Marriage Skits for Laughter and Learning
produced
by
Nancy Landrum
"The Hill"
by Nancy Landrum
Working on “The Hill” plays an integral part in helping a mother
cope with the illness and death of her son.
On a day burned into my memory, my twenty-seven-year-old son, Steven, was hospitalized and diagnosed with a severely enlarged heart and congestive heart failure caused by many years of drug abuse. He was not expected to live through the night. He survived that crisis, however, and came home to live with us. He could no longer work and was not expected to live very long.
Three weeks later on Thanksgiving Day, our children and their spouses helped us complete a long-planned move to a different house and new community. Although the small lawns and planting beds were passable, it appeared that no one had done more than occasionally water the steep slope in the backyard that we dubbed "The Hill."
While trying to grasp the irreversible damage my son had done to his health, I alternated activities. Some days I painted or sewed curtains—projects to make this very generic house into a home. Other days I tracked down ways to provide adequate medical care for Steve since he was without insurance or assets. Some days I read or sought counsel for how to live with an adult child who had been on his own since the age of eighteen and was still very much prone to irrational "druggie” thinking. After a few years of having a welcome empty nest, it was challenging to establish and enforce reasonable house rules for a struggling adult child. We needed to protect our right to have a peaceful, orderly home and he needed some physical and emotional space as well. Then there were the days I just hibernated in my room with a novel.
It was nearly unbearable for me to look at this intelligent, handsome young man who had refused help until it was too late, insisting that when he was ready to quit doing drugs, he could do it on his own.
The Hill became a refuge. I cleared the high weeds and found that little had survived the neglect. I decided to plant only things that flowered in pink, yellow and lavender. I chose purple lantana to cover the areas where the original ice plant had failed, and a beautiful multi-trunked melaleuca tree to anchor an upper corner. Bit by bit I collected plants, some of which flourished, while others didn't.
My emotions fluctuated. When I was angry with Steve's thoughtlessness or denial of his condition I would go to The Hill. When I was exhausted from the struggle of finding adequate help for him, or overwhelmed by the grief of seeing my beautiful son hurting, I could depend on some time with The Hill to calm, soothe, comfort, and return me to balance.
Steve shared my love of gardening. On his good days he enjoyed mowing the lawn. He always noticed when I made some improvement. He bragged to the neighbor, "Give my Mom a couple of years and our yard will look as beautiful as yours!"
The Hill tapered all the way down to the retaining wall at the back of the lawn on one side, but left about six level feet behind the retaining wall on the other side. I wanted to dig the earth back so that I'd have six level feet clear across the base of the hill. That required a second retaining wall.
When Steve felt well enough, he helped me cut back the dirt, and evenly spread it behind the original wall, so I'd have room to plant vegetables. While taking a walk I discovered a pile of broken concrete in a neighbor’s yard. They were delighted for me to take all the broken pieces. For my birthday, I asked my sons-in-law to build the wall for me, staggering the broken blocks, and using only dirt as mortar so I could plant potentilla around and in between. On that day Steve was too weak and congested to help. It was painful for him to watch them do what he had hoped to do himself.
Meanwhile, I decided to fulfill a dream of 25 years and return to school. I completed my Bachelors degree and enrolled in a Master of Arts in Spiritual Psychology program.
As I watched my son continuing to fail, working in the earth steadied me, while school gave me the opportunity to explore new ways of being with him and with the circumstances. I discovered one of the things that was causing such immense pain was my unconscious belief that everyone was born to grow up, marry, have a happy family, live to the age of eighty and die peacefully in their sleep. Hidden in that belief was the unbearable loss of all the years with Steven that I would be denied. I chose to replace it. Now I believe that each one of us comes into life with a very unique and personalized plan. For some that means living 2 days, for some 30 years, for others 80. Each person leaves this earth not one day too soon, or too late. Choosing this belief relieved some of my pain.
The Hill continued to evolve. I chose to replace a lone eucalyptus tree with a multi-trunked jacaranda. In a few years we'll sit on our patio and look up through lacy branches and lavender flowers, rather than viewing the neighbor's yard above us.
It became obvious that Steve didn't have much longer. He was hospitalized with heart failure three times in three months. His heart was three times the size of a normal adult heart and was barely beating. The closer he came to death the more he healed emotionally. He released the anger that had fueled his drug addiction. He forgave himself for the way he had spent his life. He made peace with friends and family who loved him all along, although he had been too ashamed to receive it. Our frequent hugs became even more precious. During two long quiet afternoons, we said goodbye, and all the other things that hadn't been said as yet. He wanted to die at home. I supported his decision.
When the pain was more than I could stand, I would work on The Hill. The earth soaked up my tears while I cried to God, "My son! My son! Do you know my son is dying?" And finally, when I was sweaty and my leg muscles ached, I could hear the answer, "Yes, I know. Trust me, Nancy. I'll take good care of him." So I would be quieted enough to walk back into the house.
Another unforgettable day arrived. I returned from some errands to discover that Steven was finally free. He had loved being outside, often napping on the patio or meandering in the hills with his dog, so we held his memorial service atop another nearby hill on the grounds of our church. Psalms 92:13 (The Living Bible) says that God's children "are transplanted into the Lord's own garden and are under His personal care." Steve had moved on and was in good hands.
In spite of the months of knowing this was coming, my heart felt ripped out. I could barely bring myself to water that summer. I had no interest in flowers.
The following Spring, however, as the weather became nice, I found I was ready to go back to The Hill. I planted and weeded and rearranged. Midway up the hill a dwarf lemon tree had struggled for more than two years. I moved it to the more hospitable ground at the base of The Hill where it is now flourishing. Every time I see it, I am reminded that Steve was also transplanted to a more nurturing place.
The Hill is far from perfect. It is a work in process, just as I am. I am grieving and healing and learning how to move on.
I don't know all the reasons why Steve's life took the direction it did, or why he died just short of his 30th birthday, but I know in the quietest place of my heart that every life has meaning. I learned so much because Steve was my son. I learned that every parent is imperfect, but that none of us can assume responsibility for what an adult child chooses to do. I learned to allow another the dignity of his own path. I learned that no matter how badly I want to, I cannot control the choices or outcomes for another. I learned to let go of my illusion that I can always find a solution if I just try hard enough. I learned how to stand up and be strong for the things that are essential for my own wellbeing. I learned how to love a little more unconditionally.
Along with school, support groups and counseling, all the hours spent on The Hill helped me keep my balance as I walked through the maze of issues and feelings both before and since Steven's death. The Hill compassionately received my anger, fear, and grief and gave back an accepting and healing heart.
I agree with a plaque, painted by Barbara Mock, now hanging by a window where I often look out at The Hill. It says, "Gardening Grows the Spirit." Emily Barnes describes the reciprocal alchemy of gardening in her book, Time Began in a Garden, "I had thought I was growing my garden, when actually my garden was growing me."
Al-Anon is a world wide support organization for those who are dealing with loved ones with any addiction. Their web site offers help and links to meetings near you: www.al-anon.org
A Christian recovery program called Celebrate Recovery has support groups for addicts and those who love them. It's now available in many locations across the country: www.celebraterecovery.com
I recommend that a referral to two national support groups be placed in a box for parents who have lost a child. The groups are: “The Compassionate Friends” and “Bereaved Parents of the USA.”Phone numbers for local chapters can be found in the White Pages.
Before and after photos are available as well as a photo of Steven, should you want them.
How to Stay
Married and
Love It!
by
Nancy Landrum
