The Only Life I Could Save

by Katherine Ketcham

  The day before I fly back to Walla Walla, I ask if he wants to sit outside in the sunshine. “I’d love that,” he says. I pull two chairs into a sunny spot on the driveway, facing a birch tree—or perhaps it is an aspen. It doesn’t matter. I cover him with blankets, for there’s a slight chill in the air. We sit next to each other, holding hands, looking at the sun lighting up the leaves, which seem to quiver with joy. “Beautiful,” he whispers.

  He closes his eyes and falls asleep. Matching his breathing, I doze off. When I open my eyes, he is staring at the lit-up leaves, eyes wide in wonder. I squeeze his hand.

  “What are you thinking about, Johnny?” I ask in a whisper.

  “Oh,” he says after a moment. “This dying part.”

  I want so much to ask him questions. I want to know about this dying part—what it is like, how it feels—to know that life is now to be measured in minutes and hours, not days, weeks, or years. But it is as if a veil has fallen between us. This is holy ground, and I am not to intrude. I have wondered, over the years, if he wanted me to ask questions, to probe with him the meaning of it all—of life, of death, of all that comes between. But I believe now, as I felt then, that words would fail, as words always do when confronted with something so momentous, so indescribable, so terrifying, and, at the same time, so astonishingly beautiful as life just before death.

  John dies on May 10, five days after I return home. He is fifty-eight years old.

  On Friday, June 2, Pat and I drive to Port Townsend for Ben’s Gray Wolf “graduation” ceremony. When we arrive, I hand Ben a letter I wrote a few days earlier. He tosses it in his duffel bag, which is packed and ready to go. I have no idea if he ever read it.

  Dear Ben:

  Life. I think about these last six months and what we have all gone through. Your journey has been the most remarkable. Those first six weeks at Wilderness Treatment Center were not easy for you, not in any sense of the word. They were lonely, miserable, agonizing, terrifying . . . but you stuck it out. You were suffering deeply but you stuck it out. Few people in this world know what strength and courage it took to get through those weeks at WTC—few people will ever have to call on that kind of inner strength. I’ve heard people say that drug-addicted individuals have no willpower—but I would like to give them an addiction for a few months and see what willpower they have against a disease that takes hold of your body, mind, and spirit and affects most directly the organ that makes decisions, controls impulses, and oversees behavior—the brain. People just do not understand this disease and how powerful it is.

  So now you are off, six months clean and sober, starting a new life. You have earned respect from everyone who knows you. You have made us happy and proud, and Robyn and Alison, too. When you love someone as much as we all love you, your life is so inextricably intertwined with theirs that when they suffer, you suffer, and when they are filled with joy or pride, you are, too. I have come to realize that I am happy only when I make other people happy. When I do something that hurts others or when I think only about myself, I feel bad about myself.

  As Abraham Lincoln once said, “When I do good, I feel good. When I do bad, I feel bad. That’s my religion.”

  To me, that sums up the Twelve Steps—when we are honest, humble, grateful, forgiving, compassionate, and serve others, we feel good and when we are not, we feel bad.

  I want you to feel good, Ben. I want you to BE good in your heart and in your actions, because that is the only way you can feel good about yourself.

  Be good, my love. For your life affects more people than you will ever know and what happens to you, happens to us, too.

  I believe in you, I have faith in you, and I love you with all my heart,

  Mom

  We arrive at Gray Wolf and meet with Ben in his counselor’s office. Ben likes Kirk. He describes him as “gentle” and a “cool dude.” In the four months that Ben has been at Gray Wolf, Kirk calls us once a week or so to report on his progress. They are short calls, for the most part. At first I was disappointed, wanting more information—I had been spoiled by Ben D.’s long, detailed phone conversations. As strange as it might seem, there’s something psychologically absorbing—some might say addictive—about living in crisis. Ben’s addiction (in my mind, the demon has metamorphosed into a monstrous spider) spun its web in myriad directions—physical, mental, emotional, spiritual—wrapping us in a snarl of confusion from which we could not escape. Our hearts beat faster; our minds were deluged with terrifying thoughts; our emotions raged out of control; and our spirits were dulled, even deadened. Over time, this tangled confusion became familiar to us; even as it kept us separated and pulled apart, it also tied us together, for we had a common theme to our daily lives, a topic that consumed our thoughts and our conversations.

  As the weeks go by and the daily phone calls turn into brief weekly reports, often filled with good news about Ben’s part-time job at a golf course and his progress in individual and group therapy, we begin to unspin ourselves. Sleep comes easier. Dreams are less frightening. Conversations turn to other topics—Robyn’s life in San Diego and her applications to speech therapy master’s programs; Ali’s upcoming graduation and plans to move to Ireland for the summer; my book with William Moyers, soon to be released; Pat’s preparations for his new geology class based on John McPhee’s books, which he titled “Pages of Stone”; and my ongoing efforts to start recovery support services in our community for addicted youth and their family members. We are building up energy for our own lives once again, breathing deeper, reconnecting with friends, expanding our world—and, in the process, finding our spirits lifted and our hopes anchored to reality.

  It takes time to readjust to slow, regular heartbeats and a mind that is settling itself back into place, adjusting once again to the common and the ordinary. But as time passes and Ben seems to be adjusting to the routine at Gray Wolf, both Pat and I begin to feel a sense of relief as we have more time to focus on each other and our own lives. The last few months with my brother have also diverted me from obsessing about Ben.

  All of which is to say, I’m not at all prepared for what happens next.

  Kirk is silent as Ben begins to talk. I expect him to tell us about what he has learned and what he plans to do when he leaves Gray Wolf in just a few hours. I even hope he’ll express some gratitude or appreciation for the experiences he has had in treatment and the people who have worked so hard to help him. I should have kept Hobbes’s comic advice in mind to lower my expectations to the point where they’re already met. But hope dies hard, and we hold on as long as we possibly can—maybe longer than we should.

  “I wanted to be part of the family, but you,” Ben says, looking directly at me, “made it impossible because you would always glare at me and make me feel uncomfortable. That’s why I’d leave the house and go out and use. You hate drugs; you think everyone is like your Juvie kids. There’s no way I was ever going to win. That’s why everything fell apart.

  “It was the way it was handled, always so public. It was everyone else’s business that I was struggling—like, ‘Let’s talk about my son and his revolting behavior, his horrendous addiction.’ My aunts and uncles and cousins and our friends were all talking to people, giving details. Why the fuck did they ever need to know about this? Why were they invited to give an opinion about my drug use? About me?”

  Ben is sitting on the edge of his chair, red-faced and ready to bolt. “You had a hand in making me who I am. There was always this demonization of drugs. You always had this thing about marijuana being a bad drug for kids, a gateway drug. If someone smokes, you need to do something about it; you need to jump right on it. All that was dumped on me. Why didn’t you ask what was going on? Why didn’t we have a conversation? Marijuana was my way of dealing with things, with life, with death. But always, always there was this demonization.”

  I take a deep breath and the tape starts running in my mind, God, grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change, the co
urage to change the things I can, and the wisdom to know the difference, over and over and over. I’m trying to create a safe place for myself with the building blocks of serenity, courage, and wisdom. But they are just words, and as hard as I try to make them stand up straight and tall, they crumble before me. Because nothing has changed. I am the enemy. Our family is the enemy. Aunts, uncles, cousins are the enemy. We—especially me—are the cause of all his problems. It is all our fault.

  Ben leaves the office, and we watch him from Kirk’s office window, shooting hoops by himself. Kirk is talking, but my mind doesn’t register one word of what he says, because every bit of my energy is invested in trying to hold myself together. I wonder what I look like to this older, experienced counselor. Can he see through whatever mask I’m wearing to the quaking and quivering inside?

  I hear the bounce-bounce-bounce of the basketball. I see the trees outside Kirk’s window, with the new green leaves lifting and tilting with the wind. I feel Pat’s hand reaching for mine and the gentle squeeze of his hand. I am here, I remind myself. I am real. This is real.

  Let it be.

  We gather in the community room for the graduation ceremony. Pat and I sit on a couch, flanking Ben. Several dozen boys, all between the ages of fourteen and twenty-five years, line the perimeter of the room. It is a rectangular room, but in my memory, we are sitting in a circle. As I look from one face to the next, I think to myself, “Such beautiful boys.”

  Ben has chosen six friends and two counselors to speak at the ceremony. One by one, they walk into the center of the room. They lock eyes with Ben, and not once does their gaze waver as they cut straight through the superficialities and platitudes and tell him they’re worried about him. They don’t think he is ready to leave.

  “I wish we had a few more months with you,” one of his counselors says. “You’re starting to get it; the light is just starting to come on. I only wish we had a few more months.”

  “I love you, man,” Blake says. He’s tall, blonde, skinny, maybe sixteen or seventeen years old. He asks Ben if he remembers sharing a tent when they were in the Olympic Mountains on a wilderness excursion. All Blake wanted to do was talk, but Ben didn’t want to talk; he just wanted to read his book.

  “I never could figure that out about you, Ben,” Blake shakes his head, an amused smile on his face. “All you want to do is read books. But like I said, I love you, man. You make me laugh like no one has ever been able to make me laugh.”

  Daniel, Ben’s roommate, sits down on the floor, looking up at Ben on the couch. He says he has too much to say, and he doesn’t want to stand the whole time he’s talking. Ben laughs and then uses his sleeve to wipe the tears from his eyes.

  Daniel talks about his first roommate at Gray Wolf, “the worst roommate in the whole world.” He couldn’t wait for him to leave and get a new roommate. Finally, the guy packs his bags, and the counselors tell Daniel he’s getting a new roommate. His name is Ben.

  “So, I figure this Ben kid can’t be any worse than the first guy; he’s gotta be better, right? But guess what? You were worse. I couldn’t believe that I got stuck with you. ‘What are they doing to me?’ I thought. ‘Why do I deserve this?’”

  Daniel starts laughing, and Ben laughs with him. “It got better. It got a whole lot better. But man, I wish you weren’t leaving, because I don’t think you’re ready. I’m afraid for you.”

  I wish I had a tape recording of that hour, when heartfelt honesty triumphed. Pat and I are a mess. Once the tears start, we can’t stop them. Ben is crying, too, and we pass the box of tissues from parent to child and child to parent. My heart is breaking—the left chamber pulling away from the right, the valves disintegrating, muscles dissolving, arteries and veins pumping blood into the chest cavity. I swear I can feel the rupture.

  A story comes to me at that moment—that’s what stories do for me, they appear when I most need them—about a student who asks the rabbi why the Torah tells us to place holy words upon our hearts and not in our hearts. The rabbi responds: “It is because our hearts are closed, and so God places the words on top of our hearts, until one day our hearts break from the weight of it all and the words fall in.”

  I look at Ben. Is his heart breaking? I wonder what he is thinking and feeling as his friends tell him how much they care about him and how worried they are about him, because they all say in one way or another, You’re not ready. I wish you would stay. One more month. Just one more month. I wonder if he wants to stay and get stronger. I wonder if he knows how much these boys love him—they are not afraid to speak that word, love—and if he loves them in the same way.

  Kris, one of Ben’s favorite counselors, is the last person to speak. “The rest of your life depends on who you choose to walk on either side of you,” he says, speaking slowly and emphasizing each word. “You have two shoulders, Ben. Two. Not one. Choose wisely, for that choice will determine the pathway you will take in this life.”

  He hands Ben his medallion with a symbol of Gray Wolf Ranch on the front and the Serenity Prayer on the back. Now it is Ben’s turn to speak. His hand closes tight over the heavy coin.

  “I love you guys. I love Gray Wolf. I’ve learned so much here.”

  He holds up the medallion. “You have no idea how much this means to me,” he says, his voice choking up with emotion as his eyes fill once again with tears. “Because those fucking bastards at Wilderness didn’t give me my medallion.”

  We sit in stunned silence. I think Ben was trying to be funny and to somehow lighten the heaviness of the emotions he was experiencing. But no one laughs because it is the saddest statement ever of resentments that continue to fester and burn, altering reality and predicting the future. Whatever hope I have left is gone, crushed. He will use again. I know that. He knows it. Everyone in the room knows it.

  As we’re leaving, one of the counselors gives Ben a hug. “Remember, Ben, two shoulders. Two.”

  Then the counselor turns to me. “I wanted to tell you that I’ve read the book you wrote with Ernie Kurtz more than a dozen times. And on every page, with every story, I think about the line from one of Mary Oliver’s poem: ‘Tell me, what is it you plan to do with your one wild and precious life?’”

  He looks at Ben, then, and I realize his words are meant for him, not me. Tell me, what is it you plan to do with your one wild and precious life?

  I whisper those words to myself as we drive home in the dark. I think about my future self and wonder what I plan to do now—now that my brother is gone, now that Ben is finished with six months of treatment. In a few days, I will be fifty-seven years old, and in a few more days, Ben will be twenty.

  What we do with our lives from this point forward is at once wholly separate and deeply connected.

  13

  in the shades of sorrow and hope

  Summer 2006

  Ben is quiet for the first ten miles or so. There are no other cars on the road. Our headlights outline the pine trees on either side of the road in black and white.

  I listen to Ben talking on his cell phone.

  “Hey man,” he says in a voice loud enough for us to hear. “I’m out of prison. Free of my shackles. Let’s get together soon.”

  I look at Pat, imagining his hands tightening on the wheel. In the space between us, there is sadness and fear and even despair. But now, in contrast to the past, the pain is more like a sigh than a howl. An exhalation, a letting go, an acknowledgment, and an acceptance that from now on, our son will choose his own path. We have done what we could. We have done all we could. And now he is free.

  We drop Ben in Seattle to reunite with Q. His plan, he says, is to live with her, find a job for the summer, decide whether he wants to return to the University of Washington, and stay clean and sober. He promises to look into schools with sober dorms and recovery programs.

  We don’t hear from him for a while, nor do we try to contact him. This is his road, and we cannot choose the pathway forward. Only he can do that. He is
responsible for his future, for his life. I remember almost word for word what Jim Milam and I wrote in Under the Influence:

  The alcoholic must understand that he is not responsible for the things he said or did when he was drinking. The physical addiction controlled his behavior and because he is powerless over the addiction, he cannot be held responsible for it. . . .

  No alcoholic willfully became an alcoholic. He didn’t know what was wrong with him. Once the alcoholic understands his disease and what it takes to stay sober, however, a moral obligation does enter the picture. Now he knows: If he follows the sobriety maintenance program, he will stay sober; if he willfully or carelessly deviates from the program, he will drink again and inflict the illness on himself and others. He has a clear choice now, and he should feel the moral imperative to make the right choice.

  One day in mid-June, Ben calls to tell us that his friend Clinton wants Ben to join him and work for the summer at the Oregon coast marina his father owns. “I’ll be getting up at 5:00 a.m., fixing boats, painting, pounding nails, helping customers,” he says in an excited tone of voice. “The pay is decent, and it will be fun to spend the summer with Clinton. He’ll be a really good influence on me, and I think he really wants to help.”

  We feel good about this plan. In high school, Clinton kept his distance from the drug scene and often expressed concern about Ben’s behavior. Working long hours at the marina will also be good for Ben; maybe he will realize how much easier hard work is when he’s clean and sober. What we don’t know is that a store full of beer and wine is attached to the marina, and Ben can use his paycheck (or charge against future paychecks) to buy whatever he wants. He’s just twenty years old—not old enough to buy alcohol, but he works for the marina, and as long as he gets his work done, he’s pretty much left alone to do what he wants.