An essay about the emotional and moral challenges of dealing with a sibling’s addiction in the wake of tragic family loss…
by: Audrey Levitin
I sat as my mother paced, wearing her green and white paisley bathrobe, her now blond hair in need of a touch-up. Wheel of Fortune was on in the background.
“Mom, can you please turn that off?”
She grabbed the remote, clicked the off button. “I was so happy to know both of you kids were settled. I am so upset about this break-up. Do you think it would help if I called Paul?”
“No,” I said, “I don’t think that is a good idea.”
“I never cared about David being gay. I just want him to be alright,” referring to my brother’s love affair with cocaine. He went to rehab about once a year as if they were fun, little getaways.
“Mom, don’t worry, David will be alright.”
“No, he won’t be alright. You didn’t see. I saw.”
What she saw was David showing up at her home at the end of a week-long binge, confused, sleep-deprived, and manic.
“I cannot believe he wrecked his relationship with Paul.”
“Mom, there is nothing you can do. It’s an addiction.”
“I want the two of you to take care of each other.”
“Mom, everything is going to be OK. Don’t worry.”
An awkward silence followed. Then she said, “I don’t want you two fighting over my money.”
“You don’t have that much money, but OK. And you are going to be fine. It’s only a kidney stone.”
“I never worry about you. I worry about David.”
Completely makes sense, I thought.
Mom was having her second surgery in a month to remove a kidney stone. My brother was flying up from Florida to be with us. I drove to Newark International Airport to pick him up. As he walked to the car, I took in his good looks: chiseled nose, full lips, and now graying hair. He wore tight fitting jeans, cowboy boots, and a denim jacket. I made a mental note to lend him my old parka. He threw his leather bag into the backseat, hopped into the car, looked at me and said, “Why won’t Paul forgive me? Mommy is sick and he still won’t forgive me.”
I leaned over into a hug “Honey, he is upset. Maybe he’ll get over it.”
“But how can someone throw away a five-year relationship over one mistake?”
I didn’t have the energy to point out that using drugs, being unfaithful, and wrecking Paul’s car are not minor mistakes.
I patted his leg and said, “Let’s just get through Mommy’s surgery.”
We drove to the hospital the following morning, arriving at 7:00 a.m. and found Mom watching Good Morning America. She saw David and broke into a smile. He pushed the thick, cushioned chair to the bed, sat down and leaned forward for a hug. Following the tender moment, she said, “What the hell is wrong with you? You had such a great thing with Paul, what were you thinking?”
“I know, I know. What can I say? I have a problem. Addiction is a problem.”
The hospital transport came. David and I walked along until we weren’t allowed to go further. We gave her a kiss and said we would see her later.
We sat in the waiting area, drinking Starbucks coffee, watching The Today Show, looking up at one of the three small TVs hanging on the wall. The anticipated ‘two-hour, minor, no need to worry’ surgery turned into three. My aunt arrived. Three hours turned into four. My husband and cousins arrived. We were moved to a private waiting area. My mother passed away the following day. She died from the surgery.
Everyone left the hospital in the cars they came in, unintentionally leaving me to drive home alone. l walked down the long dimly lit beige corridor to the elevator, hit the button to the lobby, left the building and walked through the large revolving doors. The cold and wind were punishing. My head was down, making it hard to see. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw rows A1, A2, B1, B2. I reached my car after a brutal fifteen-minute walk. I stepped into my red van and took out my validated ticket to exit. The metal arm rose, and I left the hospital.
In what felt like an out of body experience, I heard screaming and realized I was hearing my own voice. The screams turned into sobs, and I forced myself to calm down. I thought about putting on the radio but thought music or news would somehow disrespect my mother. I arrived home and opened the door and my husband Nick, and our children, Josh and Nina, greeted me with a group hug.
David was sitting on the couch, his hands over his eyes. Nick and the kids went upstairs leaving us alone. David was shaking his head, crying, “Mommy, mommy, mommy.”
“David, people die. It’s just what happens,” sounding colder than I intended, annoyed that this moment was entirely about David. I moved next to him and we held hands, sitting in silence.
The funeral and shiva followed. Our friends and family poured out their love by sending too many chicken dinners, leaving us with a storage problem. The table in the dining room was filled with pastries and fruit platters. In between crying and socializing, David kept the house clean, wiping down the kitchen table, washing, drying, and putting away the dishes. My parents had financial struggles, but with the sale of their house, Mom was able to leave us each $80,000.
David never did get back together with Paul, but he stayed sober and was active in the 12-step program. Then David lost his job amid layoffs in the 2008 financial crisis. With the money my mother left, he had the means to forge a lengthy, life-altering relapse, the launching of which coincided with my plans for a visit. The night before I was to leave I received a text message: Don’t come. I’ve relapsed but I’m getting support from my sponsor. Please don’t try to reach me.
I was furious, a feeling that quickly gave way to panic when he didn’t respond for days and then weeks to texts, emails, and phone calls. I figured something terrible must have happened. It was inconceivable that David would deliberately disappear and ignore my increasingly frantic messages. I woke up and went to sleep each day wondering where he was, receiving occasional cryptic text messages: Give me until Monday.
When Monday came, I wouldn’t hear from him.
I couldn’t accept the idea that David would disappear unless he had been murdered, kidnapped, or overdosed, a worry I kept to myself for fear of seeming crazy. A week went by and on a sunny spring day I sat in my backyard under our red oak tree, ruminating about David’s whereabouts. Unable to sit still, I walked to our porch, opened the screen door, and announced to Nick, “I think David is dead. I think he was murdered and the murderer took his money and cell phone and is sending me texts to keep me distracted.”
“I’ve had it with your brother,” he said. “He never grew up. I’m sure he is just getting high and will surface at some point.” He then let me cry and rant and consider any number of things to do, like hiring a private detective, which was a possibility if David didn’t emerge soon.
I lived In dread he would never be found, and I would live in the nightmare of never knowing what happened to him. I thought I should go to Florida to look for him despite having a family and job. My internal debate went something like this.
I should go down there.
But it’s dangerous.
Yes, but he is your brother.
What about Mommy and Daddy? I’m responsible now. They are not here. What kind of a daughter am I? This is your responsibility.
No it’s not, I replied to myself. I have a family and a job.
Yes, but your brother is in trouble, you have to go down there.
I never went to Florida because in practice, I had no idea how to find a missing person.
Finally, David called. While I was worrying, he was getting high with a guy he met online. He finally left a voicemail to let me know he would not stand for interrogations.
Despite what we believe about the separation of church and state, the United States has a national religion: The 12-step program. Alcoholics Anonymous, and its spin offs, are the primary treatment for substance abuse. The 12-steps are embedded in our culture, embraced by the red and the blue; the treatment of choice by the medical community, psychiatrists, rehabs, and the Salvation Army. Insurance companies cover the costs. Movies and television shows endorse the program through its characters who are healed by working the steps. It is unifying, kind and wise. Most people affected by substance abuse end up at a meeting.
I found the 12-steps impossibly counterintuitive. The core tenet of detachment contradicted what I believed made me a good person. My brother was in danger of destroying his life. What is expected of a daughter and sister, a Jew, and a liberal? Wasn’t I my brother’s keeper Wasn’t addiction a disease, a medical problem in need of treatment? How could I live a normal life not knowing where David is? How can I be in a nice house, with financial security, if David is homeless or hungry? What about my parents? How could I fail them?
I would hear him on the other end of the phone, lying to me about what he was up to. I didn’t hear the addiction, I heard David, the kid I grew up with, shared bath time, walked to school, and watched The Wizard of Oz every year. I imagined him homeless, wandering the streets while I was safely housed. And therein lies the dilemma. If I left David to his own devices, I would no longer be a good person.
I decided David and I needed a visit to talk things through. We would reestablish our connection, and he would regain his sanity. After some pleading, my husband agreed to have my brother come for a long weekend.
I envisioned a four-day weekend going like this: On Thursday David and I would be alone, reconnecting for a cozy night of Chinese food and television. Friday we would run errands and have Shabbat dinner. Saturday he would come to synagogue. Saturday night we would go out for dinner with our cousins Lisa and Dana, and Sunday we would go to a Narcotics Anonymous meeting.
The weekend went as planned without the hoped-for warm transformative experience I was expecting. The cab pulled up and I watched him walk up my driveway carrying his leather bag. I opened the door expecting a smile and a hug. Instead, he was sullen, no hug, no smile.
“How was the flight?” I asked.
“Uncomfortable, I had to sit in the middle.”
I let him know about the weekend plans.
“I don’t want to go to synagogue, and I don’t want to go to an NA meeting,” he said.
“I thought you would be happy.”
“Audrey, you have expectations, the 12-step program says you shouldn’t have expectations. It puts too much pressure on me.”
Silence and then he asked, “Can I borrow your car? I want to visit Carol.”
Carol is a family friend.
“No, you cannot have my car.”
Surprised, he replied, “Why, what do you think I’m going to do?”
“I have absolutely no idea what you are going to do which is why I’m not giving you the car.” I wasn’t crazy enough to give him my car.
Nick and the kids were out the first evening. David and I ordered Chinese food, but rather than having the cozy night I expected, we made awkward attempts at conversation.
On Friday we ran errands and I found myself pontificating. I gave him the ‘character is king’ sermon, ‘the feelings are not facts’ sermon, the ‘all we want is for you to work at Macy’s, Nordstroms, Neiman Marcus and if all else fails, anywhere would be fine’ sermon. The ’90 meetings in 90 days’ sermon. I couldn’t stop lecturing him.
He said with great irritation, “Audrey, it’s a disease. I have a disease. I have to work up to it. I’m only on the second step.”
I found the response infuriating.
The next stop in my fantasy weekend was dinner with Dana and Lisa at American Joe’s, essentially a pricey upscale diner at the Short Hills Mall. David and I made small talk during the 20-minute drive arriving at 6:00 pm, parking in the massive three-story lot. We walked in, passing by the high-end stores I thought would be a great fit for David’s employment should he move to New Jersey — Bloomingdales, Macy’s, Nordstroms, and outlets for all things designer, Louis Vuitton, Coach, Aritzia, and Anthropology.
We were greeted by a hostess holding large menus. She led us through the crowded restaurant to booths with cushioned seats, dark wood tables with white napkins.
We spotted Dana and Lisa. They stood and hugged us. They looked great as always. Their outfits were somehow perfectly coordinated, the sweaters, jeans and boots, bags and shoes working in unison. I was in the habit of taking them in to figure out what exactly they did that had them look so put together. I made an internal note to reconsider weekly blowouts.
We sat and dove right in.
Dana started, “David, you have put Audrey through hell. I’m more worried about her than you. This isn’t fair.”
“How could you blow away all that money?”
“Is there anything we can do to help?”
He was sulking, arms folded, frowning.
We were silent as the waitress, with remarkable skill, brought our dinners, holding several large plates in her right arm, kneeling slightly as she opened the collapsible food tray with her left where she placed the food. She served David last, setting the steak, baked potato, and salad in front of him served on a thick white plate. She turned and gave David his coke in a large glass and asked if we needed anything else. We said no thank you. With that, she turned and left. As Dana , Lisa and I picked up our forks to dig in, David pushed away the plate filled with the expensive dinner and said, “I’m not hungry.”
We cocked our heads sideways, sighed, frowned, glancing at each other.
Nevertheless, and on cue. “Are you depressed?” Lisa asked.
“Yes, I’m very depressed but I don’t have money for a doctor, medication, or a therapist.”
With that prompt, Dana, Lisa and I jumped in with suggestions as to how we could help, including searching for the right psychiatrist, medication, and therapist. He continued to sit silently, arms folded.
“Dave, what is the matter? We are trying to help,” Lisa said.
“I feel like everyone is forcing me to just get into action and get excited about recovery. I can’t just get with the program,” snapping his fingers, suggesting we were asking too much of someone so sick.
“I won’t be pressured,” he said, leaning forward, elbows on the table, putting his head in his hands.
Dana , Lisa and I looked at one another.
“That’s it. I’m done,” Lisa said.
The three of us had had enough and ate our dinner as David continued to explain how much emotional and financial trouble he was in.
“David, you have one person to take care of, you! Come on. We all have families. We are too old for this,” Dana said.
“Dave you have to take charge of your addiction,” Lisa added.
For the remainder of the dinner, David picked at his food, as we ate. By the end of the night my stomach was in knots and, mercifully, it was time to leave.
As the evening concluded Dana and Lisa gave me their share of the bill in cash. They left the restaurant while David and I stayed behind to pay. I was rattled and unthinkingly took the cash Dana and Lisa gave me, put it in my coat pocket, leaving just the tip in the restaurant’s leather folder.
In silence the four of us walked through the mall to the outdoor parking lot. I saw our car and clicked the electronic key. I then heard a voice, looked up, and saw our waitress running toward us, shouting “Did you just eat at American Joe’s?”
“Yes.”
”You didn’t pay the bill.”
I felt the money in my pocket. I walked very quickly behind the waitress stammering, my barely controlled anxiety breaking through into full blown panic, as if my stomach was in my chest.
“I’m so sorry. Really. We are in the middle of a family crisis. You have no idea. I wasn’t thinking. It was a mistake, that’s all. Of course I’ll pay the bill.”
At the restaurant I was met by two other servers who listened with frowns, dubious as I gave them a vague explanation of family stress leading to an innocent mistake. With more than a hint of hostility, our waitress explained that the staff is responsible for a charge if a customer skips out. I paid the bill and I think they believed me.
Mortified, I reached the car, opened the door and slid into the driver’s seat. David was in the back seat, crying, or as he is fond of saying, “having a moment.” We dropped Lisa and Dana off at their car on the other side of the mall. As we said goodbye they gave me especially close hugs, sharing glances and eye rolls.
David and I drove home in silence, my mind reeling from the emotional toll his addiction was having on me.
My mother admonished us to take care of each other. I’m also sure my parents never imagined having to say, “Here Audrey, meet your baby brother. He will develop a serious drug addiction and one day when we are gone, you will have to take care of him. He will be a burden, a royal pain in the ass, and present you with impossible to solve moral dilemmas. Love, Mom and Dad.
After twenty minutes of driving in silence, I pulled into my driveway. David looked at me and said, “Audrey, I feel like you’re mad at me.”
I turned and looked at him, astonished by his capacity for understatement.
I woke up Sunday eager to move on from the mall debacle. In an effort at normalcy, Nick went out to buy bagels and lox. The three of us watched Sunday morning news shows until it was time for the next stop on our rehabilitation tour: a Narcotics Anonymous meeting.
On the drive over to a nearby church, David and I talked about whether Obamacare would pass or if the Giants would beat the Eagles. We arrived at a large brick building with a steeple and bell emanating a calming ring. A sign announced: All Are Welcome.
We parked and walked toward a group of people congregating at the back of the building, grabbing a smoke before a meeting. We entered the back of the church and walked through a narrow hallway with several rooms off to the side, each marked with NA, AA or Al Anon signs. We saw the sign for the NA meeting and turned right into a large, musty room with portraits of church elders, a piano, and a large sitting area with old couches and stuffed chairs. Several volunteers were putting out folding chairs for the thirty or so participants. On two tables sat a large stainless steel coffee maker, paper cups, and packets of Cremora. Another had NA pamphlets. The Big Book was available for purchase.
Calling the meeting to order was an older woman with short curly gray hair, wearing polyester beige slacks, comfortable shoes, and a flowered blouse. First up, a brief conversation about the financial health of the meeting as baskets for donations were passed. The main speaker shared his experience, strength and hope. He appeared to be in his 30s, had a black leather jacket and tattoos. The people assembled were young, middle aged, and old, wealthy, working class and poor. The cultures were different, but the stories were the same, I stole, I overdosed, I broke my mother’s heart. I was arrested, I drove while I was high, I burned through all my money.
I watched David out of the corner of my eye, hoping the meeting would reorient him to his recovery. David had called me several months after our mother’s death and breakup with Paul. He was watching My Name is Bill W, a made for TV movie about the founder of AA. He had a moment of enlightenment.
“Audrey, my entire life has been framed by fear,” he said. “I was able to see outside of the fear and experience that life is possible without that feeling.”
He devoted himself to working the steps. He became a leader in his home 12-step meeting, testifying and serving on the board. And then, the inevitable disappointments, a lack of vigilance and relapse. I was hoping the meeting would move him forward in his recovery, a return to what he already knew.
The meeting ended and we stood to say The Lord’s Prayer. I was comfortable standing as a Jew, in this ecumenical setting, saying this most Christian of prayers: “Our Father, who art in Heaven, hallowed be thy name.”
As we left, I looked at him with hope and said, “Wow, what a great meeting.” He responded with some pity and more than a little patience, “Audrey, it’s just another meeting.”
David and I drove home in silence. Feelings at this point were quite mutual. David had more than enough of me. We spent Sunday in different rooms watching the same football game. It was a relief.
I decided to take a walk at Verona Park to clear my head. It is a 10-minute drive from my house. I made a right onto Bloomfield Avenue, with its Main Street, USA vibe that included a real estate office, hair and nail salons, coffee shop, and clothing boutique. I entered the park, slowing down to 10 mph, passing by the familiar playground filled with families, tennis courts, open green spaces, and gorgeous gardens.
I usually put on my headset for my walk but on this day I preferred the sounds around me. I shared the walking path with the geese. I watched with a sense of calm, the ducks gliding across the lake, creating little crests of water as they moved. There were trees of all shapes and sizes. I especially love a particular weeping willow. As I circled the lake, I passed by the large wood boathouse and watched families in swam-like paddle boats, a father and his little boy fishing, moms pushing strollers. A county police car drove by and everyone moved aside to enable the officer to pass.
Unbidden, a stream of thought flooded my mind. I recognized the park to be a collective commitment to the community. There are rules allowing this little piece of Heaven on earth to exist. I passed by the roller skaters and runners, then walked over the little bridge that connects one side of the park to the other.
In the purity of nature and landscaped gardens I considered what I had to lose if I were to continue to try to manage David’s addiction. The fears in the back of my mind leapt to the front. Unintended consequences, including financial disaster and encounters with the police, all stem from drugs. Drug addiction threatens the blessing of normal life, reflected in the calm peace of the local park. The very fact that our nation’s institutions use, by default, a religious teaching as our nation’s primary treatment program, is evidence enough that David’s addiction is not a problem I can solve or even manage.
Addiction overtakes family love and obligation. It is a monster of a problem, combining mental illness, character defects, and the need to navigate a completely confusing cultural response: Is it a disease or a crime? Whatever we decide as a country, it’s a living nightmare for family members. Addiction is like a horror film, where an outside entity runs away with the person you love.
David went home. During his visit I began a years-long process of putting distance between David and my right to protect myself. The four-day visit was If nothing else, sobering.
It’s been ten years since the canceled vacation. David has had his ups-and-downs, gotten and lost jobs, gone to long term rehabs, re-devoted himself to the 12-step program, became a Christian, gotten better for a time, then relapsed. We visited, some of our times together were happy ones and others painful. Sometimes we are in touch, then he unexpectedly disappears for a while.
I have found a place of love, though. I have found it in memory. There, I hold David in my heart. I remember the little boy I grew up with whom I shared bath time, daily walks to school, annual viewing of The Wizard of Oz, cheering for the New York Giants, and trips to Ohio in the back seat counting cars. I remember the love, the fun and pain we shared as children, our teenage challenges, and our happy adult milestones.
I often look at photographs of us. There is one from my wedding of David walking our grandmother down the aisle, David looking smashing and happy in his morning suit. Another of David holding our son when he was a baby, beaming. And a series of goofy pictures of us making faces and blowing bubble gum while together in a quick photo booth, and a silly picture on a keychain I keep on my kitchen bulletin board. David’s arm around me, both of us smiling as a stranger took the picture.
I keep alive in my mind his humor, his sense of fashion and beauty, his love of politics. It is as if he is away and will come back someday and I am keeping the porch light on, waiting for his return. Each year as we age and as the addiction continues with its inexorable power, my hope for his full return dims. I’ve become resigned to having lost the brother I should have had in my life, sometimes the only person I want at certain moments.
I keep the person I knew alive in my memory, in a private place away from the pain. It is a place the addiction cannot reach.
Audrey Levitin is Senior Counsel at CauseWired, a firm working with social service and human rights organizations. For 15 years she was the Chief Development Officer at the Innocence Project. Ms. Levitin is an essayist and her work has been seen in the Star Ledger, The Weekly Forward, and Cape Cod Life. She has also written about criminal justice reform in Occupy Wall Street and the Innocence Project. She and her husband, photographer Nick Levitin, live in West Orange, New Jersey.
