Riley Life vs Linda Life

Riley’s life is sad. It has been centered in a bottle rather than what’s in his life. He doesn’t really know his children, his grandchildren or his great-grandchildren. He can no longer make decisions for himself. He is forced to live with a woman that he emotionally abused for years. Out of hundreds of women he would never choose to spend the rest of his life with me. Now that’s irony. That’s worth smiling about. (Refer to rule #7)

My life is full and happy. When I look at my grandchildren I’m down right joyous. It’s impossible to feel sadness when those little arms are reaching up to you for a hug. The richest part of my life is my family because without them I am poverty stricken. My greatest fear is to lose one of them – any of them.

I’m a mother. And that’s not a hyphenated word. I’m so much a mother that youngsters that share no DNA with me call me Momma Linda. According to my nephew, the title Aunt is synonymous with Mom. That’s pretty darn special.

True to my title – I’m fierce at protecting all those who call me Mom.

I think I must add here… two years ago my son died from an alcohol related illness. It was a sudden and shocking event. I have not yet recovered from the loss. If there is anything sad about my life – it is the loss of my son. Nothing can top that sadness. I could not protect him because I had limited knowledge of the situation. That has been the one big failure in my life. I cannot allow history to repeat itself.

The life I have now with Riley is one I have chosen to protect my children. I’m not doing anything unique. I’m just like any other Mom who wants the best for her children. My daughter and I have lived this life in the presence of drunkenness for so long that it is something that we know how to do and we still maintain our sanity. I haven’t checked the sanity meter lately, but I think it’s still registering us as sane…  well maybe borderline…

The sheer absurdity of it all is funny. How can anyone think it isn’t funny watching a man try to put on a jacket when he doesn’t realize it is upside down. It is funny when he puts the produce in the trash and the trash in the produce keeper. It is funny when he looks in the oven and can’t find the milk. It is funny when he asks if he should consider buying life insurance.

For me, Riley is just something I work my life around. But under no circumstances would I consider my life to be sad. His life is sad, but mine, although it may be frustrating, irritating, and confusing, it is also uniquely interesting and filled with joyful wonder. As in the song..  I am a  willow I can bend…

12 Rules for Living My Life

1.                   Make your own happiness… you’re the only one responsible for it;

2.                   If a door shuts… learn to pick locks so you can open another;

3.                   If someone is rude… kill them with kindness;

4.                   Take care of your health… so you don’t create an unexpected loss;

5.                   Plan for the future or the end… relieve loved ones of wondering what you want;

6.                   Do the best you can with what you have… even if it’s not much;

7.                   If someone hurts you… find a way to get even – in a classy lady-like way, of course;

8.                   Life is short… tell your family and friends you love them as often as possible because there may not be a tomorrow;

9.                   Respect your elders… they hold wisdom;

10.               Protect and direct the youngsters… growing up is hard work;

11.               Ask for what you want… those who don’t ask don’t get;

12.               Accept others for what and who they are in spite of differences… I don’t have to love everything about what you do to love you.

All rules are subject to change without notice…

The Plan Is Flawed

The Plan

My plan is always to just let him go. Let the alcoholic come to its inevitable final conclusion. He will bleed internally and I will ignore the nosebleeds and weeping scabs on his arms and legs. I will pay no attention to the fact that he eats only spoonfuls of food that have often have been from a 3 week old leftover that has been hidden in the back of the fridge. When he stumbles over his own feet, falls down and loses control of his bladder, I will let him lie in his filth until he figures out for himself how to regain a vertical stance and clean up the mess. Well… that’s the plan…

The Flaw

The First Law of Robotics:  A robot cannot cause the harm of a human or through inaction allow a human to come to harm.

In order to adhere to the plan I can no longer view this alcoholic as a human being or remember that he is the father of my children or a person that I once loved and would lie down my life to protect. I must view this person as one who is not deserving of medical attention and or any attempt at preserving his physical life.

I don’t know how to do what I must do in order to fulfill the plan because to not care about a human life; to not make every attempt at prolonging or saving a life; feels somehow immoral. Although I’m not the epitome of virtue, I just cannot, in essence cause a person’s death by reason of non-action. For some reason, I feel I must adhere to the first law of robotics.

Maybe I’m not really a human, maybe I’m a robot that was built specifically for this alcoholic. Was there something my parents had neglected to tell me??

Life Expectancy

I’m in an unusual situation. My alcoholic has exceeded any reasonable expectation of continued breathing time. He has been through the rehab process 13 times. I’ve been told at least eight times that he will not live another 6 months without detox. Since he refuses to detox and refuses to stop drinking, I anticipate and plan for the end which, unfortunately, always feels as though it would be a blessing. We have even gotten to the place of having hospice involved in his care during his final days. But his final days never arrive. I always end up insisting he go to the emergency room, he detoxs, we are told he won’t make it this time, and he recovers.

Absence of Sanity

I woke up this morning to a beautiful sunrise. The orange hue made the tree tops appear to be silhouettes resembling black construction paper cut-outs one would find in an elementary classroom. There was a quiet peacefulness that promised a fresh new start. But, in my world, promises are never meant to be kept.

The smell of fresh coffee calls to me. The creamy, hot, dark liquid tastes just as good as it smells. I sink into the big blue overstuffed chair and enjoy watching the neighbor dog briskly scamp across the street looking for her BFF to come out and play. Anxious to join her friend, Jade whines to go out. As I open the door for her, I hear Riley make his way to the kitchen. I take a deep breath and feel my muscles stiffen. Reality is upon me. No matter how pretty the sunrise, wonderful the coffee, peaceful the morning – it is just a prelude to insanity.

How did I get here

After having spent 20 years in the center of the alcoholic circle, I left Riley. We lived happily apart for 15 years. Because he was retired military, there would be no divorce. I felt that I had given him good years of my life while dealing with the military and his drinking. I had earned my military benefits.

He went thru detox and near-death situations several times after he moved from my house. Because we were still legally married and still very close, I was there. I comforted my children while they were grieving from the anticipated loss of their father. I saw how they suffered each and every time.

At one point, his roommates called to tell me that I would have to come get him or they would have him declared a danger. He could no longer live with them.

My daughter wanted him to come live with her family. I said NO. I had stayed married to him in order to have my military benefits. He was my responsibility. It was time for payback. I did NOT want my daughter’s life to become the center of his alcoholic circle. I had to protect her by stepping up and doing what needed to be done.

Since he has been back in my home, he has been at death’s door at least three times. Counting the times prior to his returning to my home, we’ve been through the “he’s not gonna make it” ordeal many, many times.

And so the title of this blog is The Immortal Alcoholic.