He's Back

My uncle spent his career as a substance abuse counselor, up until his late 40s- about two years ago- when he started needing his own substance abuse counselor. For whatever self-destructive, awful reason, he started doing meth. And then he kept doing meth. He kept doing it after he lost his friends, and then after he lost his clients, and after he lost his job. He and his boyfriend had a meth inspired idea to rent an apartment together and remodel it (while on meth). They tore the place to pieces, infested it with a middle eastern mite, caught it on fire more than once by forgetting about cooking food, and in general did everything possible to get themselves evicted, which they finally succeeded in doing. My mom, her husband, and my grandfather drove up to Seattle to move his things out and bring him back to Utah. They took my grandpa because he was the only person alive my uncle was still willing to listen to. The plan was that my grandpa would be the one to get my parents in the door if my uncle and his boyfriend refused them entry.

This uncle was always my favorite uncle. My friends and the friends of my sisters referred to him as uncle my whole life. He was that kind of uncle- enough uncle for everyone. When we were younger, he taught us about etiquette and then took us out to a nice restaurant to practice eating politely. One time he was in town while I was in high school, he came to pick me up and take me to lunch. He arrived in front of the school with a bouquet of lilies, just because, and whisked me away to lunch, to talk and to listen, to make me feel respected and understood.

When I had questions about sex, love, life, family, I called or emailed my uncle. We kept in touch no matter where in the world I was. While he was my favorite uncle, he wasn't just my mom's brother, he was her best friend. Which is why imagining this scene at the door of a trashed, filthy apartment kills me. I imagine my mom, holding her husband's hand, her other hand on my grandpa's arm. One of the people she loves most in the world is refusing to speak to her. He's angry that she is "taking everyone else's side". She's enraged that her best friend is doing his best to ruin his life, and not content hurting himself, he has been manipulating his parents and other siblings into sending him money that he is using to buy drugs. He has racked up thousands of dollars in parking tickets, which one sibling or another has paid off.

My uncle opened the door without a confrontation. There was one day left until he would be officially evicted and locked out of the apartment. He and his boyfriend had packed nothing. Everything had to be sorted into piles of too trashed to save, piles of possessions to take to Utah, and items to remain in storage in Seattle. My parents and grandfather cleaned, scrubbed, and packed through the day and the night. Then they took my uncle and his boyfriend back to Utah with them. My parents told him he could remain in their house as long as he was clean and as long as he was in rehab. They put parental controls on their computer, put the prescription drugs in the safe, the alcohol in the storage unit, and eliminated all cash from their bags and wallets. They showered him, bought him a new change of clothes and a pair of glasses. He lasted one day, and then he walked out of rehab. They, true to their word, would not allow him to stay.

With help from the family he and his boyfriend got an apartment in SLC. All of this was happening while I was deciding to separate from my ex. I heard the reports mostly over the phone. When I came home for Christmas, I first saw my uncle. He still wasn't clean from the meth. His mind was fried. He was missing words, unable to think clearly. Both he and I were skinnier than we ever should be and both of us were wandering around looking dazed. Even through his drugged haze, he could tell that something was wrong with me. He decided that I had miscarried a child, but didn't want to say anything to me about it. In order to support me through the loss of my child, he sewed a scarf with two butterflies and told me, "These represent the two children you will have." I had no idea why he was telling me this. How ironic, I thought. I am getting divorced and he is blessing me with children.

My uncle refused to go to rehab. He felt that he could do a better job rehabilitating himself. His plan was to cook and sew himself to sobriety. After seeing the state of his apartment in Seattle, my mother and father couldn't eat what he made in the beginning. We would all take tiny bites, compliment him, and throw the leftovers away as soon as he left. As he started to get better, he was somewhat easier to be around. He still wasn't fully himself though. He could think, but not clearly. For example, he thought he was going to be able to move to France and write a book on his experiences. He tried to get me to hire him to do research. He tried to hire me to do research. He continued baking; he continued sewing. He stopped using meth; he started gaining weight.

It has been a year and my uncle can remember words again, but he still walks around with a memory notebook, the way a person with a brain injury does. He can't do basic math, but then, neither can I. He can read again. He is able to think quickly enough to make jokes again. He dropped off handmade sweet potato pies at my work before Thanksgiving, and not only did I eat them, I shared them with my coworkers, and they raved. He sewed me a new set of drapes for my living room. Last week, I had the first heart to heart I have had with him since my separation. He apologized for not being an uncle to me during my challenging year. I told him some of what I had been through. He told me he was proud of me; he always has been. He's back.