News and Features
Meth and Kin
By Colleen Friesen published Mar 1, 2006
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Sean was the child she never wanted, the son of a substance-abusing sister too messed-up to be a good parent. One woman’s tale of fighting the authorities—and learning to love her troubled nephew
Auntie, is crystal meth a compound word?”
My 12-year-old nephew, at the computer, swivels in the oak chair to await my answer. At the counter, I turn to see his sky-blue eyes, widening and narrowing repeatedly. I will the espressomaker to go faster.
“I’m pretty sure they’re two separate words.” I can’t believe we’re discussing compound words; a year ago he couldn’t spell c-a-t. “Do you know how to spell crystal?”
The chair squeaks. “Uh-huh.” He’s back at the keyboard.
“You know meth is a short form of methamphetamine?” I continue casually, as if conversing about crystal meth is part of my morning routine.
“Yeah...” He’s engrossed in his morning chore of writing in his journal before school. Months later, he’ll let me read it.
...and I woke up with the cell phone not under me and Jim ordering crack on it and I spazzed out on Jim and I attacked him with a bat because everything he said to me was building upon me so I said in my mind fuck it an I went bizerk...
In February 2004, Sean had been in sixth grade at an alternative school in Mission. His Grade 5 attendance record showed 110 absences. His list of suspensions, expulsions and behavioral problems was extensive. With the many acronyms behind his name—ADD, ADHD, ODD—he could have had a very official-looking business card.
According to Sean’s principal, this was his last stop on the education trail. This was the place they send kids who don’t fit anywhere else. Sean wasn’t fitting there, either. In fact, he was walking out. But not before he gave the finger to his teachers and screamed expletives at the other kids.
One day the principal phoned me in Sechelt to say, “Sean can’t attend any more if he continues to live with his mom. The neglect is too profound. My next call is to the ministry. You and your husband have been involved—couldn’t you take him?”
If life is what happens while you’re busy making other plans, my husband, Kevin, and I had were about to experience life. Our plans had not included raising my addicted sister’s very, very angry 11-year-old boy. We were living a carefully constructed dream. Seven years earlier, when Kevin was 39 and I was 36, we’d retired. This was not the retirement of mutual fund ads with their cruise ships and golf course homes. This was a 625-square-foot cottage on leased oceanfront First Nations land in Sechelt, a small apartment in Vancouver, and trips with backpacks. We had each lost a parent to cancer, his dad at 49, my mom at 63. We’d decided making more time was more important than making more money. I’d discovered travel writing and the world it opened. Kevin was living three days a week in Vancouver as he completed his masters in economics at SFU. The end was in sight.
