Loving An Addict On Thanksgiving: A Different Kind Of Stuffing
Joey and his grandpa.
When my boys were little, they hovered about the kitchen on Thanksgiving morning, eager to get started with stuffing the turkey. We tied on aprons, washed our hands, pushed step stools over to the kitchen counter, and discussed who, exactly, would need to touch the pale and pimply turkey flesh.
Joey dumped bread cubes into a large bowl and Rick stirred in the onions and sage; they took turns scooping stuffing into the hollow center of our holiday bird before we slathered it in oil and popped it in the oven. Our home was full of pleasant aromas and anticipation and things to be thankful for.
Norman Rockwell picture-perfect.
But things changed once Joey became an addict.
Thanksgiving became a day stuffed with unspoken disappointment, anger and fear rather than too much pie and good cheer. Joey’s brother, dad and I would wait for Joey to show up (or not show up at all), while our turkey and sweet potatoes shriveled away in the oven. Retreating to different parts of the house, we avoided the sad festivities and phony smiles until tradition beckoned us to sit down at the table across from Joey’s very empty place. Thankful, I was not.
It has been seven years now since Joey even pretended he was coming home for Thanksgiving dinner. (I don’t know where he has turkey. Or if he has turkey.) I’ve had time to adjust to Thanksgiving the way it is and stop wishing for the way it should be, but time hasn’t taken away the hurt — or the hole where Joey should be. I suspect it never will. Instead, over time, I’ve grown stronger. I’m strong enough to face the hurt rather than stuff it away (more often than not), and I’m strong enough to fill the hole with things that make the day better, not worse. That means facing reality, not trying to re-create what can’t be re-created, starting new traditions, and spending quality time with some happy old memories.
This Thanksgiving I will spend the holiday weekend with my youngest son, Rick, and good friends. I’m thankful for that. And I’m thankful that Joey is still alive.
(This is me filling, not stuffing.)
May your Thanksgiving be filled with things to be thankful for, too.
‘The Joey Song: A Mother’s Story of Her Son’s Addiction’ by Sandra Swenson is available in bookstores.