NaNoWriMo, Scott's Story, Chapter Thirty-Five - In Mom's Eyes

Chapter Thirty-Five – The Rebellion – In Mom’s Eyes
2003 – I am 54, Scott is 29, Julie is 26

Scott is going through a rebellious phase, I guess. I’ve been through this before, with Julie. But Scott is much older than she was when she rebelled. He’s too old to be acting like this now. It makes me so angry what he’s doing, that sometimes I could literally kill him. He has destroyed my cute little house. He’s brought despicable, crazy, criminals and juveniles into my home. We’ve been stolen from, lied to, and treated like crap. I am fed up and I just want to escape. Most nights I just stay in my room and drink. I just want it all to go away. Julie has been trying to hold things together, but they fight so often now, it’s like they are children again.

Scott has taken to calling us names, telling his friends we are horrible, and lying about what we do to him and how we act or what we say. He paints a terrible picture of us to his “friends”, these scumbag felons, and homeless people that pass through our house every day. They take what they want, they use Scott for EVERYTHING, they are killing us, and he is the mastermind behind it all. Maybe he wants us to hurt as much as he does. He’s always angry, always blaming the world for his condition. Or blaming the family, or blaming me. Or blaming Julie. He eats and eats and eats these days. Those assholes bring him fast food all the time, they know how to get to him. They know, and they use it to get what they want. They don’t care about him, they don’t care about anybody. They are users, and manipulators, and sleezeballs. And Scott can’t see any of it. He’s so naïve about people, about the world. He’s never lived in an apartment by himself, never paid his own utility bills, never had the responsibility of an average adult in the world. Now he blames that on us, on me mainly.

They just took Scott, in an ambulance, to the hospital. I have been drinking all night, so Julie followed them in the car, and I’m staying home. I think this is the best place for me right now. Julie can handle this. She’ll take care of it. I don’t want to see it all happen, I can’t bear to see my son die, and I think that’s what’s going to happen. Julie will call me and let me know what’s going on, probably every five minutes or so. She’ll be fine, she’ll take care of him. I just can’t right now, and even if I was sober, I don’t think I could be there. Once they stabilize him, IF they stabilize him, Julie can come get me. And I’ll go see him then. I just can’t bear it all right now. I feel like I’m going to have a heart attack myself. I’ve been calling my sisters, telling them what’s happening. They know I’m home, and Julie’s at the hospital. They think it’s a good idea we did it that way. They are making a plan, some sort of plan to help, I think. But there’s nothing that’s going to help him, no one can do this. It’s impossible.

Julie calls me to tell me she’s been in the waiting room for over an hour and no one will let her back to see Scott. She’s angry and about to explode. I tell her to calm down, that maybe they had to run some tests or something, that I’m sure everything is okay. She’s anxious and scared, and angry. And I realize I should be there. I really should be there. That’s my SON in there, and I’ve passed the responsibility of him off on my DAUGHTER. What kind of mother am I? A drunk one, that’s it. I’m a drunk, and this probably IS all my fault. I can’t drive down there. I can’t do anything now. And I’m not there for my son, my only son, my first-born. Or my daughter. I’m not there, and it’s a mistake.

I’ve started cleaning the house, trying to keep busy, trying to stop crying and DO something. I’ll wait for Julie to call again, tell me everything’s going to be okay. She’ll call soon I’m sure. But I want the house to be clean when they get home, so I’m scrubbing things in a frenzy, chain-smoking and lighting candles all over the house. One of Scott’s little hoodlums comes by to see him. I yell at him out the door, tell him to get the fuck off my property, that Scott is in the hospital, and that he might die. I tell him it’s probably HIS fault, and that he better get off my property before I call the police. He leaves, and throws a beer bottle at the house. I’m so tired of all of this. I just want my son to be healthy, to be happy, and to be free of all these crazy people he’s picked up lately. I don’t even know where they all came from. I think the word spread around town that Scott’s an easy mark, and they all hopped on the bandwagon to take advantage. They’re like leeches. Scum-sucking leeches, and all they do is hurt us all. Scott thinks he finally has friends. He thinks they love him. He thinks he loves them. He’s going to be so hurt when they all disappear. There’s going to be some fights. There’s going to be a lot of unhappiness around here for a while. That’s IF Scott comes home. IF he makes it through this. God, if I make it through this it’ll be a miracle.

Julie calls me to tell me she’s going in to see Scott finally. It’s been over two hours since they got there. What the hell has been going on? She says she’ll call me with an update as soon as she can, so I keep cleaning. I’ve got to keep busy, keep moving. Because if I stop, I might not make it. This is the hardest thing I’ve experienced in a long, long time. I should be there, I don’t know what I’m doing.

I don’t even know what time it is anymore, but I hear Julie pull into the driveway. I have a dust rag in one hand, a bottle of Windex in the other. Why is she home? I go to the door to ask her this very question, but she is still at the car, opening the passenger door…for Scott. He’s home. They’re both home. I almost think for a minute that I’m imagining it, but within moments, they are both in the house, Scott already laying down in his room, Julie sitting on the couch in the living room, shaking and smoking, smoking and shaking. And sobbing.

“What HAPPENED?”
“They wouldn’t admit him, Mom. They said there’s nothing else they can do for him tonight, and that they needed the bed for more patients. They discharged him. Told us he had Congestive Heart Failure, monitored him for a couple hours, if you can call it that, then told us to leave.”
“Is he okay?”
“No, Mom, he’s NOT okay. The entire time he was in there, when they wouldn’t let me back to see him, he was pissing himself in the bed. He couldn’t help it. They gave him some shot that makes him pee, and he did. A LOT. Then they just left him in there. No one even came to check on him except once. A mean nurse, he said. When I got back there, he was soaked, Mom, soaked. And burning from the urine. He’s got rashes on his legs, Mom, and they were BURNING from his pee. No one would help us. I cleaned him up and changed his bed MYSELF. Mom, I don’t know what to do. He’s not in good shape, he can barely breathe. And no one will help us.”
“Oh, Julie, I’m sorry. I should have been there. It should have been me. I’m so sorry.”
“There’s nothing you could have done either Mom, and you couldn’t have done what I did either. You could never have lifted him up with your back, and it would have just killed you to be there at all. You didn’t need to be there. It wouldn’t have mattered.”
“God, I’m sorry.”
“Will you get me a glass of wine, Mom? Please? I need a drink.”
“Sure honey, I’ll get you anything you need. Oh, baby, I’m so sorry, I’m just so sorry.”
“I’m sorry too, Mom. I’m sorry too. I don’t know what we’re going to do.”