My mother is a Saint. Saint Patricia Catherine. Well, actually, it would be Saint Catherine Patricia because the orphanage in which she grew up failed to look closely at her birth certificate when she and her sisters were rescued from her alcoholic parents.
She grew up thinking her name was Patricia Catherine until she went to register to get married and found out it was actually the other way around. I guess at that point, she figured it was too late to change anything so she stuck with Patricia.
So, back to her sainthood.
Mom doesn’t have to go through all the steps that other saints went through. She doesn’t have to lead the French army to major victories like Saint Joan of Arc. She doesn’t have to drive the snakes out of Ireland like St. Patrick. She doesn’t even have to lead God’s armies against Satan’s forces as St. Michael the Archangel did…although, I know for a fact, she would give Satan’s forces one hell of a run for their money.
All she has to do is continue to live with my father.
Mom called this morning and I knew right away by the suppressed panic in her voice that something was wrong. Apparently, Dad ran out of his Ativan on Monday. He takes three a day. She called the Dr. for a refill and the nurse refused to refill it because the Dr. was out and it is a controlled substance and my mom probably has to call her A ZILLION TIMES EVERY YEAR.
Two days later, the Dr. finally called in the refill and the pharmacy was going to deliver the meds to her apartment this afternoon. Well, my father is now in complete withdraw – wide-eyed, heavy breathing, bugs crawling on the wall, “gonna throw myself off the balcony” withdraw.
Hence the panicked phone calls at 12:00, 12:01, 12:03 which I responded to by leaving work, running to the pharmacy and then delivering the meds to my mom immediately. Dad should be stoned and sound asleep by now. Mom is probably sitting up in her chair, clutching her rosary beads and praying to the Patron Saint of patience…whoever that may be.
Born into addicted parents and she’ll end up living the rest of his life with an addict. They say God has a plan, but I’m not seeing it.
Just a Spoonful of Serotonin 
The paths we walk are often such a mystery. There is something to learn for everyone. Those who walk it and those who attend the walkers.
I guess I just want to shout at God, “this is a good woman who has tried to follow Your way her whole life. Can’t you just cut her a break?”
The “plan” is not always the one we want, but it’s always the one we need at this stage in our lives. If you accept that premise, then it’s easier to cope with what we consider to be the hard times. In the big scheme of the universe, they are just “times” and we, as humans, have labelled certain of them “hard” and others “good” – but that is only because we humans seem to have the need to box things into “good” and “evil” (or “bad”) whereas the rest of life on the planet doesn’t. They (plants, animals, birds, all of life) just accept what life gives them as life and deal with as best they can.
That said, I totally get what you’re saying. I come from a smoking, drinking, and overpowering parent (mother) who at one point had a knife to my Dad’s throat and was only saved from commiting that act by my brother intervening. Life there growing up was a challenge but one I seem to have escaped in time.
My father drank up until I graduated from high school and then quit because my mother threatened to leave him. Eventually he started taking something for his nerves (no judgement here) and then slowly became addicted to his Ativan which the doctors had no problem increasing.
I am ashamed of his addiction. Thanks for your kind thoughts, Bex.