a mad woman to the hospital, where they were discharging him. Broken arm, sprained back muscles, but overall, he was very lucky, they said.

Jake had his own apartment and just wanted to go home. His girlfriend at the time was there waiting for him. I drove him to his place and hugged him hard, so very thankful he was okay. That was the last time I recognized my child; the one I thought I knew better than myself.

As the weeks go by, I begin to notice that he's off a bit. He always looks pale and exhausted. He started smoking cigarettes, something he'd never done. He says he's having headaches, and his back has been bothering him a lot. His moods are up and down. He tells me not to worry; he has an appointment to see his doctor in a few days.

I start dropping by to check in on him. He works two jobs and was in his last year of college. No one's home, but there are alcohol bottles and trash everywhere. I hold my breath from the smell. He shared the apartment with another couple, usually the place is neat. Not today.

"I'm sorry, Mom."

He became evasive. Stopped coming by to visit. Broke up with his girlfriend. When he finally did show up, he's moody, angry, defensive, and definitely not acting like himself. Then it's like a switch flip... he cried and apologized; he's under a lot of pressure. A nagging feeling comes over me, so I find out where they have taken his car. I wanted to see the damage myself. After years of working in EMS, every sense I had was tingling. Something was very wrong.

What's left of his eclipse was horrifying. There's no front end, only shards of glass and pieces of metal pushed into the front seats. I walked around to the driver's side. The windshield was intact but splintered on the drivers side. I can see where his head starred the glass. Closing my eyes, I realized... he wasn't wearing his seatbelt.

It was the first question I'd asked him... did you hit your head? He'd said no, he was wearing his seatbelt. I'd tried to remember if he had any obvious injuries there when I picked him up and sighed. He was wearing his baseball hat. I never saw his head.

On the ride home from the impound yard, I called his father to tell him what I'd found and sent him a picture of the car. He's upset and concerned. We decide to do an intervention and invite our son to dinner, but when he shows up, he has a new girl with him.

Gently, I ask him questions about the accident, but he gets defensive. The girl, Trudie, begins to dominate the conversation. She's rude and disrespectful.

I tried again, turning my body towards him to block her out. He said he really can't remember much about the accident; he thinks he lost consciousness until the ambulance got there. He remembered the sirens and talking to the EMT. He told me not to worry with a smile, that he's been seeing his doctor for bi-weekly follow ups for his back.

I asked him about doing a CT scan of his head.

He nods ok, but Trudie becomes loud and demanding. She's ready to go.

Two alcohol related arrests later, he has to move home. He'd lost his job because he can't remember how to do repairs on things he'd been doing since he was twelve. His truck was being repossessed because he's six months late with the payments. All of his bank accounts were overdrawn. So not like him.

Jake had his first loan without a co-signer when he was seventeen. He had a savings and checking account he'd been managing successfully for years. He never drank much as a teen because he was always the designated driver and hated being out of control. Nothing made any sense.

Now he was looking at actual jail time for a party held at his house because he was twenty, and charged with underaged alcohol consumption while providing it to other minors. It was like a pod-person had invaded my child. He was a total stranger.

We finally get all the court appearances taken care of and fines on a payment plan. Jake's on a differed disposition for a year. That means no trouble. Another intervention. If this situation was ever going to get better, he had to help himself and make some appointments. Finally, he agreed there was a big problem, and he would go with me to see a neurologist.

On the morning of the appointment, Jake told me he's dating Trudie again and that she's important. He wanted to know if he can bring her with him.

There's no way I could handle her today. "Pease... can we focus on the doctor without any distractions... just for today," I begged.

He thought about it and agreed.

Thank God.

We flipped through the pictures of the car and discussed the changes since the accident while we sit in the waiting room. He got up and began to pace.

"What if there's something really wrong with me?" he asked.

I pulled him into the seat beside me, meeting his worried gaze. "Then we'll figure out the best way to fix it, together." I rubbed his back. "When you're working on a car, don't you have to put it on a code scanner and do diagnostics on it to know where to start?"

He nods.

"Kind of the same thing here. The doctor will ask you questions and probably want to run some tests. Then, we will have an idea of where we should start looking to help you feel better."

He smiled. A real smile. A weight lifted in my chest. I was so hopeful then.

The doctor was fantastic. He looked at everything, asked a lot of questions, and did a CT scan. The scan revealed a lot of scar tissue and swelling in his brain. Closed head trauma, but to what extent the damage was... he would need to put Jake in the hospital for three days or possibly longer, to do expansive testing. The doctor was cautious but positive. Jake was young and had a much better chance at recovery if we moved quickly.

"I just started a new job," he turned to me, panicked.

"This is more important," I told him. Hospitals had never been his favorite, and I knew the idea of spending time overnight was a stressor.

"I'll stay with you and we could make it a party."

He gave me a half-smile but nodded in agreement.

"I'm sorry, Mom."

A few days before the admission, he called to say he would need to reschedule because of an insurance conflict. That pushed his next appointment out a few more weeks.

Trudie was younger than most of the lafies my son dated, but she seemed to hold an immense amount of sway with him. She would come to visit, and I could hear her telling him there was nothing wrong with him and that I was being controlling. Being around her was difficult.

As the days passed, he was in a holding pattern of sorts. He seemed a bit happier, was sleeping better and there was no alcohol issue since he was living back at home. He only had another month before his differed disposition would be over and filed. The only catch: the manipulative woman child who stayed over occasionally when he thought I wasn't paying attention.

The morning before we were supposed to go to his second scheduled admission, he told me abruptly that he'd canceled it.

I opened my mouth to speak, but he held up his hand as if to stop me.

"We just found out Trudie's pregnant. It wasn't the best time for me to be stuck in the hospital for... who actually knew for sure."

Wait... What ... Jake wasn't ready for that kind of pressure. My heart sank.

Trudie opened the door to his bedroom, came out wearing his robe and a very self-satisfied smirk.

"Mind if I take a shower? she asked, while grabbing a towel from the closet.

I was speechless as she breezed by me, sashaying up the stairs. It took every ounce of will power I had not to knock her on her ass.

"Actually, Trudie, I do mind." She met my look with defiance. I straightened my spine but didn't drop my stare.

"I'm sure your family would love to hear the exciting news, while I reschedule Jake'sadmission. " I smiled, hoping it didn't come out as a feral snarl. "A baby, how exciting, I'm thrilled for both of you," I lied.

"I don't think there is anything wrong with Jake, except you like having him trapped under your wing all the time." She snapped. "I get he's your kid, but he's almost twenty-one years old. He can make his own decisions."

I bit my tongue. Hard. "His doctor ordered those tests for a reason. Since you're not a neurologist, maybe you should be a bit more concerned about Jake's health, especially for your child's sake."

"I'll wait in the bedroom until you're done." Trudie looked at my son pointedly, dropped the towel on the stairs and marched back toward his bedroom. She paused by the door, "Besides... I haven't decided what I'm going to do about my baby... yet," before slamming the door.

Jake gave me a "Really, mom?" look before rushing after her.

Sweet Jesus... I closed my eyes and breathed deeply. This couldn't be happening.

Apparently, Jesus didn't take the wheel on this particular occasion. A year later, and I'm up to my eyeballs in diapers, fighting parents, and a Gram.

My eighty-year-old grandmother, who had dementia and a whole litany of other fun medical problems, had lived with us since 2000. So, when I say up to my eyeballs in diapers, I'm not kidding. Gram also had sundowners; yes, its a real thing... trust me, but that's another story.

The baby, a beautiful, healthy girl was perfect. Immediately, Trudie started acting unbalanced, sure that there was something wrong, and then admitted in tears that she had used drugs during her pregnancy. Because she was alone with no parent to lean on, I tried to help her, but Trudie's behavior became worse. She couldn't seem to grasp that a baby, any baby, didn't come out wanting to hug her or say mama. From there, she spiraled back to being sure there was some kind of brain damage.

A few days later, Trudie came upstairs with a screaming newborn and thrust her at me. "I want to throw her against the wall." There was zero emotion.

I tried not to show my horror. Reaching for the baby, my heart broke for her. I held her tight, rocking her against my chest. She quieted quickly. She ate well, burped great, and slept for four to six hours at a time. The only time that child cried was when she was hungry or if her diaper needed to be changed.

It's two am a few days later. Trudie was screaming loud enough that I'm surprised the neighbors haven't reported a murder in progress. My son was now working nights because she had such severe post-partum depression, she couldn't care for her child, never mind herself. She complained constantly about everything from living at her in-law's house, to me stealing her baby, to Jake not making enough money. Nothing was ever good enough.

Jake's health had taken a toll. He never made it to his testing,, no matter how much I begged. He was a ghost of his former self, and his mood swings were getting intense. One night, I was trying to find a clean diaper downstairs. Instead, I walked in on my son snorting white powder off the bar top they used as a dining area.

This explained a lot.

He sat in a chair shaking uncontrollably. "I think I have a problem."

I grabbed the prescription bottle from the counter. Oxycodone 10 mgs for back pain. I sank into the chair beside him. Leaning back, I tried to relax my posture, inviting him to talk.

"I know, I'm stupid." He looked briefly at Trudie. "I heard a lot of people snort the pills when the prescribed way doesn't working anymore." He began to sob. "Now I need more. I've tried getting off them, but I get the shakes and feel like crap." His shame was mirrored on his face, along with defeat. "Then I tried mixing it with booze and my moods blow up." He hung his head, "I know what I need to do."

My heart sank. Addiction was a demon that destroyed souls. I felt like an idiot. How could I have missed this?

Jake started going to meetings and seemed to be doing better. Trudie started getting out of bed and helped a bit around the house. A few months go by, and things seemed to be settling down.

I'm making dinner on my birthday. Trudie marched into the kitchen and announced she's pregnant... again. My eyes nearly popped out from my head. I'm sure I'm having a stroke.

Ironically, Trudie had actually started calling me mom and had come to me a few months before the big revelation. She'd said she felt ready to be a real mom. The baby was ten months old and had bonded with me. No matter what I did, the baby cried when left with Trudie for more than an hour. She had little patience or connection to the baby. Even the idea of her having another child was enough to give me massive anxiety.

Both parents had battled pretty serious addictive and abusive behaviors. I never forgot Trudie telling me she wanted to throw the baby against the wall, or the complete lack of emotion.

My husband was the only one working. I'd explained to her that we really couldn't afford anything more at this point in time. Trudie said she understood and would wait until they had their own place. She seemed excited get out of the house to take classes on parenting skills, to sign up for her GED, and start driver's ed.

Instead, we'd looked at birth control options, and she went to her doctor to find the right one for her. That was the last I'd heard of it. She'd started her GED and was doing well.

I looked at Trudie, "I thought you were getting the depo shots? I drove you to the pharmacy to pick it up and dropped you off for your appointment."

She shrugged. "I guess it was a dud," and then grinned at me, "By the way, Happy Birthday."

A little more than a year later, my son walked out and disappeared. His addiction was out of control again. There was no reasoning with him.

Every once in a while, he calls or leaves a message.

"I'm sorry, Mom."