Part 2 - It’s Been a While and a Lot Has Happened

November 29, 2024

The drive home from the hospital, addiction, friendship, and loss.

(Part 1 is HERE, and just so you know, this all happened in late July)

So there we are, in the very busy E.R. of Tallahassee Memorial Hospital. It’s Lindsey and me, our dreadfully ill 6-year-old who has gone into diabetic ketoacidosis and will very soon be rushed to the ICU, and our foster baby boy, whom we picked up from this very hospital at birth 14 months earlier. We’ve only just checked in, not knowing we’re about to be whisked back to a waiting doctor, wheelchair, and IV, and we’re awkwardly standing around, getting into a snippy, quiet argument with each other because I’m determined to sit, and she doesn’t want me to sit because I’m holding the baby and there are germs. We still know nothing about what is going on, just that we’re about 90% sure she has diabetes (from the cursory research I’d done earlier in the day). At this point we’re still foolishly thinking Wren will be able to go home that night. They call us back quite quickly and we are greeted by 3 nurses and a doctor, and things get real, quick. She gets hooked up to machines and we’re informed that, because glucose hasn’t been being converted to energy, her body has basically started to eat itself, which has caused a huge buildup of acid, and she will need to remain in the hospital for several days until she’s stabilized, and they can determine if any lasting damage has been done to her organs. FRICKIN’ terrifying to hear. But that also means she’s definitely not coming home tonight.

One of the delights of being married 16 years to a woman I love, appreciate, and enjoy deeply is that there are still things about her—wonderful, wonderful things—that can surprise me and make me love her more. I’ve taken all our kids to a good percentage of their doctor appointments since they were babies. Especially emergencies, or things that might be intense or scary in any way. Until this point, I’ve been the medical parent. And there’s a reason for this. Lindsey can get anxious around medical stuff. So my assumption is that I’d be the one staying with Wren. But I can see something rise up in Lindsey as people continue to poke and prod at her baby girl. It's something protective. Something comforting and motherly. Something safe and sweet for a scared little girl to lean into and draw strength from. She wants to stay. She’s going to stay. And I love her for it.

At this point the hungry 14-month-old is DONE being held and is about to cause a full-on scene, so I say a tearful goodbye and leave. I need to go get stuff for them from the house, so I still have 2 hours of driving ahead of me with the hospital 40 minutes from our house. The older 3 girls are still at their play rehearsal and our neighbors say they’ll take them home and let them hang at their house until I’m back. The baby gets his first french fries and chicken strips (the vote is in: he’s a fan), as I grab food from literally the first place I see to try and get him to stop screaming. He then promptly falls asleep.

I take HWY 90 home, which has no lights and very few residences as you get further from Tallahassee. As I drive into the pitch darkness my mind starts to go dark. I’m an addict. A sober addict, fully embracing recovery and all it has to offer, but an addict all the same. I mentioned this in my last blog post, but it’s still very, very new to me to say this in such a public forum (though I’ve been saying it without hesitation or embarrassment in weekly 12-step meetings for over a year now). I spent over 20 years avoiding hard feelings and fear, rather effectively, through addiction. I cried more in the first 2 months of sobriety than I did in the preceding 20 years. But still, even with a year of actually feeling things under my belt, when strong negative feelings come, especially when one of them is fear, EVERYTHING IN MY BEING wants to not feel it. To run away, to avoid, to numb. It feels suffocating. As I drive my mind frantically flicks between addictions, starting with the larger and more harmful ones, but I quickly decide I’m not going to stop at a gas station or liquor store and tear down my life with one of the big ones. So I think on a middle one… Isn’t this an extreme enough situation to warrant buying a pack of cigarettes? No, you animal, you have your baby in the back seat and the neighbors would smell it on you. And so would the girls. It took you 4 years of actively trying to quit smoking to finally quit, dummy. (My inner voice is a jerk. Something I’ve been working on.) So then I think on the smaller, “harmless” addictions. Scrolling. Video games. Social media. News. YouTube. Bingeing shows. Scratch-offs. Reading. Sudoku. Work. I could list 20+ other things I’ve gotten addicted to in my lifetime. All are things that I also had to put down in this sobriety journey. They don’t have as much potential to burn my whole world down, but I use them for the same purpose: Don’t feel hard feelings! And I obsess and partake enough in them that they slowly and quietly smother out my life, my light. Make me numb. Not connected. To my wife, my kids. My feelings, my heart. My passion, my fight. The slow killer of everything I love. NO! I must feel this. I have to.

And I feel. And it hurts. And I’m scared. And my mind goes where I let it. Where I didn’t know it would go. Where I don’t really want it to go. But it goes there. I think of him. Of Brad. I want to call one person in that moment of darkness and sadness. I want to call my friend Brad. I miss him. He was one of my best friends. And I didn’t realize it. I told him everything. Until I didn’t. I cry. I’m alone, it’s so dark, and I cry.

Brad was a dear friend of mine. He started as an employee and became so much more. He was the only person to take on The Appel Shop like I took it on. He dreamed with me. He cared for me. For my family. And he believed in me. More than I believed in me. He saw my potential and my strengths, and he encouraged them and tried to pull them out. He rose to be basically co-CEO with me. He helped lead The Appel Shop from the pre-COVID tiny thing that it was, to doing over a million dollars a year in sales. This website was him. Most of the photos on here and on Etsy were him. He took over much of what was weighing me down, and helped the business move forward. And he was my buddy. My friend. My confidante. Every day we spoke and connected. We knew each other’s families. He was a true friend. Every day we made decisions together. We weathered all the storms together. But the most recent storm, I went a different path. I made a decision, one that I won’t try to defend or even explain, because I don’t need to come out of this looking like a good OR a bad guy (and to be clear: Brad is definitely not the bad guy in this situation). So I’ll just give the facts: I decided to let Brad go, 6 months ago (2 months before the drive home from the hospital). The decision was a business one, and not based on anything Brad had done or not done. For the previous 4+ years every major decision had been made with Brad. But I made this decision on my own, without giving so much as a hint to him that it was coming. And he was, rightfully, surprised by it. And hurt. And something was shattered between us when it happened. Brad gave so much to me. His twins were born while we worked together. His 4 kids grew. He sold a house, bought a house. He passed on other job opportunities. Good ones, too (Brad is a catch, if that wasn’t clear). And he trusted me. And I broke that trust.

Before driving home from the hospital that night, I was saddened by everything with Brad, but I don’t know that I could encapsulate it as well as that drive was able to boil it down for me: Brad wasn’t just a buddy and employee that I let down, he was one of the best friends I’ve ever had. A true companion of the heart. And I drove home that night and I missed him deeply. Deeper than I’d missed anyone in almost two decades. And when everything felt dark and sad and terrifying, he was the one. He was the one that I wanted to call. He knew me better than almost anyone, and he still liked me—loved me, even, as a friend and brother. Just as I loved him. And now that’s gone. Maybe never to come back. And it breaks my heart. And I grieved for that loss as I drove that night.

I hope everyone can have a Brad in their life. I’m so very grateful that I did.