The Hangover of Hope

Why We Try Everything Else First

One of my sons and I were discussing depression, particularly how to climb out of the stupid rotten damn hole you have dug for yourself. He’s clinically depressed, which appears to run in my family. I myself currently have widow’s slump—a shallower pit but a pit nonetheless.

We talked about degrees of depression and what kinds of remedies exist and which ones are just snake oil cures that make us feel good for a few seconds but don’t really help at all. Turns out, the fake stuff is pretty darned appealing. It’s no wonder we have so much trouble finding our way to real hope.

In my son’s case, demon rum is the elixir that he turns to daily. I say demon because he says he wants to quit, needs to stop, must cease imbibing before his liver gives out and he gets a red nose or gout or both. He actually drinks beer not rum, unlike my dear late mother.

Mom’s dance partner was depression too.

She tried to fix herself for years. A working mother in an era when we still had Room Mothers Who Brought Cupcakes to Class, Mom ordered a Screwdriver the moment her spike heels crossed the threshold of our abode.

At the time I didn’t understand the connection between her after work drink and the arguing that ensued if she didn’t get it. When she was mean, I mean depressed, my favorite expressions of hers were God Almighty! And Hell’s Bells. The first signaled that my sis and I would lay low until bedtime. The other meant we’d better go outside and play in the dusty Yuma yard.

My poor mother was tortured by the expectations of her mom’s generation (to keep a House Beautiful) and her ambition to have a career. Back then, I could have told her which one I’d prefer, just to get Cupcakes in Class. Of course, these days I vote for an ambitious career, but she was trapped between worlds. And it made her sad, mad and pretty Hell’s Bell-ish.

Eventually, Mom got at least some of what she wanted—the opportunity to live in a place where the housekeeper did all the work so she could golf, shop and sell stretchy clothing on the weekends. But her depression deepened. Seems that all the trappings she craved left out one important thing: hope.

Mom was hopeless due to the Faustian bargain she’d made. Sure, the guy was rich but he also should have had stock in Beefeater’s. On top of that, he was not a nice guy, especially in the evenings when he guzzled gin from the comfort of his recliner. From his throne, he’d order Mom to serve him drinks, over and over until he passed out.

Of course, by this time Mom had graduated to Absolut on the Rocks. She proved again that depression and booze don’t mix well. In fact, the alcohol-fueled arguments, screaming matches and God Almighty moments became nightly occurrences.

One night, that screaming match turned uglier. I lived far away from my native Arizona, and that evening the phone rang. Mom said, “I just want to say goodbye.” I could hear her spouse in the background saying he didn’t give a flying you-know-what if she checked out or not.

My heart stopped. My mother, whose troubled life had always been rather uphill, was committing suicide over the phone? Panic rose up in me as I spoke calmly to her: “Mom, don’t do anything rash, OK? I’ll help you. Mom, I love you.”

She hung up.

I redialed but no one picked up. I kept calling—finally the soused spouse answered. He said Mom swallowed a bottle of pills and that he didn’t care if she lived or died. I pleaded with him to call an ambulance. He laughed.

I spent the next hours pacing, worrying, praying. I had to call on every ounce of hope I had to stay upright. My breaths were prayers when I remembered to breathe. I reminded God of every last thing I’d done that wasn’t awful, and I promised that if Mom lived, I’d never stop hoping in the Lord.

Mom lived.

Hope shines brightest when we reach out to those with no hope.

She still wrestled with her demons, but I was changed. I can never forget about the hope I received that day, a free gift that I sometimes relish and other times admit to grudgingly. But I learned that hoping for yourself is never enough. No, hope shines brightest when we reach out to those with no hope.

Most of us try virtually anything and everything else before we say, OK fine and open our hands and hearts to hope. Whether we’ve always battled depression or we’re just in a funk over the current geopolitical reality, the shortest road to real hope runs through love.

Love opens our eyes and ears to possibility—the quickening of spirit that tells us YES is just around the next bend. If we jettison the fake cures of wealth or status or even too much hooch, we can cling to a hope that passes understanding.

The hope that love can win, that even one person can be rescued from their own abyss is solemn and joyful work. This hope isn’t about giving answers or prescriptions or unsolicited advice. It’s more about keeping love at the crossroads of hopes and fears.

My son gives me a giant hug. He says my hair smells nice. Maybe he’ll put down the snake oil and start living. But even if he doesn’t I’ll still be there next to him, letting go my little widow’s slump and allowing hope to infect both our lives. I think God Almighty will smile.