Everything has two handles, one by which you can carry it, the other by which you cannot. If your brother wrongs you, do not take it by that handle, the handle of his wrong, for you cannot carry it by that, but rather by the other handle–that he is a brother, brought up with you, and then you will take it by the handle that you can carry by.
–Epictetus, The Enchiridion
I’m feeling big grief around the latest with Kid Qualifier #1. The news lately isn’t good. No earth-shaking crises, but sign after sign of steady decline–a series of new lows that leaves no doubt his disease is progressing.
It feels a lot like going to the doctor with a cancer patient: one small bad thing after another, all pointing in the same scary direction. The tumor’s gotten bigger. The lymph nodes came back positive. There’s a new shadow on the x-ray. And meanwhile the patient says, “Oh, please. I’m just a little overtired. I’ll take some vitamins, watch what I eat, and I’ll be fine.”
Know what Patriarch Qualifier did when he found out he had cancer? Nothing. He told his wife that the doctor said everything was fine, and carried on as usual until a life-threatening medical crisis forced him to admit something was wrong. Then the truth came out: he’d gotten the diagnosis months ago and had told no one. By then it was too late. Metastases had taken over. He lived another year or so–not a year I’d wish on anyone. At six feet tall, he weighed about 80 pounds when he died.
I feel like I’m watching that same process again with my son’s alcoholism. Not that he’s operating on the same level of denial: he knows there’s a problem. He readily self-identifies as an alcoholic and addict. He even admits he needs help–he just won’t get it. But he brushes off all the bad signs as one-time incidents, while I see him sliding towards the terminal stage of his illness.
Are my fears coloring my view of this? Probably. And no matter how things look, there’s still room for his Higher Power to work. There’s even more room when I detach and stay out of His way. But talking it over with friends who have more experience with the advanced stages of alcoholism confirms that, yeah, I’m not overreacting.
He’s getting worse. I’m powerless over that. And I hate it.
The two handles
If this program has taught me anything, it’s that I have choices. The most important choice I make, every single day, is how I’m going to respond to things. Little things, big things, and Little Bad Things Pointing To One Big Scary Thing.
Everything has two handles. One I can lift things by, and one I can’t.
I can’t lift this by the Mom Handle. All my feelings, worries, and crazy fears (and reasonable fears) will crush me flat, maybe beyond remedy. If I try to grapple with this by the handle of feelings, I will become one hundred percent bat-s#!t crazy. I will not be able to function, period.
With the program handle, I have a chance, because the program handle is big, with room for lots of hands. The whole fellowship grips it alongside me. I still have crazy moments–a lot of them. Fear and grief still overwhelm me sometimes. Watching this disease take over my kid hurts like hell. There’s no program tool that can make it not hurt. But all the hands on that handle pulling with me make it bearable.
I have choices. Just for today, I can choose the program handle. I can focus on the gifts I’ve been given. I can say no to all the what-ifs and stay where my feet are, in the moment. I can pray for the grace to feel the feelings. I can reach out for help and let your experience, strength and hope hold me up when it would be easier to let myself go down the drain.
Keep coming back!
P.S. A very helpful CAL book in dealing with grief is Opening Our Hearts, Transforming Our Losses. It’s worth studying with a group, a friend or a sponsor as well as individually. Naming my feelings was a struggle before I came into program, and working through this book was a huge step towards acceptance and healing for me. Highly recommended!
