the telephone rings

and life stops, for a moment

nothing but waiting.

Last night at 4:20, amusingly enough, I found out our youngest was in an Alabama hospital, after being beaten up and having his orbital bone broken.  

Immediately, you wonder what you can do - flights to the states are cancelled, I can't cross the border, I have a friend in Panama City Beach, but that's almost 3 hours away...  and of course, we don't know which hospital or how our son is taking this beating.  

When you're a mentally ill addict, it's more likely you're pissed off and launching into some seriously bad behaviour in the hospital, then using this time to ponder how you got here in the first place.

Your second thought is "live by the sword, die by the sword".  Sadly, when you're a mentally ill hobo with drug and alcohol addiction issues - this is not a surprising outcome to a weekend.  I work in a downtown mission that serves folks like my son and it's not unusual to see cuts, bruises, broken bones, and other issues all in various stages of healing.  Orbital bones get broken when you get stomped or hit with a bat.  That wasn't an every-day jumping to take a phone.  

15 hours later, still no word.  I complained to Bob that Dylan's grandmother, the one updating us, didn't tell me which hospital he was in - and Bob started in on me not "involving him in this drama".  So I went into my gmail, erased the freaking emails, plastered a smile on and said "ok". 

Involving you in this drama?    It's your freaking kid - and once again his other family is working with me because they cannot handle his high and mighty attitude.  He said last night that if Dylan dies, he doesn't know how he will ever forgive Brenda.  I mentioned she's probably feeling the same about him.  

Neither one of them has ever wanted to see Dylan for what or who he is - unsurprising to see that 20 years later, they are still peacocking about who the better parent is while his grandmother and I figure out what he needs.