I Really, Really Want Something. Sort Of.

The passage of time can be confounding when you’re waiting for something you really want. Especially when the thing you want is also something you’re not entirely sure you want. An hour can pass in the blink of an eye and minutes can drag on forever.

The string of days during this summer of 2016 have blended together in a fluid blur, none especially distinguishable from the next, even though they’ve been filled with moments that when held up to the light feel remarkable in hindsight. A move this past spring brought me to a lovely new home with a tiny yard to putter in and a garden bursting with color and fragrance. A lazy week off in June provided time to explore my new neighborhood and take advantage of the wonders of my city. The unexpected passing of my former father-in-law brought the sting of loss and memories of happier days when our family unit was whole and in tact. I got a promotion at work.

Throughout this day-into-night-into-day-again time lapse, there’s been one constant: the weighty specter of this thing that I want that I’m not sure I do. It’s taken up permanent residence in a corner of my mind. It niggles at me when I’m at work, when I’m in the car, in the shadowy consciousness right before I fall asleep, and in moments of clarity that jolt me awake in the dead of night.

The thing I want and the thing I dread is my son Nicholas’ imminent release from prison.

Every day I hold two equally true truths: I am hopeful and I am fearful. As the day of Nick’s release draws closer, the fear has been winning, making the days speed by and crawl to a halt in equal measure.

The day Nick was sentenced to serve five years in prison seemed to last forever. The overwhelming emotion I remember feeling was despair. Watching from the back of the courtroom as the judge asked if he had anything to say before imposing sentence, Nick stood still and emotionless, and said “No, I have nothing to say,” and it felt as if my heart might surely crack apart. That feeling didn’t go away for a long time, stretching into endless days of trying to reconcile my memories of a sweet, laughing little boy with a wide grin and ridiculously long eyelashes with the hard and somber young man who had faced the judge and refused to look at me. He told me later that he knew if turned around, the pain he knew he’d see on my face might cause his bravado to crack, something he didn’t want to risk as he steeled himself for the years ahead.

Sometimes people who know this part of my life say I’m brave. I feel like a faker. The truth is that sometimes it feels like I’m scared all the time. I asked Nick once if he’s ever scared — like the first time he was sent to treatment when he was fourteen, or the time he ran away from a wilderness program in a stolen car and ended up in the middle of a hundred-degree desert with no food or money or any idea of where to go. Or when he was arrested and sent to juvenile detention for the first time a thousand miles from home, or when he was living hand to mouth on the streets, or when he was cornered by police officers who tackled him to the ground on the day he was arrested for the last time — or when he walked through prison doors for the first time. Without blinking or seeming to think about it, he said no.

I don’t know if he was telling me the truth or putting on a tough front, and I’m not even sure I believe it, but either way, I don’t understand it. Fear has been a constant for me for much of the past decade. Fear that Nick would run away, which he did. That he would turn to drugs, which he did. That he would turn to crime, which he did. That he would end up in prison, which he did. That he would start using again when he got out, which he did. That he would re-offend and get sent back to prison, which he did.

Worst of all, I feared he might die. Which (thank you, God) has not happened.

I think that’s the source my fear now. You see, I’ve always believed Nick will find his way. I also know he will only find his way when he is good and ready. He may be ready in three days or three months or three years or three decades, but I believe he will get there, if only he stays alive long enough. I hope he’s there this time, but can we really ever know what’s in another person’s head or heart? And as bad as having him in prison has been, there’s also been strange comfort in knowing where he is, that he’s relatively safe, and that he’s still breathing — and with that knowledge, the daily fear that was part of life before Nick went to prison receded. Now, on the cusp of his release, all of the uncertainty and fear has come creeping — sometimes rushing — back.

I wonder if I’m strong enough to do it again.

When Nick was a tiny boy, he would grasp my thumb as he gazed up at me without blinking in the minutes before his eyes grew heavy and he drifted off to sleep. In those sweet moments, I never would have imagined that the passage of time would take us through hell and back. I surely wouldn’t have believed I’d be strong enough to survive it.

But survive it I have and better for it I am, at least I think I am. So I force myself most days to push back the fear and step into the breach. I say prayers that the road ahead will be easier for us both, and if it’s not, that the scars I bear from battles past will be sufficient armor for the battles ahead.

There’s this other thing, too. The best wedge I have to push back against the disquietude that’s settled into the the back of my brain. It’s a spark, one that pulses almost strong enough to extinguish the fear, or at least the worst of it. It’s the living, breathing, equally possible prospect that the swift passage of days we’ll knit together this time will lead us to a place where dreams of sons and their mothers really do come true. So there’s that.

But really, can we just slow things down for a minute? Or get going already?

Two weeks and counting.