Grand Forks, Fall 1994…
After listening to several sad sob stories from addicts with messed up lives, it was my turn to speak. This was my last outpatient group session with James Flanigan, Licensed Addiction Counselor, and our topic for the evening was “gratitude.” Everyone there was grateful for not being in jail and for being relatively healthy. Beyond that, everyone had their own personal areas of appreciation in their lives.
It was a good topic for me. It helped remind me that my situation was nothing compared to the difficulties many people live with every day. Being forced to ride the city bus, I would daily see several people with severe physical handicaps making their way to work, or home, or to the grocery store. Folks who had twisted bodies even with braces on various body parts, who looked like they were in severe pain just getting on and off the bus. Some folks in wheelchairs, of course. And a few really unlucky souls who suffered from both physical and mental handicaps. All of these people made me feel tremendously humbled for ever bitching about any of my problems at all.
“I’m really grateful to have my life back on track, or at least, back on the track it was on before I got sidetracked with booze and getting busted,” I started. “I’ve lost so much of what I had worked for…I’m glad I didn’t lose it all. Most importantly, I’m grateful to have the love of my life back in the picture again, and to have a shot at the life I always wanted with her. I realize now that I needed to deal with all of the things from my past that were weighing on me in order to get right with myself again, and while I’m not thrilled about how I got here, I am glad to have gone through this program. It really helped me learn some better coping mechanisms and how to manage my emotions better. And I’m not drinking anymore. So, for that, thank you, James,” I said in closing.
“You’re very welcome. That’s what we’re here for,” James replied with an air of righteousness. “You know what we say about the past, right? It’s the perfect place for it,” he said with authority and a smile. “With that, folks, it’s time to wrap up. Since it’s your last night, Wes, why don’t you lead us off in the Serenity Prayer?”
As a person with deep skepticism of religion, if it were under any other circumstances or any other prayer, I might have told him to fuck off. But this little prayer had become my own personal mantra and would remain so at least through my father’s death. It was simple, direct, and personally powerful if made with the contemplation and sincerity it implies. Many nights when I was stressed out to the extreme about my father’s fast fading condition and studying for the bar exam, this simple hopeful notion brought me a measure of calm and internal peace.
As was the practice, we all stood up and joined hands around the table as I began, and my sober compatriots joined: “God, grant me the Serenity to accept the things I cannot change, Courage to change the things that I can, and the Wisdom to know the difference.”
Courage was never an issue for me, but that Serenity part was a complete bitch. I did NOT accept losing the life I had wanted to build for myself, and I definitely did NOT accept losing Tami. I had to keep trying, which is why I came back to Grand Forks and went to law school in the first place. Now that Tami was back in my life, I could focus more on rebuilding our life together, and that idea helped me accept the other tremendous losses I had previously suffered. The anger and disappointment I had to endure after losing my desired future took their time in working through me but now I had reached a state of calm acceptance about my past…because I still had her, coming back into my life all the way…finally.
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(CHAPTER 13 WILL BE THE LAST FREE CHAPTER BEFORE THE PAYWALL COMES UP - SUBSCRIBE NOW FOR FREE!)
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There was an expression about law school amongst the students: the first year they scare you to death, the second year they work you to death, and the third year they bore you to death. What they don’t do is teach you any practical skills as a lawyer. For instance, you are not taught how to write a contract in the year-long Contracts class; you are not taught how to draft a Will in Trusts & Estates class; and you are not taught how to buy or sell a house in Property class. That’s why law students seek out clerking jobs with law firms or with the government (as I had) to start acquiring practical skills. With the exception of one legal writing class in the first year that taught students how to write briefs and memos as a junior associate in a law firm or as a judicial clerk, ALL of law school was the study and analysis of case law. By the third year, most students have figured out how to streamline their reading and analysis of case law through the use of commercially available course outlines that would condense an entire class subject, such as Contracts, down to the essential legal points under each topic onto one double-sided page. I was a master of using such study guides (some were more in depth) because I was scrambling for time.
In addition to classes, I worked 20-25 hours a week at the Child Support Enforcement Unit, attended my mandatory out-patient sessions with Flanigan until early November, and I had community service hours to work into my schedule as part of my probation. The easiest location for me to perform my required 80 hours of time was at the UND campus library, which had a huge rearrangement project requiring all the rows of books to be moved while keeping them in order. (The downside was that I risked being seen by other law students doing grunt work in the main college library, which would lead to questions, then ridicule and embarrassment from my DUI arrest.) Over the summer, I also picked up my first State Supreme Court appeal, and that required heavy research and drafting hours as well. My second Supreme Court case developed after the school year started, putting even more pressure on me. I missed quite a few classes as a result.
Then there was Tami. I didn’t have much time for her, but she didn’t have much time for me yet, either, as she still had custody of her foster child. The next time I was able to see her was on her birthday in early November. She arranged a sitter, and I made her dinner. Money was tight and she worried about having enough for the divorce since her parents would not be of any help (to put it mildly). Fortunately, my friend and boss, Tim McCann, had a former co-worker from his time as a law student working in the child support unit, and she just happened to be starting her own practice focused on family law. I knew her and arranged for them to meet a few days later. Tami filed for divorce before the month was out. Because of our professional relationship, Tami’s attorney only charged her $250 – the cheapest divorce attorney possible.
As we both thought that Tami’s foster-daughter would be moved before Christmas, and because Tami had never met my father, she agreed to come out to Sacramento for a few days over the holidays. I stretched my abilities to spend on plastic and bought her a ticket after we agreed on the dates.
I was very excited that they would finally meet because my father’s time was running out. My biggest source of angst about my father’s impending death – not having to do with his suffering and the fear of losing him – was the notion that he would never know my wife and children, or even get to meet them. Well, this was finally my chance to make something good happen for all of us.
I would have been better off recalling one of my dad’s old standby sayings: “Shit in one hand, wish in the other, then see which one comes up full!”
—
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When Thanksgiving came around, I was in full prep mode for my first State Supreme Court arguments to be held right after my law school semester finals got under way. I had a final test the day before oral arguments were scheduled (second Friday in December) followed by three finals in a row the following Monday, Tuesday, and Wednesday. My holiday weekend was all work…and that was okay since Tami couldn’t spend any time with me, anyway. Abby, her foster-daughter, had not been placed with a new family yet, and Tami happily kept her. Tami and I were so busy that we didn’t see each other after her birthday and wouldn’t be able to until she came out to Sacramento. It was a long stretch to be apart when we were living in the same town.
When the day of oral arguments arrived, my supervising attorney and friend, Tim McCann, drove me 250 miles to Bismarck early in the morning in his new Ford Explorer. I was grateful to have him along and behind the wheel because I had more prep work to do along the way (and my driver’s license was suspended at the time). I was also the sickest I have ever been in my life. I had a 103-degree fever, body aches and chills, and my lungs were filled with yuck. What had started as strep throat and the flu had turned into walking pneumonia. I could barely walk or talk, and I had a fucking Supreme Court case to argue!
“Thanks for talking me into that fucking flu shot,” I grumbled through a phlegmy throat. Just over a week earlier, Tim talked me into getting a free county-provided flu shot, claiming it would help prevent anything - like the flu - from getting in the way of arguing my case. “You said it would keep me from getting sick, but all it’s done is kick my ass.”
“Hey, it’s a new thing, thought it was a good idea,” he replied. “You’re not soundin’ so good, ya’ know. Save your breath for the Court.”
“Sure,” I croaked as I went back to organizing and taping a flip-card system of condensed case holdings into a file folder to have for quick reference as necessary before the Court.
“Oh, hey, I forgot to tell you about my hearing yesterday and our old mutual friend,” Tim said with a touch of sarcasm. “Unbelievable…”
“Who? What hearing? I had a trusts and estates final yesterday.”
“Our buddy Mr. James Flanigan, that’s who,” Tim stated.
“That old fart knocked someone up?” I asked.
“No, his son did. And geez, I’ve never seen a worse family toward the mother,” Tim explained. “The son’s attorney did everything he could to try to make her sound like a whore, but she’s a pretty nice girl, ya’ know? And the guy’s family, the Flanigan’s…what a bunch of fucking jerks. They were so cold and mean to her, including James. I mean, the kid’s over a year old and we got a 99.997% DNA match – the fuckin’ guy is the father, ya’ know it – and they act like the kid isn’t real or something.”
“What the fuck?” I asked rhetorically.
“Yeah, dude, what the fuck is up with that?” Tim said reflectively, drawing out the last three words. “You’d think they’d want to at least know their own freaking grandchild, for fuck’s sake. Now, I don’t care what the mother is like, the kid didn’t do anything to deserve that.”
I was stunned and sad by what Tim told me. Good old James Flanigan, mister “take personal responsibility” himself, was trying to help his son dodge personal responsibility for his own grandchild. There was no question of paternity anymore - the results were in - which means there was no question as to what the right thing was to do. With his father’s assistance, Junior Flanigan had done everything he and his lawyer could to deny paternity and drag out the court process, with the apparent goal of wearing down the mother until she got tired and quit the process. (Too bad - it’s not up to an AFDC recipient, it’s up to the State as assignee of child support rights, i.e., we could force her compliance to seek the support order). My respect for Flanigan was instantly shattered. Over the months to follow, the incident made me start to question other ideas and principles he espoused and claimed to hold dear. What I didn’t know then was that within a year, I would be seeing and learning a lot more about the workings of his type of business that further challenged my thinking of him, and of “the program,” putting it all in a very changed light.
When we got to the State Capitol Building, which housed all three branches of the North Dakota State government, I was pleased to see my mother, stepfather, and my elderly maternal grandmother, Carol. They had come to watch me argue this complicated case even though my grandmother was almost totally blind from macular degeneration. It was flattering and helped lift my sick-dampened spirits. I slammed down a few hot coffees to help clear my throat and get an energy boast, then it was off to the State Supreme Court.
The case was a complex jurisdiction case dealing with both personal and subject matter jurisdiction of the State over an Indian who lives on a reservation but conceived the child off the reservation. The North Dakota Supreme Court had, just a few years prior, gotten their asses handed to them by the United States Supreme Court over an Indian jurisdiction case (complete reversal of their opinion with a judicial finger-wag), so I had to go in super-prepared and ready for rough treatment by the five Justices. All while I was awfully damn sick, too. I only managed to get through it via the help of copious amounts of nicotine, caffeine, Sudafed, and adrenaline.
I was pleasantly surprised by the Court’s treatment of both me and my case. I don’t know if it was because I was only a third-year law student, or that I was sick, or that my case was so damn well-prepared and well-made that I had already won them over with my brief, but every one of the Justices was respectful and considerate. As it was a complex case, I expected many tough questions. There were a few, but not too off point or demeaning in how the question is asked as can often be the case with dumb or ill-prepared lawyers (or just because they’re grumpy). Based on how the Court treated me, I thought I had clearly won the case.
Two months later, when the decision came down, I found out I had lost. The decision appeared to me to be a cop-out. I thought the Supremes simply didn’t want to risk being overturned on another Indian jurisdiction case by the U.S. Supreme Court. But my opinion didn’t count, only the Court’s.
After getting back to Grand Forks late that night, I had one day to rest and heal a bit before getting back into the finals groove. I slept for a solid 16 hours after getting home and shifting focus. Since the beginning of finals as a first year, I fell into a study and test-taking routine that held pretty consistent to the end (though I don’t recommend it). My routine was simply to pull all-night study sessions, cramming outline materials into my head all night long, focused specifically only on the test subject (like “Criminal Procedure” or “Evidence” or whatever the class was). Then I would jam out with some kick-ass metal for a while just before the test to clear my head and purge some stress. The last song I listened to before every single final test I took was Ozzy Osbourne’s Crazy Train. It seemed appropriate every time and was always a head banger.
As had always been the case, my birthday fell in the thick of winter finals, through college and law school both. Having a birthday near Christmas is a drag as a kid because nobody remembers it and if they do, they usually give a combination gift that is really just a Christmas gift or card with “Happy Birthday, too” written on it somewhere. But as a student, it might as well not have existed at all because it was never really celebrated and barely even acknowledged beyond my parents. By the time school was out, everybody had left town for Christmas, including me, and by the time I would be home, it was Christmas that everybody celebrated. My birthday became just another finals test date on the calendar, once again. In this last year, I had a final test on each of the two days before, and then the day of, my 25th birthday, and the only birthday cards I received were (of course) from my parents. That’s right, nothing but a brief phone call from Tami. Then back to studying for my last test of the semester.
I left two days later for Sacramento to see my father. Tami was supposed to fly out the next day, but I got a gut-wrenching phone call instead.
“I don’t think I can make it,” Tami said meekly.
“What? What do you mean? How come?” I asked in rapid succession.
“I still have Abby, and it’s our last chance to have a Christmas together as a family,” she said.
“Say what? I thought she was going to a new home?” I asked.
“They’re letting her stay with me through Christmas,” Tami replied. That meant it was Tami’s choice to hold onto Abby for the holidays. That fact burned as it sunk into my head.
“And what family? What are you talking about?” I was quickly getting anxious and upset. I didn’t like where else this might be going.
“Look, Abby’s been through a lot, ya know? And we just wanted to have a nice family Christmas with her while we still can.”
“Yeah, and I wanted you to have a nice Christmas with my family. You’ve never even met my dad, and you might not ever have another chance to,” I pleaded. “And what ‘family’ are you talking about? Adam?” I pressed. (“Adam” is a pseudonym).
“Yes,” Tami answered sheepishly. Then with more assertiveness, she said, “But I already told you that they had gotten close. This will be the last time we’ll all be together before she gets moved on to the next family.”
“How is that doing her any good?” I asked. “You’re already separated and on your way to getting divorced, so how does having a fake Christmas do her any good?”
“She’s been through so much stuff already…we just wanted to give her a normal Christmas,” Tami claimed again.
“What’s normal about being with a couple who are separated and about to get divorced? Who she’s not even related to in any way? Isn’t that just going to add more confusion and damage? I mean, wouldn’t she be better off getting adjusted to a new home? This just doesn’t make any sense to me.” My mind kept racing around the subject, looking for an answer that added up.
“You know how sentimental I am…I just want her to have a fun holiday that she’ll remember us for.” Tami was very good at coming up with justifications for her actions – whatever she did was always “different,” no matter how obviously hypocritical those actions are. Then she would dig her heels in when challenged, even if she’s shown to be wrong.
“But why does Adam have to be there? You’re not together anymore, right? Or is that something else you’re going to tell me?”
“Don’t be ridiculous!” she steamed back at me. “Nothing’s changing about the divorce. It’s going forward no matter what,” she asserted.
“Yeah, well so is my dad’s cancer,” I said softly while quietly inflamed. “He’s been lucky to last this long. I don’t know if he’ll even make it to my graduation.”
“I know,” she replied softly.
Her response hung in the air and there was a pause in our conversation as it hit me. I tried to organize my thoughts before saying something I might regret.
“You’re not really concerned about whether you’ll ever meet him or not,” I stated analytically. “It’s all the crap my mother laid on you about him, isn’t it?” My statement hung in the air like hers had.
I mentioned before that my mother and Tami had bonded – well, they had bonded too much. So much so that it became a problem, or at least an intervening issue, several times over the long course of my rocky relationship with Tami. Their relationship was fairly well developed, too, with my mother very free in her criticisms of my father and their divorce. Tami had heard all the worst things my mom could say about my father - minus the part about him being massively abused as a child. As a result, to Tami, Gary was an alcoholic womanizer asshole who didn’t pay enough child support (meaning further that he didn’t care much about his children) and whose second wife was a wicked bitch (there was nothing but bad blood between Gary’s ex- and current spouses). Tami had judged Gary harshly without ever meeting him and without even considering that he had evolved and changed in the years since my parents’ divorce. I tried to tell Tami over the years how that image of my father was not accurate, at least not anymore. It didn’t matter – she had judged him, and that was that.
“Well…it’s not like we’re ever going to really get to know each other,” she eked out.
Her response landed me in a place somewhere between dismay and rage. I tried to maintain my cool, but we ended up arguing anyway.
“Baby, how can you even think like that? We’re talking about my father, and he’s fucking dying, and this might be his only chance to meet my future wife, and for you to meet him…Why is that not important to you?” I pushed.
“It is!” came her snotty reply. “But I’ve got other obligations here,” she justified again.
I took a deep breath before continuing. “Okay, then. How about we change the date when you come, for after Christmas? It’ll cost a few bucks, but we can change your flight dates.”
“I can’t get the extra time off, it’s already booked out,” she retorted quickly.
My heart was already breaking, and my patience was almost drained. “If you were going to stay back there, why didn’t you just say so before I bought you a fucking airline ticket?” I demanded. “We could’ve saved all this goddamn drama.”
“Drama? What, you think I wanted it to go like this?” she snapped.
“But that’s how it is going, isn’t it?” I answered. “It was your choice to hang on to Abby for the holidays. It’s also your choice to come or not. I can’t force you to get on a plane.”
“Well, I’ve got to take care of things here, so, no…I can’t make it this time,” she said with finality. “I’ll have to wait until your graduation and hope he can make it, I guess.”
I was pissed at her callousness to my father, and to me. “It feels a lot like you’re choosing Abby over me. You do realize that Abby is not your child, but my dad is my real father, right?”
“What’s that supposed to mean? I’m not supposed to care about her as much because she’s not really mine?” Tami snapped back.
“No, I mean that my family – soon to be our family – is real, and we’re going to lose a big part of that soon. We may never have another chance at this. And that matters a lot.”
“It’s not Abby’s fault her family is so fucked up,” Tami shot back.
“No, it’s not. But you’re not her mother…” I said before getting cut off.
“The hell I’m not! I do everything a mother should do for their child, for her!” she shouted over the phone.
“Maybe so, but it’s not the same. You didn’t give birth to her, and your custody of her is ending soon, should have already. That makes you a temporary caregiver. And you’re divorcing your husband. That’s not a family and not a future. Your family is here, waiting for you to be part of,” I pleaded with some bite in my voice.
The situation was hard to accept but I had no choice. We haggled about it fruitlessly for a few more minutes but her decision was made. Theoretically, Adam was still an approved supervisor for Abby and could watch her for a few days, if necessary, but Tami wouldn’t budge. Despite how upset it made me, I knew that arguing further with her about it would be a destructive mistake. Instead, I wished her a Merry Christmas, she did the same, and we ended the call.
We didn’t talk again over Christmas break. I didn’t see her again until mid-January, about a month before her divorce hearing. Abby had finally been placed in another home. Adam was not in the picture. Their divorce was proceeding. Tami and I were still planning our full reunion and began making our plans to move to Oregon immediately following my graduation from law school.