Sticks & stones (by Jo)

Today I have posted a contribution by one of my followers -- Jo. Her husband is an alcoholic and she is faced with the task of caretaking. Many of you already know Jo since she is very active on the Facebook page and regularly comments on my posts. Her post here, is her point of view along with some suggestions on a subject that we are all faced with -- verbal abuse from the alcoholic. Please feel free to comment.


Sticks and stones...

It’s Saturday and I’m a whore, again. Yep. Every time my husband drinks about four beers, he begins his litany. It usually happens six days a week or so now with the progression of his alcoholism. It’s almost exactly the same words every single time -- like clockwork. If I could choose what kind of whore I would be, I think I would be a high class one. Not a corner of the street one.

When I was honored by Linda to be asked to contribute a guest blog on abuse with end stage As (addicts/alcoholics), I was excited. I had no idea how hard or painful it would be. I’m shaking as I type this! Somehow, putting it in words seems so final, so accepting, and so real. I have tried several times to write this and I hope that this time I won’t chicken out!

I know I’m not alone. Lots of alcoholics are verbally abusive and they are all almost exactly the same as me. The thought of that mystifies me. What gets stuck in those brains? Something does. Some circuit, I guess. The real question is how to cope? For me, I find that taking things day by day is what helps me cope. Some days are easier than others. Some days it hurts a lot to listen to him. Some days I wonder if he knows what he is saying, why he says what he says, and what his point is. On bad days, I wonder if I’m the crazy one. I wonder if he is right and I really am a whore and just can’t see it. My reality gets skewed from so much stuff being spouted at me. I tend to pray a lot and lean on God.

What do we need to help us cope? As a result of counseling, I learned some important skills to help in managing the onslaught of insults from my husband.

I mentally separate myself from the abuser. I learned not to own the other persons issues. I know and understand that I’m a separate person and I do not allow my alcoholic to “make” me feel a certain way – his way. His statements are simply his ideas and his alone.

I learned self-esteem skills. By not owning the other persons issues, I am able to rebuild my self-esteem that his words tear down. I remind myself who I really am inside myself. I tell myself I am a good person.

I learned communication skills. I do not pour fuel on his fire. This means that I don’t try to change his mind and I don’t try to defend myself. I don’t argue, but instead I state how I feel without blaming him. An argument takes two people and I don’t take on the job of being his number two. I cannot change his mind and what he thinks is just how he thinks as a result of his own issues and addiction. It took me years to accept that fact. The more I stand fast in not taking on his anger or pain, the harder he will try to make me angry or hurt. No one person can MAKE another person feel one way or another. We all have the ability to choose how we feel and respond.

Always BE SAFE. If you think the alcoholic in your life might be physically dangerous, get away. Walk out if you have no car. Put your safety and the safety of others in your house above all else. If you feel threatened, call 911. I am fortunate that my alcoholic husband is not physically abusive, but I watch him constantly for signs of advance warning. After all, he isn’t all there mentally. He could be very dangerous.

We need support to cope. Family if you’re lucky… religion if you choose. Tend to yourself. Do nice things to recharge your energy. Do whatever works for you as much and as often as you can. I read a good book, eat some chocolate, take a long bath and listen to some good ole rock and roll. I am nice to myself!

We all caretakers need validation that we are not crazy or unreasonable. This is rare if you’re looking for that to come from counselors, doctors, and/or police officers. I have received very little from those sources. Society has a tendency to toss us aside, although I don’t know why. I find support from sites like FaceBook where I can relate one on one to others in my situation. This blog provides me with insight and reassurance that I’m not crazy. My choices are OK for me, but maybe not for other people. This is a complicated issue.

I have been surrounded by addicts my whole life. I have felt loss for many years and yet, I still do it day by day. I now look for, and feel ok about, asking for outside help. I face the mirror each day and accept what I see in the reflection. And I thank every single one of you who comment, post, reply, or just send hugs. You keep me going. I hope to somehow return this favor to you all, and help keep you going thru this journey also.

-- Jo

Next Tuesday -- Some more biology and other stuff by Linda Jane

There's always hope...

When Riley first started going to rehab centers and AA, I participated in his recovery right along with him. I attended Al-Anon as often as 4 times a week. The Al-Anon teachings became a way of life and I truly believed that things would get better. I believed that if I worked just as hard as Riley, he would get and stay sober. I heard the warnings about relapse, but I’m stubborn and I was convinced that I could prevent those horror stories from happening to my family. I had so much hope for our future.

But, each time Riley relapsed and each time he went into rehab, I had less hope that he would be able to achieve sobriety in the long term. Rehab just became a way for him to get some time off work. After the first rehab, he never once said he wanted sobriety. He just wanted to do whatever he had to do to keep his boss and me off his back. The only way a recovery program can work is if the alcoholic truly wants sobriety. Riley did not and made no excuses for it. Any hope I had for our future as a loving couple, disappeared with the realization that it was not what Riley wanted.

There’s a song by Dusty Springfield that was popular in the mid 1960’s, it’s Wishin’ and Hopin’. The essence of the lyrics is that simply wishing and hoping and thinking and praying, planning and dreaming won’t get you what you want. Of course, she’s talking about getting the man of your dreams to love you. I’m talking about getting the man of your dreams to remain sober. There’s a point in time when the sober one realizes that he/she can’t just do all that wishing stuff and add incredible amounts of hope and get the alcoholic to truly want sobriety. There is no hope strong enough that will create that desire. Eventually, with each failed rehab and every near-fatal detox, hope leaves the equation. That’s the reality of end-stage.

There is a turning point in relationships with alcoholics. It is the point when the alcoholic becomes end-stage and requires caretaking. It happens so subtly that it almost goes unnoticed by the person who becomes the caretaker. Often the caretaker is a spouse or parent. We non-alcoholics, go about our daily routine making adjustments along the way. We don’t even realize how many adjustments are being made until we have that “Ahh-Ha!” moment that all we ever do is make adjustments for the alcoholic.

The beginning of caretaking can often start the same way. The alcoholic gets sick and we take care of him/her. We don’t know if they have the flu or cancer – all we know is that this other part of our partnership is ill. It is perfectly normal to take care of our sick loved ones. It’s how we are wired as humans. Relationships are based on give and take of support, understanding, and "standing by" when things are not-so-good. If one develops cancer, the other does not walk out, but rather provides nursing and aid to promote recovery. Because we don’t know for an absolute certainty that the alcohol is the illness – it could be cancer -- we take care of them the best we can.

Eventually we have another “Ahh-Ha” moment and realize that the drinking is the culprit that has turned the person we loved into the mental state of a child that would require a baby-sitter if left alone. But, we missed that turning point because we were so busy trying to keep our heads above water that we didn’t see there was a plug in the drain. We are now in so deep, getting out seems impossible. Because we would not turn a cancer patient out into the street. We took a vow. We promised. We are morally bound to provide a safe haven in sickness and health.

Have you ever bought a bag of M&M’s and thought to yourself, I’ll just eat a couple now and save the rest for later. You pull out a couple of the candies and, with the open bag in your hand, you begin talking on the phone. When the phone call is over, you realize you’ve eaten the whole bag. You didn’t even realize you were doing it. The bag is empty. It’s much the same for the non-alcoholic caretaker. We just do a few things for the alcoholic and then the next thing we know, our lives are taken over by seeing to their needs.

Faced with the realization that we are now the caretaker, we still have a tendency to fight the idea that our alcoholic is in fact, end-stage. We take them to the doctor for some kind of diagnosis that would make everything more understandable. We want some kind of medical plan that will help us in our effort to “normalize” our situation. But the only plan any doctor can offer is detox and rehab and the alcoholic refuses. We are left with an impossible decision without any satisfying outcome. The next “Ahh-Ha” moment is when we know that our alcoholic is in fact terminal. The alcoholic is dying. We do the humane thing – we provide a soft place for them to die.

My uncle had lung cancer. He was dying with just a few days left on his calendar of life. He wanted a cigarette. He asked me over and over to get him one. But, I was adamant not to give it to him. When his doctor entered the room, my uncle told him he wanted a cigarette. The doctor told me to take him to the smoking courtyard and give him what he wanted. I was shocked. But, the doctor made perfect sense to me when he said, “Your uncle is dying. Nothing he does now will stop that. Make him happy and give him the damn cigarette.” I complied with my uncle’s request.

I was also shocked to hear Riley’s doctor tell me that I had to make sure he had plenty of alcohol. It was contrary to everything I had ever been told. But, the doctor explained that to take away his supply now would lead to a very certain and unpleasant death. He went on to say that Riley was dying. At this point nothing I, nor the doctor, can do will stop the process. Much like my uncle’s cigarette request, I complied with Riley’s need for alcohol to keep him from having that quicker, more painful death from the ensuing DT’s.

End-stage caretakers do what we feel is humane. We make a choice and although it may seem unpalatable to others – our decision is ours alone to make. Those who have an end-stage alcoholic in their home will understand the struggle we have endured just to make the choice. None of the options have desirable outcomes. It’s like choosing between “bad” and “really bad”.  Most end-stage caretakers choose the “bad” choice while wishing and hoping for a quick end to the pain and suffering the alcoholic causes for himself and others in his life. The only HOPE we are left with is the hope that the end will be quick.

The next time you are talking to an end-stage caretaker, instead of passing judgment or being critical – try saying this: “I hope for a quick resolution of your situation. I may not have made the same decision as you, but I respect how difficult it was for you to choose a path.”

We all always have HOPE, but your HOPE may look different from my HOPE.

Happy anniversary (Part Three)...

I knew Riley and I had to move. I just didn’t know where the best place was for us. After lots of discussions and research, I decided to look around for more of a “country” feel. I didn’t need a bigger house, but I did need more room to breathe. I needed more privacy for Riley’s disturbing behavior. And Jade, the dog, needed a place to run.

I found a house on-line, but it felt so far away. Alea and I took a day to check out a few houses that were more in the country. We had several places lined up to view. When we drove into the driveway of one house we were amazed at how “at home” we felt. As we always do – we analyzed the location. Riley would not be able to go anywhere without me taking him. He could not walk to the store. The kids would only be able to make “planned visits” rather than dropping in on a disaster. I knew that this would be the right place for us.

The house sits on a ½ acre lot and is surrounded by horse pastures and planted fields. Although the house is 2000 sq ft, it feels small. The hall bath was just a closet turned bath and the kitchen was very outdated. The original two-car garage had been converted to a huge bedroom, which I now use as my office. Other than the garage conversion, there had never been any other updates. Walking into the house was like walking back into the early 60s. I didn’t mind. The 60s were good to me.

Several weeks prior to the move, Riley was acting differently. It’s hard to describe because the behavior of all end-stagers is irrational. I guess it’s because we caretakers are around it so much, we learn to understand what the “norm” is and what isn’t. It’s like taking care of a 2-year old child who has their own language. Somehow the parents understand what the child is saying, while others have no clue what that kid just said.

Riley seemed unable to grasp his fork. It seemed he had lost his ability to use anything more than a few words at a time. I called Alea to come over and observe. She agreed something was more wrong than usual. We knew that taking him the emergency room meant he would most likely detox. We also knew that our explanation of what we saw happening may not be understood by outsiders – even if they were medical professionals. 

Alea and I sat at the dining table discussing the reasonable options. We didn’t notice that Riley was attempting to walk down the hill to the mail box. He made it to the porch steps where he fell to the asphalt.  It was a pretty substantial fall and he was unconscious for just about 15 minutes. We didn’t know if he was simply passed out or truly injured. So we made the judgment call, but instead of calling 911, we took him to the hospital ourselves.

It was a long wait to actually get into a bed in the ER. Once we were in, there turned out to be some controversy as to what to do with Riley. The head of ER came down to talk to us personally. The hospital did not want to admit Riley. They did not have the facility to accommodate a detox situation. Since Riley had stated that he did not want to detox or go to rehab, admission for any other medical related problem was not realistic. He continued to say that they can’t treat the problem without getting past the most apparent problem (the inebriation) which colors how he can be treated. However, they would run a few tests to see if they could determine whether or not he had a stroke.

We waited hours – all night and into the next morning. Finally, the head doctor came back and confirmed that Riley had indeed had a stroke. This put a whole new spin on things. The hospital was legally obligated to admit him. No other detox facility in the Tidewater area would take him because he was considered to be “high risk with a low expectation of survival.”  But the hospital we were at had no choice. Legally they had an obligation to admit him because to send him home would mean he would not survive.

Riley was admitted to the ICU and they began a regime of medication to ease him through the detox. We were told the chances of his survival through the rigors of detox were extremely low and to expect the worst case scenario. We knew what to expect. This wasn’t our first rodeo. This time, we stayed away from the hospital and let them do their job. We decided standing vigil would not help him. He would not know who we were and we could use the separation to get some much needed rest.

We returned to the hospital when we got the call that he was out of ICU and in a regular room. We began taking turns going to see him and before he was discharged, we had a meeting with the doctor. Riley had in fact suffered a stroke and he would have difficulty with short term memory. There may be other factors which would reveal themselves over a period of time. It was recommended that Riley go to a nursing facility, but they had not been able to find one who would accept him. He was too much of a risk. We took him home.

He wasn’t drinking when we moved into the country house on October 1^st.  It would take a quite a few months before he would manage to get his hands on some beer, then vodka, then back to beer. He had managed to get the booze on his own – I didn’t buy it for him. But when he woke up one day with DTs and asked me to buy him some vodka, I did not decline.

Then one day, Riley made the decision that he wanted to alter his drinking choice. He asked me to not buy him anymore vodka, but instead to get him beer. I was happy to accommodate him because I thought, maybe, he would go from beer to ice tea. I am guilty of occasional bouts of being irrational. I was quickly brought back to reality when I realized he was drinking more than a 12 pack a day. We are currently up to about 16 beers a day and he is also drinking wine. I’m watching him decline. I don’t regret taking him to the ER that last time. But, I won’t be rushing to heroic measures so quickly next time.

Now we are faced with making a decision about staying in this house or moving elsewhere. Some issues have come up concerning our dog and outside maintenance of the house. We are at the place of resigning the lease and are not really sure if we want to. I don’t want to move back to the Outer Banks. Riley wants to move closer to the city which would put us in walking distance to a store where he can buy booze. I would like to stay in the country with lots of land and privacy. We are at a crossroads and we must make a decision soon. The idea of moving is distasteful to me. I planned on living her for years – not just one year.

The future for Riley is not very pretty. I imagine that he will continue down his path of self-destruction and eventually he’ll be back to where his was before his stroke. Drinking beer has slowed down the process, in my mind. A knowledgeable friend, whose alcoholic step-father switched from hard liquor to beer, died within a year after the switch. She explained that outwardly he may not look as bad, but internally he really is just as bad. If I’m being realistic, I think Riley may live another year, maybe two… but then he is the “Immortal Alcoholic.”

My future is pretty darn bright. I have high hopes for publishing my book which will lead to publishing the other books I have started in my brain. I just wrote the my first newsletter which offers a more personal glimpse of my life and activities as well as updates on blog posts and book happenings. I have the beginning of a website for Linda Jane Riley. I’m planning on a few trips to such things as a writing conference and a sewing cruise. My FaceBook page is providing support for end-stage caretakers where they are not judged or belittled and can connect with others in their situation. My blog is getting more than 350 hits a day, which means I probably have a lot of people who keep coming back.

The short of it is… I’m happy with my life. Does Riley complicate my life – without a doubt. But, life’s full of complications.

(To be added to my mailing list and receive the latest newsletter, e-mail me at immortalalcoholic@gmail.com put “mailing list” or “list” in the subject line. I’ll add you and send you the current newsletter.)

Happy anniversary (Part Two)...

Before I continue with my anniversary posting, I just want to let you know that I’m going to be having occasional guest posting. They will appear as a sidebar and comments should be directed to my e-mail address as there will be no space to comment otherwise. I’ll review the comments and post them under the guest post.

If you would like to be a guest poster, please drop me an e-mail and let me know what you would like as your subject, i.e., drunk driving, medical issues, senior issues, etc. I’m especially looking for guests in certain professions – a lawyer writing about legal issues or an accountant writing about how to protect your finances. But, I’m also looking for life experiences. If you want to share – drop me a line.

Happy anniversary (Part Two)

I chose JetBlue’s non-stop flight from Long Beach to Washington DC. I had chosen JetBlue because we could take both of our cats onboard. The seats were larger and Riley would me more comfortable if he could move around allowing him easier access to the restroom. This turned out to be the right decision and our flight was blessedly uneventful.

I had made a trip a month beforehand and leased a huge house on top of a hill. It had four bedrooms, two and a half baths, and a giant master suite. It was the total opposite of the little cottage in SoCal. We converted the formal dining room to a place for Riley and gave him exclusive use of the adjoining half-bath. This kept him on the first floor which eliminated the likelihood of his falling down the stairs.

This new house was immediately filled with family. My grandson, Ryan, and his family had already moved in and one of his friends was also living with us. I loved the noise of conversations when they all returned home from work. I loved talking to my three-year-old great-granddaughter about what she had learned at daycare that day. I loved cooking daily family dinners and having everyone around the dinner table. There were arguments and disagreements, but I don’t believe it’s possible for so many to share a house and always meet eye-to-eye.

Since our arrival, Riley’s drinking stepped up considerably. He was drinking more than a handle of vodka a day. His behavior was becoming more irrational. He stood in the kitchen yelling that he MUST have his dinner served precisely at 7 p.m. – not 7:05 or 6:45, but at 7 p.m.  When dinner was served, Riley sat down at the table and starred at his plate. He then left the table without eating any bite of food. I moved his plate to the counter where he would pick at it throughout the night.

Riley was sleeping most of the day and wandering the house at night. He sat in his rocking chair watching NCIS and other cop shows. When he wanted to get to the bathroom or his bed, he spread his feet apart and stand up. He would just stand  there waiting to get his balance. Slowly he took a couple of steps and then leaned forward enough to grab the edge of the fireplace mantel. Then he edged his way across the room, along the mantel to the entertainment center to the door jamb. If he were going to the bathroom, he would lean against the wall until he got to the door. If he were going to his room, things were a little tricker because there wasn’t much for him to hold onto. Often he fell between the bedroom door and his bed. He was dead weight, so I could not help him up. Many times he just stayed there and passed out. When Ryan returned home, he helped him up and into his bed.

Every month I had to insist that Riley take a shower. It was a tough process getting him up the stairs and into my bathroom which had a separate shower. Once I got him into the stall, I had to physically wash his body. I had trusted him once to wash and discovered him sitting on the toilet (not using it) as the water flowed from the shower head. He told me he didn’t like taking a shower so he was just waiting long enough to satisfy me that he had showered. After that, I actually bathed him. I longed for the hospice workers who bathed him every other day when we were in SoCal. I had not appreciated them enough.

At one point, Alea said maybe I should just let the showers go and not stress over it. But, when I tried it, she was one of the first to point out how bad his body odor was. He was often covered in fecal matter and urine. He had weeping sores. His skin was oily. Not showering was just not an option.

Cleaning up after him also became a huge issue. I had to clean his bathroom every week with a bleach solution. Wearing latex gloves and a mask, I cleaned the floors, walls, toilet and sink removing feces, urine and blood from every surface.

On New Year’s Eve, I was feeling under the weather. The kids were using the fire pit and were enjoying their celebration. I was in my room trying to ease what I thought was a migraine headache. I had shooting pains in my left eye and some pain in my chest. But, for some reason I thought it was all related to the fire pit that was aggravating my allergy to smoke.

The next day, the pain was gone, but I was having extreme intestinal issues. I ended up in the emergency room and was diagnosed as having Salmonella. I surmised that the cause was cleaning Riley’s bathroom without the proper type of gloves. I was miserable for several weeks.

I noticed that my eyesight was worse and I was hearing a sort of crunching sound when I rubbed my eyes. I went to see an ophthalmologist who told me I had had a “retinal emboli.” Turns out I had a stroke and a blood clot ended up in my eye. I was now officially totally blind in my left eye. I also needed to be aware that this could happen again. I needed to cut back on stress and be more careful with my health.

The following February, my great-grandson was born. Adding a newborn to the mix was delightful for me. But, I noticed a difference in Ryan’s wife, Nicole. She seemed more on edge and stayed in their space with the kids for longer periods of time. I talked to her and found that she was increasingly more uncomfortable with Riley. There were several times, she had gone down stairs in the morning and found him stark naked in the kitchen. She was worried about her little daughter being around him. I told her I understood and would try to get him to wear clothes.

I became edgy about what Riley was doing and who was around. I cringed when friends came to visit because I was unsure of what Riley would do. The nightly family dinners were changed so that they only happened when Riley was passed out. The minute he came out of the bedroom, everyone left the lower level.

In July, I entered the living room to find Riley standing there, penis in hand, spewing urine onto the carpet. Across the room, I saw that my great-granddaughter was watching the event. I was shocked. I yelled something – I don’t remember what. In that moment I knew I could not continue to have my great-grandbabies in the same house as Riley.

The sad thing is that Riley didn’t understand why we were so upset with him. He couldn’t make it to the bathroom. To him, it was a natural thing to do. He didn’t want to move. He had a beautiful view of the sound from his window and didn’t want to leave it. He became more unreasonable and showed more passive aggressive hostility than ever before.

I couldn't afford the big house without the kids contributing to the rent. They were moving to a condo. I had to find a place where Riley would not be a problem to the rest of the family. I needed a house that would accommodate my needs.

Happy anniversary (Part One)...

I began this blog a year ago. I thought I would just write some stuff down to get it off my chest. I had almost no support system and Al-Anon just didn’t seem to fit. I planned on being my own support group. I didn’t ever expect I would be having 7,000 hits a month or that I would be getting more than 20 e-mails in a day. October 19^th will mark the first anniversary of The Immortal Alcoholic. In recognition, I am writing three posts concerning my life and journey with Riley. One is early history up to our move to North Carolina. The second is since we arrived in North Carolina. And the third (which will be posted October 19^th) is life in the country and what I see for the future.

Riley and I had been married for more than 22 years when I left him. His drunken behavior had become intolerable. The womanizing, lying, and over-spending was too much for me to handle. Riley had retired from the Navy and although the plan was for him to work in the civilian world until our house was paid off, he decided working would cut too far into his drinking time. The house was foreclosed on and our two cars were repo’d. Although I was working 3 jobs to make ends meet, I was happier without him. I did not want a divorce because I would lose my military benefits.

I made a good life for myself. I went back to school. My career was going great. My children were doing well and I occasionally communicated with Riley who was living in a different state.

Riley decided he wanted to move back to California and would share a house with my brother. But, by the time he got there, my brother was diagnosed with leukemia and I had moved in to his house to oversee his care. Riley rented a small cottage close to my daughter. My brother died just 3 months after being diagnosed.

Riley was asked to leave the cottage because the owners were concerned about the safety of both Riley and their cottage. Riley was often found passed out in the driveway and forgot to turn the burners off on his stove. He had no place to go. My daughter was living in a very small apartment with her husband and son and they had no place for him. She asked if he could move into my brother’s house with me. It was OK with me because I was looking for my own place. Riley could stay there with my nephews.

When the landlord of my brother’s house decided to put the house on the market, Riley was again left with no where to go. I told him he could move with me to my new house if he first went into rehab. I knew it was a long shot since he had been through many rehabs before, but I felt it was necessary to give it another try. He had been through a near fatal detox once before, but my daughter and I believed it was the only way he could share my home.

This detox was worse than the one before. We were told he would not survive. My son flew in from overseas. My family gathered as we waited for his passing. We watched and held his hand as he sunk deeper into a place that we could not go. He became violent. We observed this normally peaceful man being bound to his bed as he tried to assault the nursing staff. He didn’t know who we were and we certainly didn’t know who he was.

Then one day, we walked in and found him sitting up and eating lunch. Shock and confusion were the immediate reactions. That’s when we sat down with the doctors and became educated about detox’s pros and cons. We couldn’t believe what we were hearing, but knew we were being told the truth. We also didn’t know why we were hearing this now instead of before he was admitted.

We didn’t expect Riley to go into the rehab center, but he did. He was sober for more than four years. After the first year of sobriety, he decided he wanted to live on his own. I was happy for him and encouraged his move. He was very active in AA and had a strong support group.

He had been on his own for just about three years when he went to visit our daughter who lived in North Carolina. He made a startling confession to her. He said he didn’t want to go to the liquor store to buy vodka, but that he was drinking Listerine as a substitute. Somehow, in his mind, this was better. My daughter told him that Listerine was not intended to be consumed and that he should re-think his logic. They went to several AA meetings during the visit. When he returned home, he came to my house and said that he didn’t want to be sober. He said he would rather be drunk than sober. He didn’t ask to come back to my house. He just wanted me to know. He waited a few more months before he began drinking vodka again. He went rapidly down hill from there.

I moved to SoCal to further my career. Almost two years later, my son died of an alcohol-related death. It was devastating. My daughter was inconsolable. She begged me to move to North Carolina. I agreed.

At about the same time I received a phone call from Riley’s roommates. They were going to have him committed as being a danger to himself and others. As Riley’s legal spouse, they wanted to know if I wanted to come get him instead. I thought – “Hell no. Let them do with him whatever.” But, when my daughter found out, she started making plans for him to live with her and her husband. I stepped in, moved him to my house and prepared for our move to North Carolina.

A few months before the move, Riley became much worse. I got a doctor and he ordered hospice. Riley was dying and had less than a few weeks to live. Even with detox, the consensus was that he would not survive. A visiting nurse told me to not be too hasty calling the paramedics and make the call when Riley was unconscious. I couldn’t stand watching him suffer with vomiting blood, incontience, loss of bowel control and oozing of his open sores, so I made the call.

Riley was hospitalized and I listened once again that he would not make it through the detox process. This time I was alone. I watched and waited. Just as before, when I walked into his room, I found a bright, cheerful man rather a yellowish lump of flesh. He went to a skilled nursing facility to regain his strength. He refused to go to rehab and made it clear that once he returned home, he would resume drinking. He was true to his word. I refused to buy it for him so he walked to the store each day to get his supply. By the time we boarded the airplane for our move, he was drinking almost a handle (the largest bottle) of vodka a day.

I want it now!!...

There was another argument in my house this morning. It’s not a new issue. We don’t seem to have any NEW issues anymore, just the same ones over and over again.

Each morning we sit at my desk and have discussions on how things should go for the day, what we should spend money on, what needs to be done, and/or what groceries to buy. Today Riley told me that he needs some clothing – socks, underwear, jeans. That’s not a problem. I know he needs some clothes and I’m happy to get them for him. I’m even happy to take him to get them.

Except – there was one more thing Riley wanted. This one thing that he wants is always illogical, unsafe, and even the simple request turns me into a screamy meany. Nevertheless, he asks and an argument ensues. Riley wants his car registered in North Carolina. And here we go again…

I’ve never had his car registered in this state since we moved from California. When we moved here the car was still legally registered in California. But, the registration ran out and I bought the van. Riley’s car is not a sleek sports car that’s all pretty with fresh paint and comfy interior. No. Riley drives a 1987 Toyota Tercel that has seats that show the cushions under springs. The paint is faded and there is some rust. In spite of its appearance it really is a great running little car. That doesn’t mean I think Riley should be the one running it. The longer I procrastinated in registering the car the longer I would not have to worry about the lives of all the other drivers on the road.

Yesterday I went to do some shopping. On my way out the door, Riley asked me to bring him back some cash. I asked what he needed the cash for since he never goes anywhere that would require him to have any money. His response was that he just wanted to have it in his wallet – just in case. Just in case?? Just in case of what?? Maybe a travelling vodka sales man will come to our door and he’ll have the cash to pay for it?? I pressed him for a better answer, but the only thing he could say was “I just want it.” I was bewildered and a bit irritated, but I complied. What harm could it do?

This morning his insistence of wanting the car registered generated a discussion that included the statement “I just want it.” Images of Veruca Salt in Willy Wonka’s Chocolate Factory came immediately into my mind. The song kept running through my head as Riley sat looking at me after making his profound announcement. 

As quickly as the words left his mouth, I responded with some insane thing like “Does that mean you are going to detox and commit to sobriety? Because you can’t drive if you’re not sober.” His response was NO! Why is it that I know the answer to that question even before it is asked? I could see all my logical practical words that came from my mouth and entered a word balloon over my head. I knew those words would just hang there in the air and never really reach Riley’s brain. I knew it and I did it anyway. At that moment I felt I must be the one who is insane by expecting to reach his sense of right or wrong and making him understand why I cannot allow him to drive.

Riley says he will stop drinking for 24 hours so he can drive. I tell him it takes longer than 24 hours for him to be sober. He tells me to get a breathalyzer. I tell him that it’s not an issue of his being sober and driving when I know he’s going out. The issue is much deeper than that.

Active alcoholics are liars. It’s what they do to protect themselves because to tell the truth would mean accepting that they have a problem. They lie even when the truth would serve them better. So I know that when Riley promises that he will never take the car out if I’m not aware of it – he is lying. I can tell he’s lying because his lips are moving.

This is how I see things going down if I get Riley’s car registered. I will be gone for the weekend for some reason – writers’ conference, visiting the grandbabies, sewing expo – it really doesn’t matter where I am but I will not be home. Riley will decide he wants something from town. It could be booze, pizza, breakfast, it doesn’t matter what -- he just knows that he wants it. I’m not there to monitor if he has been drinking over the past 24 hours and so he gets in the car and drives to town. Then he has an accident and injuries an innocent person. I come home and will be devastated to learn that harm has come to someone else because of Riley’s ability to drive the car while intoxicated.

When I recite the scenario to Riley, his response is that he promises that he won’t drive the car without my knowledge. Did I mention that alcoholics are liars??

For some reason Riley believes that because he is simply drinking beer that he can sober up in 24 hours. I know that is not the case. I know that he may appear to be sober, but he really is not. It’s that saturated frontal lobe thing that I talk about so often.

My solution to end this madness will be to get the car registered. However, I will have the only set of keys. I’m not even sure if the car will start, but I won’t make ANY effort to make sure it does.