my oscillation
between guilt, anger, and grief
keeps me quite busy


Orbital bone broken in two places, still trying to see if his jaw is broken.  Surgery scheduled for tomorrow - they are worried about his vision.  And yet he's on social.    And of course his story has him going to a BBQ that "he was invited to" and mysteriously getting jumped by three guys who break three bones in his face during the beating.  He searches for his dog (heroic!) and almost gets shot (drama!) before the guy with the gun sees his wounds and calls 911.

He arrives to the hospital via ambulance.

He isn't talking to the police because his dog is still missing and he's worried that the guys that jumped him might have her and harm her.  I suggest, you know - like a 49 year old mother of three who doesn't operate in the criminal element - that perhaps the police would help find Lola and that he's probably mistaken he can negotiate for her release.  I don't understand.  Of course I don't.  I only raised three kids, held jobs, made a marriage work.  What could I possibly know about life seeing as I'm not mentally ill, drug addicted, living on the street and having my head bashed in at a party?

But I've watched enough crime drama to know this isn't an organized hit and whoever has that dog has either killed it or left with it as a pet.   There is no negotiation for her timely release.  

Let's not even unpack the question of why the hell a homeless, mentally ill person has a pet when he can't take care of himself.  Apparently the short answer is "protection" - but um.. how well did that work?

But here I sit.  Grief that our child had this happen to him, compounded by the years of grief over his diagnosis, behaviour, refusal of treatment, and his drugs and alcohol abuse.  Anger that he doesn't learn, and that it's never his fault, and that we'll be going through this for a few years yet.  Guilt that I can make fun of it, that I'm at the point where it really isn't real anymore.  

Had a conversation last night.  Bob wishes he could just bring him here.  Force him into recovery.  Make it all better.  He wanted to ask Dylan if he's ready to come home.  I reminded him that Dylan is an adult.  He has to choose recovery, he has to get home on his own, and he has to figure out his life.  Mommy and Daddy and grandma and whoever else has to stop trailing him like the guy with the wheelbarrow in the parade, cleaning up his messes and making it easy.  Recovery for this boy will not be easy.