The shopping day that changed my life

	© IStockPhoto.com / Frédéric De Bailliencourt

Shielding my eyes behind dark sunglasses, I tried to blink back tears as I pushed my cart through my local Wal-Mart. Everything I saw — basketballs, toy cars, skateboards, juice boxes — reminded me of my son. Each object, so full of memories, threatened to send me tumbling into that black hole of depression I knew all too well.

I had struggled against it ever since my son became addicted to methamphetamine and began
pushing family away. Tommy* was always smart, funny, full of life. But he never could stay away from trouble. My husband and I tried everything — from taking away his allowance to taking off his bedroom door. Nothing worked for long, and over time Tommy’s behavior became frightening as the drugs messed with his brain. Eventually, we told him
he had to get clean or get out. After that, we still took him in countless times, gave him food, opportunities to make money, chances to start over. But the drugs always won.

Now, to protect our family, I have a security camera and a criminal trespass warning against my own son. Hospital bills, phone calls, and arrest records are how I know what is happening in his life. Sometimes I want to shake people — even complete strangers — and shout, “Don’t you see what’s happening? I’m losing my son! Don’t you care?” But life always goes on.

Lost in these thoughts, I was standing aimlessly in the main aisle between the toy and houseware departments when I heard someone speaking.

“Can I help you find something?”

I looked up to meet the bright eyes of a young man with a wide grin. He was wearing a blue employee’s apron.

“No,” I stammered, “I’m just thinking right now…”

The kid was tall and lanky, his short, blond hair was neatly gelled, and his clothes were fresh and clean.

So this is what my son would have looked like if he had stayed drug-free.

“Are you sure?” the young man persisted.

“No, thanks. I’m OK,” I lied. “I’m just thinking about what I need.”

Walking away from the young man and toward the grocery aisles, I passed by clothing for young men — pullover shirts, jeans, cargo shorts. I could feel my grief pressing down on me, oppressive as the Texas heat outside that air-conditioned store. When I finished getting my groceries, I headed back to housewares to get the canning jars I had failed to pick up on my first pass through. Just as I spotted them, I heard a familiar voice.

“Are you sure you don’t need any help?”

I turned around to see the same young man with his ear-to-ear grin. He really looks sincere, I thought. He’s not just doing his job. He really wants to help me.

“Oh, I’m OK,” I lied again. “I just… I… ”

* Names have been changed for privacy.

What is methamphetamine? Methamphetamine is a highly addictive stimulant. The drug has limited medical uses for the treatment of narcolepsy, attention deficit disorders, and obesity. Long-term abuse can cause addiction, anxiety, insomnia, mood disturbances, violent behavior, and hallucinations. Results of a 2007 survey indicate that 1.8 percent of eighth graders, 2.8 percent of tenth graders, and 3.0 percent of twelfth graders reported they’d used methamphetamine at least once in their lifetime. Approximately 2.9 percent of college students and 7.3 percent of young adults (ages 19 to 28) surveyed in 2006 reported having used meth at least once in their lifetime. For more information, including resources on how to cope with methamphetamine abuse, visit whitehousedrugpolicy.gov, or call 800-666-3332. - White House Office of National Drug Control Policy

I couldn’t control the tears that began to spill from beneath my sunglasses and down my cheek. What a sight this is, I chided myself. Here is this kid trying to help some woman in his department, and she falls apart on him.But seeing compassion in the young man’s expression, I dared to speak.

“I have a son that’s about your age,” I began. “Now he’s a hardcore meth addict.

“Coming to Wal-Mart can be so hard,” I continued. “I see all the things I used to buy for him through the years as he was growing up,” I blurted, wiping tears and mascara. “It’s hard because I’ll never buy those things for him again — not because he grew up, but because he’s gone.”

To my surprise, instead of making an excuse for a quick exit, the young man put his arms around me in a sympathetic hug.

“I know what you mean,” he said quietly.

I looked at him quizzically.

“My mom was killed in a car wreck,” he explained. “I know what you mean about the stuff in the store. Holidays and celebrations are especially hard for me. Soon there will be all this Halloween stuff in the store, and it’ll remind me of how she would always dress up and have fun.”

The glimpse of sadness I saw in his face was strangely comforting. It felt good to know that other people understood what I was feeling. Maybe God had
made this meeting possible.

After that day, I began looking forward to my trips to Wal-Mart instead of dreading them. Carl’s eyes lit up whenever he saw me, and he would smile and give me a hug. My heart began to heal a little from all the times my own son had looked at me with hatred, all the times his arms had pushed my motherly affection away. Carl shares the ups and downs of his life with me and welcomes my advice. I have never told him how much he fills that son-shaped void in my heart, and I only hope that sometimes I fill the mom-shaped void in his.

“How did you know today was my birthday?” he exclaimed one day when I showed up at the store with a present.

“I asked you a couple of months ago and made a note of it,” I said, giving him a hug.

Easter was quickly approaching, and by Maundy Thursday my heart was sinking. My son would not be here for me to give him an Easter basket. He would not join me for church services. Carl’s shift ended at 4 that afternoon, so I headed to Wal-Mart around 3 to grab some last-minute items for the weekend. Carl clocked out early and shopped with me. We looked at everything from betta fish (I collect them) to camping gear to produce, and chatted. In sporting goods, we compared the fishing lures we’d used in the past. He pointed out one that was especially large, while I held up a much smaller one I had used, complaining how I hadn’t caught much with it.

“Well,” he said, holding up the large one, “It’s like this: big lure — big fish; small lure — small fish.” He flashed his hallmark grin, causing me to burst into laughter. How bittersweet that moment was: My son always gave fishing advice.

It was inevitable that our trek around the store would lead us to the vast array of pre-made Easter baskets — the ones with toys and candy. Carl spoke.

A patron saint for drug addicts The patron saint of drug abusers is St. Maximilian Kolbe, a Polish Franciscan who, with six friends, founded the Immaculata Movement (devoted to the conversion of sinners, opposition to anti-Catholic freemasonry, spread of the Miraculous Medal, and devotion to Mary and Jesus) and died a prisoner in Auschwitz. While imprisoned he ministered to other prisoners by administering Reconciliation, offering encouragement and consolation, conducting Mass, and distributing Communion created from smuggled bread and wine. In the camp, at age 47, he gave his life in the place of a married man with children who was chosen to die in retribution for the escape of another prisoner. Kolbe is also the patron saint of families, imprisoned people, journalists, and the pro-life movement. His feast day is August 14. - CatholicForum.com, FatherKolbe.com

“Before my mom died, my dad said, ‘Oh Jessie, he’s too old for an Easter basket,’” Carl told me.

Earlier, I had restrained myself from sharing my memory in the fishing aisle, yet he had just openly shared his.

“Oh, Carl, you’re never too old for an Easter basket,” I replied. On Good Friday, I handed him a homemade Easter basket and told him the same thing.

Carl has since been promoted and now works at another Wal-Mart. I don’t see him as often, and I miss him at the store. But we still keep in touch, and God seems to find ways to bring us together — like the time I was able to help him get back his lost wallet after the woman who had found it called me. Apparently mine was the only phone number in the wallet at the time.

So many blessings have resulted from the kindness Carl showed me on that September afternoon. It was when I was in the midst of despair that God chose to change not only that one moment, but my whole life. Someday I hope that my own son will turn away from the life he is leading and accept my love again, but no matter what, I am grateful that God brought Carl into my life. He has helped mend some of my brokenness and lifted my spirits. His kindness serves as a daily reminder to me that God often blesses us when we least expect it. CD

Michelle Ferrari is a pseudonym for a writer in the Southwest.