Sometimes life’s lessons are learned the hard way.
Several issues ago I wrote in this space about my husband Phil’s and my decision to help a dear friend’s grandson and his best friend get off the streets and get an education. Drug abuse, alcoholism and just no sense of guidance had led to a life on friends’ couches and apartment floors—and both reached out to us for help.
The 21- and 19-year-old straight men moved into our small St. Petersburg home under the understanding that several basic rules must be followed in order for the arrangement to work. No alcohol or drugs in the house, daily housekeeping tasks fall into their realm of responsibility, NA or AA meetings are to be attended daily and “rent” is to be paid in the form of attending GED classes daily and/or securing a job.
Every day for about two months, I’d take the guys to their GED classes in the morning, then pick them up before lunch, all while working my day job.
In the evenings, I’d schlep them to Narcotics Anonymous and on weekends we actually had “family time.” The four of us would check out a movie, go out to eat—just spend time together and try to keep them focused on improving their lives and distract them from temptation.
But then things came crashing down.
After several missteps, we had threatened to kick the guys out and at one point I thought one of them had finally hit that “rock bottom” I had heard so much about.
But addiction is a tough road to hoe. As I’ve stated before, I’ve been fortunate in my life to not have any troubles with addiction.
So it’s hard for me to understand what happened next with our adopted sons. When the younger of the two returned from an extended weekend, I took the two over to their GED class like we had done so many times before.
I then returned home and began working. After about two hours I looked at my husband and expressed concern over the delay in their calling for a ride. Usually after finishing an assignment, they were outside, dialing one of us to get them out of there.
But not that day.
Just like a parent—and like my mother would do—I called the teacher. She informed me that the guys hadn’t been in that day. At about the same time, Phil got a call from one of them saying they had to stay late at school to finish up some work they had missed.
When I hung up with the teacher, he informed me of this, so I called her back to do a double-verify. They weren’t in class that day.
When they finally did call for their ride, Phil picked them up and immediately smelled alcohol. When they got home, I asked them what they covered in school.
“Geometry and algebra,” was the response from one of them.
Before the other could respond, Phil informed them we were done with the lies and it was time to pack their things. The next thing we knew we were in the car headed to Tampa—and I had no idea where we were going.
Fortunately I have built a network of amazing friends during my tenure at Watermark and I called one of them who had been through recovery and was very familiar with the process. He suggested a shelter and we dropped the guys off.
When we pulled away, we both fought of tears. It was one of the hardest things we’ve ever had to do.
Fortunately we still hear from them occasionally. One did go take his GED test that was already scheduled and we’re awaiting the results. The other has reached out to his family and admitted he needs rehab, but he is still reluctant to go.
I know some are thinking “I told you so” and others still think we were crazy for trying to help.
But still, I really want to call them, pick them up and offer them another chance. I still see the potential that each of them possesses. But I’ve learned that you can’t help those who aren’t ready to help themselves.
And I think that’s the hardest lesson I’ve ever learned.
Steve Blanchard is the Tampa Bay Bureau Chief for Watermark and is serving as guest editor for this issue.
