Tis the season...

I’m very close to being done with my holiday shopping. My usual routine is to not wrap the gifts as I buy them, but rather to go on a wrapping frenzy on the 23^rd of December. I start out creating beautifully matching wrap with a bauble attached with ribbons spending at least 30 minutes on each one. I admire them as through they are a work of art. By the time Christmas morning comes around, I’m using recycled paper from previous years held together with bits of tape – no matching anything, no bauble and no ribbon. I can wrap a package in 3 minutes. Oh! How I wish I could break this cycle…

It’s not clear to me yet what we are going to do about Christmas. It is a situation that requires some thought and planning. Maybe I could turn the calendar page and just go on to New Year’s Day. Hey, it’s just a few days… no one will miss them…

Back in the day, Christmas was always a big deal around our house. There were lots of parties, gift exchanges, great food, laughter, singing and just plain downright happiness. I loved watching the kids’ faces as they tried to figure out just what they were getting that year. Even if they guessed correctly, I never let on that they were right. The holiday season was my favorite time of year.

I don’t know what has happened to me, but I’m not so much in a Christmas spirit anymore. I love getting the grandkids gifts and watching them unwrap them, but I no longer have a strong desire to socialize with anyone else. The desire to turn the calendar page and forget the day gets stronger each year. Riley is pressuring me to put up the tree, bake some cookies and listen to carols. The more he pressures, the less enthusiastic I am. When did I become a person who simply tolerates the holidays rather than rejoicing in them? This is another cycle I’d like to break.

During the years that I was separated from Riley, I had my family that included my brothers and their families. Even though I had no small children immediately surrounding me – I had family. When the miles separated me from my brothers, I had surrogate families created from my non-blood friends and work buddies. It was always a happy time for me. So what’s my problem now? I’m only two hours from my daughter and grandchildren. I should be elated that they are so near. Yet I have a feeling of dread; a longing for the day to pass.

And now, my focus is on figuring out the “why” behind my attitude. I think back to each Christmas counting backwards from this one.

In 2010, it was after Riley and I had moved to the country. The weather was overcast with predictions of snow. We had no transportation so my daughter came out and picked us up on the 23^rd. We had a lovely Christmas Eve at the home of my son-in-law’s mother. The grandkids arrived Christmas morning and we opened the gifts followed by a yummy dinner. This was the Christmas that Riley wet on my daughter’s new white ottoman. It snowed heavily and we could not get back to our house or even off the island where they lived. We covered all the furniture with plastic trash bags to protect it from Riley’s accidents. When we finally got home, five days later, I was happy it was over.

Christmas 2009 was the year that my grandson’s family lived with us in a great big house near my daughter. There was a lot of hustle and bustle with people preparing for Santa’s arrival. The tree was up and decorated with gifts exceeding beyond the edges of the tree. I was busy baking cookies, shopping and wrapping gifts. It was, also, the year that Riley was drinking a handle of vodka a day. He knocked the tree over many times just trying to get from the living room to his bedroom. He spilled his drinks onto the wrapped packages. He wanted to hug everyone, but smelled so bad people pushed him away.

I think Christmas 2008 may have been the hardest ever. It was the first Christmas without my son. I sequestered myself from everyone. If I slept long enough, maybe I could sleep through the whole season. I longed to hear my son say “Ho! Maw! What'd ya get me??” but there was no phone call, no invitation, nothing. I know my daughter was hurting as well, but we seemed unable to join forces in our grief. We were each very much alone. I talked to my brothers, but most often, I just let the phone ring rather than pick up. Thank goodness for caller ID.

So, it seems clear to me now. For the past three years, Christmas has been combined with some sort of unfortunate consequence. Maybe, I’m worried about what the consequence will be this year. If I treat it as any other day, maybe there won’t be a consequence at all.

My daughter senses my reluctance of celebrating the season. She surmises that I don’t want Riley around the family because he is unpredictable. If I keep him out here in the country, away from the fam, he can do no harm to furniture or to people’s feelings. Not having Christmas is safer than taking the risk. She has announced that she is spending that morning with the kids and coming to my house for dinner. I am grateful for that. It’s just dinner. We will open our gifts and spend some quality time together. If Riley makes a mess – it’s a mess in MY house that I can deal with.

I think I’ll get the tree and decorations out of the shed. I’ll tell him it is up to him to handle the decorating task. Who knows, maybe the sight of the fully decked out tree will light a spark of excitement in my attitude.

A few things...

Bad ass…

When a person is termed as a “bad ass” they are seen as tough, belligerent, rebellious. When I refer to myself as a “bad ass” I mean that I am strong-willed and stand firm and steady to the lines I have drawn in the sand. I rebel in what others may think is the right thing to do by using my experience to dictate what is right for me to do.

Yesterday, when I was worried about my “bad ass-y-ness” I meant that I was worried that I was deviating from my boundary limitation of pushing Riley to the ER. If I became pushy about him going, in my mind, it was a sign of that I was falling back into the old days of making all of Riley’s decisions for him instead of allowing him to make his own decisions – wrong or right. If I allow myself to get drawn into forcing him to the ER, in my mind, I’m becoming soft on an issue where I have drawn a hard line. I can ask if he wants medical attention, but I cannot force it on him. On this issue, I must envoke my bad-ass-y-ness.

The doctor says…

Riley is in no imminent danger at the present time. However, it is very possible that a sub dermal hematoma (bruise in brain) may develop. It will not become noticeable for another 3 to 6 weeks. If that happens, really, there isn’t much that can be done. It is best detected by the patient's behavior. That is, he may appear in a drunken state as the only indication – slurring words, inability to concentrate, falling, etc. Not sure how we end-stage caretakers can make the determination. It’s just a wait & see situation.

The good news:  He will not die in the next three weeks.

The bad news:  He may not be alive in four weeks.

I like to simplify things.

Speaking of doctors…

Dr. John Harsany of the Hemet Valley Recovery Center and addicitionologist with his own private practice in internal medicine, has consented to join me in providing information to my readers. He will be writing guest posts concerning medical information. The full extent of his involvement has not been completely developed, but I’m asking for him to write something about how to communicate with the medical community and establish an excellent caretaker-doctor relationship, as one of his first entries.

This is an extremely exciting development for anyone involved in end-stage caretaking. Currently Dr. Harsany is recovering from an accident, but I hope, as I am sure we all hope, that he will be available to us soon.

OARS F&F Group…

I am happy to announce the formation of “Our Alcoholism Resource & Support for Families & Friends Group” on Facebook. This is a private, invitation by request only, group that will have “meetings” on-line. The only requirement for joining the group is for you to request participation via the OARS F&F Group page on Facebook. Please be a family member or significant person to an end-stage alcoholic. If you are an alcoholic who is NOT a caretaker, there are many other options for you. This is an exclusive club with specific meeting times. This is not a 12-step program, but rather a group of people getting together to “talk” it out. It’s our way of trying to keep both our OARS in the water.

In order to access OARS, you must have a Facebook account. I know this limits some of you who may want to participate. I am working on the situation so that everyone can join without first joining some other site. I hope to have that option up and running shortly after the first of the new year. Please be patient.

As for legal stuff…

One of my readers, Jo, makes a very good comment concerning the legal issues of caretaking an end-stage alcoholic who may appear as though they are abused or neglected. I agree with her that we walk a very fine line. I am sending a request out to any attorney-type person who can provide insight on this issue. You can respond by e-mail at immortalalcoholic@gmail.com and I will honor your request for anonymity. It would be great to have a legal go-to person in the capacity much the same as Dr. Harsany.

Fireplace fight...

I know what I’ve said. I’ve tried my best to hold a hard line on taking Riley to the Emergency Room. Maybe I’m not the bad ass I thought I was.

Yesterday, I had bills to pay and errands to run. I was out of the house by 9 AM and hoped to be back home by 1 PM when the bug guy was scheduled for a re-visit. I didn’t make it back in time, I was an hour late. When I realized I would be pushing the envelope, I called home to make sure Riley was awake and ready to let the technician into the house. I started calling at 12:45 PM, but there was no answer. I called every few minutes until I got within sight of my house.

I was irritated that Riley wasn’t answering, but I was also worried. I don’t answer the phone for unidentified callers. But, Riley, sees every call as an opportunity for a conversation. When I’m out of the house, he almost always picks up with “Good Morning, this is Riley.” After not answering the phone for so many times, I was definitely concerned.

When I got home, I went straight to his room and I could hear him snoring. I thought, OK. He’s fine. Now I could unload the car and put away the groceries.

I settled back down at my desk and began the task of writing a story for a contest I am entering. Riley came into the office and joined me in his seat across my desk. I wasn’t paying a lot of attention. That is – until I looked up and saw an alarming site.

Riley had a 1-2 inch gash in his forehead just over his left eye. It ran diagonally up towards his hairline. His eye was black and his face was swollen. He had a bump the size of a small egg under the cut. He looked frightful.

Evidently, he had tried to get up from his rocking chair (his favorite place) and lost his balance falling forward. But, according to Riley, it was OK because the fireplace hearth broke his fall. Oh… I went to check the fireplace hearth – no, it’s not made of memory form – it’s still brick. I surmised that he hit on the sharp edge that creates a sort of bench-like area. This was not OK.

The blood of an alcoholic is thinner than people who do not drink. Blood vessels are weaker. It doesn't take much for them to break and cause bleeding under the skin and into other parts of the body. When the brain slams up against the hardness of the inner skull, the possibility of a bleeder is greater for an alcoholic. Besides a concussion, a blood vessel can break and cause bleeding inside the skull -- a possible fatal situation. According to an NIAA website, alcoholics should be treated immediately after any fall with trauma to the head.

Remember Natasha Richardson, wife of Liam Neeson, who died after taking a fall during ski lessons? She died the following day although she seemed fine before that and only complained of a headache. She refused aid from the EMT's who came to her assitance. She said she was fine. To my knowledge this was a normally healthy woman without alcoholicly thinned blood. If this can happen to her, it can happen to anyone.

Of course, Riley was very drunk. He returned to drinking vodka a few days ago and his level of outward drunkenness has risen sharply. And he had a drink in his hand as he talked to me across the desk.

I told him I thought I should take him to the ER. He refused saying that it would be better in the morning and that he was fine. He didn’t feel like he had a concussion, but he was just a little dizzy. He said not to worry about his eye (which was swollen shut) because he could see out of his other eye. I told him that wasn’t acceptable and that he may have really hurt himself without knowing it. I said, again, he should go to the hospital. The response was still – NO!

This morning, I was worried I would wake up and find Riley dead in his bed. I quietly listened at the door for sounds of breathing. OK. He was still alive. I went on with my morning, made the coffee, checked my e-mail, etc. When Riley arrived back at my desk he looked like he’d been beaten up with a brick. Oh, yeah, I guess he was actually. The brick won.

He told me his face and head were hurting him, but he was just fine. Hummm…. he didn’t LOOK fine. The entire left side of his face was black and swollen – much worse than the pix above shows. I said we really should have his head x-rayed. No, he didn’t want to go to the hospital. I suggested that I make an appointment with our family doctor. To my surprise, he consented to see our doctor’s physician assistant, Erica. I’ll make the appointment as soon as the office is open.

I know that I could have a temper tantrum and manipulate Riley into going to the hospital. I have my ways, as I’m sure any woman who has been married to a man for a long time, has her ways. But, I promised him I would not do that. I promised myself I would not do that – again.  I don’t think asking him if he wants to go is outside my boundaries. I know I said I would ask only one time – but this felt different. So I asked more than once and I offered an alternative. I think I stayed within my boundaries. If I had come home and found him unconscious or if I got up this morning and felt he was not really “here”, I would have called 911.  It’s what I’ve always said I would do.

Mental check: YES – I’m still a bad ass. Phew, I had me worried there for a minute.

A dirty wall...

Thank you for all your birthday wishes! I appreciated them very much. Many have asked about the lawn card photo. It went MIA along with most of my kids’ school-art-generated cards about the time that Riley and I separated.

A dirty wall...

A few days ago I noticed that the light switch on the kitchen wall was soiled and pretty disgusting. I had just changed the garbage can liner and was tidying up around that area. The light switch is just above the can. I instinctively took my trusty bottle of cleaner and sprayed the plastic rectangle. Of course, some of the cleaner ended up on the wall – it is a spray after all. I wiped the cleaner off and when I was happy with the whiteness of the switch, I moved on to other things.

The sunlight was pouring in and everything was bright from the kitchen through the den. It was lunchtime and I wanted to get a frozen meal from the pantry freezer. As I walked through the door, next to the garbage can, I looked up and was truly dismayed that I could clearly see where I cleaned the wall around the light switch and behind the can. The paint was a pretty, soft yellow and not dingy beige like the rest of the kitchen. The difference in color was stark and outlined in rounds that clearly marked where I had used circular motion in my cleaning task. I had no idea the walls were so dirty. It had happened so gradually, I had not noticed the changing wall color it all.

I think the perception of how bad things are depends on how deeply we are involved in the situation and how often we must face it each day. We often don’t see problems that are in front of us or we don’t see them to be as obvious. It’s like not noticing how soiled the walls are until you wipe them down to remove the dirt around the light switch. Then you are forced to either wash the wall or repaint the entire room.

I think that it can be just like that dirty wall when it hits us that we have become the caretaker of our alcoholic. Most people don’t choose it like it did. Most people grow into the job and they don’t even know they’ve signed the contract until it’s too late.

It’s pretty clear to us when we have an alcoholic in the house. There is no denying the money spent or mess to be cleaned. At first it may just be a few missing dollars or an empty bottle that never made it to the trash. After getting used to the few dollars, a few more may become missing and gradually it adds up to a lot more dollars. The empty bottle turns into bottles hidden in toilet tanks and in the tool box. It doesn’t happen over night. It can take years for those few dollars to turn into hundreds and the one bottle to turn into twelve. It’s a “just one more" sequence of events.

Some people chose to eliminate the alcoholic from their life. Cut them loose. Turn them out. Shut them out of their lives. The alcoholic then must make a choice between alcohol and the people they love. Unfortunately, the choice will most likely be alcohol. But if the opposite happens… if the alcoholic choices sobriety… there is still a chance they can reclaim their place in the family as a healthy, loving, productive member.

On the other hand, sometimes the non-alcoholic doesn’t realize how much they are doing until something causes them to become more objective to what’s going on around them. The alcoholic may go into detox for a few days and the house is blissfully free from insanity. Or maybe they wake up one day and suddenly realize that the balance is off by a long ways. It doesn’t really matter how or when they come to the realization. Discovering that you have become the caretaker in an impossible situation is heart-wrenching.

Once the compass is set and you’ve arrived in the caretaking position, getting out is very difficult. It requires doing things and making decisions that NO one in their right mind would do. They feel ashamed because they feel they have allowed the situation to get to that point. They feel alone because no one seems to understand the depth of frustration. They seek help from anywhere and everywhere, but help isn’t that easy to find.

There is no reason to feel ashamed. The alcoholic is the ONLY one who has created the problem and the only one who can change the direction of the addiction. The caretaker is not responsible for the condition of the alcoholic. Choices were made. They were not your choices to make – they belong squarely on the shoulders of the alcoholic. Your choice may have been based on your situation at the time when he was still “curable”. I think it’s pretty normal for caretakers to hope that things will get better. Unfortunately, the end of the options can come quickly and without notice. It’s not the fault of the caretaker.

When I first started this blog, I thought that I must be the only idiot who would have taken on this caretaking stuff. Whoa! How stupid was I?? It didn’t take long to figure out that there were lots of other people out there who were doing the exact same thing that I was doing. They were caretaking an end-stage alcoholic. Suddenly I didn’t feel so stupid anymore. I was relieved that people were e-mailing me and posting comments. It reinforced my knowledge that I was not alone.

There is strength in numbers. There is knowledge to be shared. Together we lend support. Together we laugh, cry, and grieve. Together we are strong. Together we create a louder voice.

On February 9, 2012, I’ll be attending the National Council on Alcohol and Alcoholism near Washington DC. I have no idea what to expect. I may not learn anything at all. I don’t know if I’ll be allowed to speak. But, at least I’ll learn what happens at one of these meeting. If I am lucky, I might be able to wipe down the wall of ignorance on the life the end-stage caretaker.

22,995 days old...

When I was six I couldn’t imagine being as old as my grandmother. I didn’t think she could ever have been a young woman let alone a child at age six. In my six year old mind, she was always old – must have been born that way. I wonder if my six year old great-granddaughter thinks the same way about me. She knows today is my birthday but I don’t think she can get her mind around the numbers. 63 years have gone by since the day I was born. For my great-granddaughter, one year is an eternity – 63 of them would be impossible to imagine. It might be easier for her to understand that I’m 22,995 days old. She understands days and she understands that’s a lot of days.

Thinking back to birthday parties in the past is always a bit nostalgic. I sigh, cry, laugh and wish I could have some do-overs. I remember a birthday in Connecticut. I don’t remember how old I was – what does it matter anyway? The kids were in grade school and Riley was on shore duty. It must have been in the early 80’s.

We had a cute little house in what was considered to be a touristy community. We were only blocks from the beach. In spite of that, our house was a “year-around” lease, so we got the quiet in the winter and the fun in the summer. There was a sizeable back yard that edged off into a creek. Tall trees, plants and shrubs lined the perimeter creating a natural fence and the rest of the yard was lawn. I have no idea why, but Riley seemed to enjoy being out in the yard on Sunday, mowing the grass, trimming the shrubs, etc. Of course, he had always had a few before he got out there. He wasn’t end-stage like he is now. Then he was functional and our life was relatively acceptable.

There comes a time in the fall when the lawn gets mowed for the last time before the frost and snow sets in. It just so happened that on my birthday the lawn would be mowed for the last time that season. Riley had been celebrating my birthday quite a bit that day, so I was a little worried when he insisted he MUST do the lawn on my birthday.

I’m not sure what I was doing, but I wasn’t paying much attention to whatever was going in the backyard. It may have been the anniversary of my birth, but there was still laundry, rooms to clean, and dinner to cook. If I was lucky, we could all sit down and watch the football game.

It seemed that Riley was taking a lot longer on the yard than his normal lawn chore day. Oh well, I was busy and as long as he was in the yard, I knew where he was and what he was doing. I wasn’t too concerned.

I had just make a big bowl of popcorn and put out chips and dips for the game, when Riley came in and said I need to inspect what he had done. He was all giggly and excited for me to view his handiwork. He had never done that before. Something was up. He told me to close my eyes and took me out into the yard. Then he said – “OK! Open ‘em”!

It took me a minute to understand the whole concept of what he had done. I was a mix of delight and horror. This would not be good at the spring thaw.

A giant birthday card had been carved into the grass in the yard! HAPPY BIRTHDAY on one line and LINNY on the next and then a “heart” underneath my name and it was outlined with wavy lines all around. I was amazed at his creativity – because generally Riley was not. The difference in the grass height was a good three inches. The letters were almost down to the bare ground. I was laughing and hugging him. He was so proud of himself. I didn’t see him like that very often, so I put my negativity aside and joined in his glee. This was a good birthday.

The following weekend was the first snowfall of the season. I love that time when all the world seems quiet and peaceful. The fresh snow blankets the worlds and muffles any noise that would intrude on the peacefulness. I stepped out onto our back deck to see the white outlines of branches of what was once leaf shrouded branches. My eyes looked at the yard and saw HAPPY BIRTHDAY LINNY outlined in snow. It would take another snowfall to cover the greeting. I smiled, but I knew the grass cut so close to the ground may not survive the cold.

We received our transfer orders to Virginia in March which meant we would have to leave our little house in mid-May. Just in time for the spring thaw. I would be able to see the crocus, daffodils and tulips, but we’d be gone before the heat and tourist came to visit.

One of the luxuries of being a military family is that we are transferred from duty station to duty station using professional movers. This move was no different. The movers slammed the truck doors and I offered them something to eat and something warm to drink. They accepted my offer and went out to the deck, since there was no place to sit inside the house. I went back inside to continue getting things packed for the road trip.

I could hear laughing and talking. When I looked out, one of the truckers had climbed a tree at the edge of the creek. He was taking pictures of the yard. The birthday message was devoid of grass and each letter was fully visible. One trucker asked me when my birthday was. November 28th, I said. They laughed and told me what I already knew. That message would be around for a long time.

After throwing down some grass seed in each of the letters, we finished packing the car, got the kids settled in and left Connecticut. I hear tell that message was visible for several seasons, but eventually it disappeared. I’m surprised the homeowners never mentioned it. When the truckers arrived at our new home, they presented me with a picture of the yard’s greeting.

I won’t be getting a message carved in the grass this year. But, I was wished a good morning and happy birthday all at the same time. My gift this year is that Riley was able to remember that today is my birthday.

Life's cycle...

There is a cycle to life that is often the butt of many jokes. In a perfect life, we are born into this world and our parents love, nurture and protect us. We grow into adults and love, nurture and protect our own children. When we become senior citizens, our children become our protectors. At least that’s the way it seems.

Marissa is a stay at home Mom. She has five children, two of which are no longer at home (one is in the Coast Guard and one is in college). She has asked me share her story.

Marissa is the oldest of four children. They all live in the same geographical area. Her parents have been divorced for more than a decade as a result of her father’s alcohol abuse. She has become her father, Joseph’s, caretaker. An extended family member has attempted to help Joseph by providing him a job and a room, but after four years of alcoholic insanity, they let him go. Because he had some money from being injured in a car accident, he decided to not seek out other employment.

Joseph, refuses to go to in-house rehab, but has participated in AA. His longest length of sobriety over the past four years has been only six months.

When Joseph lost his job in May, Marissa took him into her home. He was jaundiced and became increasingly worse each day. His eyes were covered by a film of yellow making them appear golden. After much coaxing, Marissa managed to get Joseph into the hospital for detox. Besides having dangerously high ammonia levels, he was also malnourished and dehydrated. After a ten day hospital stay, he was released and moved into a clean and sober house. He, once again, started going to AA and things looked bright. Marissa’s relief would only last for a couple of months when Joseph returned to the bottle and he was asked to leave the house. Because he had no where to go, Marissa, took him back into her home with the condition that he not drink and would seek employment.

Having set her boundaries, Marissa knew that it would not benefit him to allow him to cross the line without consequences. In October, she told he must move from her home. He stayed in hotels until his money ran out and began sleeping in the woods close to Marissa’s home. He came to her house and told her he wasn’t feeling so well and could he stay with her a few days – just until he was feeling better. Marissa agreed and took him in for a few days, providing him a clean bed and food. But, the following Sunday she re-admitted him to the hospital. He was released after only four days. Joseph returned to the woods, but became sick once again and asked Marissa to let him back into her home.

Joseph has siblings, none of which will allow him to live with them. Marissa’s siblings are not in a position where they can take him. They all take a “tough love” stance on the caretaking of their brother/father. They believe he should be left on the street no matter how sick he is. They believe if they allow their father to “hit bottom” he will come to his senses and take recovery seriously. Since they have very little contact with him, they can’t see what alcohol has done to their father physically. They don’t understand that there is now no turning back because his physical health is gone.

Joseph has gone through all his money. Social services give him piles of paperwork which he cannot complete because he can no longer understand how to fill out a simple questionnaire. He has no insurance. There is no longer any possibility of rehab because he is refused admittance due to the high risk factor and lack of money. Marissa feels that there are no other options but to give him a safe place to die.

Panic sets in as the Thanksgiving holiday approaches. Her son, Andy, is returning from college for the holiday and will expect to be able to sleep in his own bed in his own room. But that room is being used by his grandfather – a fact that he doesn’t know because Marissa has not shared the information for fear of Andy’s disapproval. Her one pillar of sanity in the whole situation is her husband, John, and her belief in God. John supports Marissa’s decision and will help in any way he can. They become a “united front” but Marissa must be the leader. She braces herself for the assigned task – to tell Andy that he will be sleeping on the sofa.

The next day comes and Marissa waits to make the phone call until she has completed all the many chores she has lined up for that day. She finally sees her father in the early afternoon. She had taken advantage of his “quietness” and managed to get a lot accomplished. She was waiting to call Andy until her husband was home from work.

When Marissa entered the room, she saw Joseph in his bed and breathing very heavily. She knew the situation was dire. He was in so much pain that he barely acknowledged that Marissa was there. It took several hours for Marissa to get her younger kids out of the house, her husband home from the office, have a conversation with her brother, and issue her father an ultimatum – go to the hospital or leave her house. He agreed to the hospital and it took a few more minutes to get him dressed.

It was a struggle getting him to the car. His legs hurt and he had no muscle control, so essentially, Marissa and John had to semi-carry him towards the car, but couldn’t lift him enough to get him into the seat. They called 911 and an ambulance was on the way. While holding her father up, Marissa was trying to tell the dispatcher what was going on, but she couldn’t do both. She laid her father on the ground next to the car.

Before the ambulance got there, Joseph began foaming from his mouth and turning purple. He stopped breathing and Marissa knew he had died right in front of her. The dispatcher was instructing Marissa on CPR when the paramedics arrived. They worked on him for several minutes and then transported him to the hospital. When she got to the hospital it was official, Joseph was gone.

The doctors explained to Marissa and John how they think the death occurred, but it really didn’t matter because the end result was the same. Her father was gone. As much as she loved him, Marissa couldn’t protect him from himself.

In the end, Joseph gave his family the gift of freedom. The entire family can now come together as one and celebrate his life with stories sparking both laughter and tears. The family can heal and move on. That is a gift of love. That is what a good father would do.

Ohhh… And as for Andy – he was upset that his mother didn’t trust him with the truth. If he had known, he would have left school early and been there to help her. Seems he’s already starting on the path to protecting his Mom. And the cycle continues.

End-Stage thankfulness...

The season is upon us. Flipping the calendar over a couple of pages, skipping December, is not going to solve the problem. Tomorrow is Thanksgiving and then we are in for a month or so of celebrating. Everyone happily spends money and eats lots of unhealthy stuff. And there’s lots of booze flowing at every party.

This year, Riley and I will not be going anywhere for Thanksgiving. We’ll be having a hen instead of a turkey and small portions of everything symbolic of Thanksgiving. I’ll buy a gallon of Chablis for him and a regular bottle of Pouilly Fuse for me (of which I’ll drink about a 1/3). We’ll spend our time putting up and decorating the Christmas tree. Other than that, I’ll be sewing and he’ll be watching TV.

We had been invited to my grandson’s house for dinner with the rest of the family. But, it’s an hour-plus drive and I’m still tired from the six-hour drive back from the conference. Riley has bowel and bladder issues and refuses to wear a Depends, so that complicates things as well. My grandson’s bathroom is on the second floor and the climb for both Riley and me,  is a bit of a challenge. Staying home makes the most sense.

While other people carry on with their happy holiday attitude and make plans for the best Christmas ever, the families of end-stage are just looking forward to having it all be over. They are also planning for the holidays, but their plan resembles disaster preparedness. It’s a “what will I do if…” sort of attitude. Each invitation to a party or event is scrutinized for possible pitfalls. How much alcohol will be there? Are the other attendees aware of the alcoholic problem? Will any embarrassment cause me to have to deal with fall out? Will there be children around while everyone is toasting with Hot Buttered Rum? The answers to those questions will determine the participation and become a part of the plan.

I have found it easier to celebrate the holidays by hosting my own event. That way I can control the hours, food and beverages being served. I best event I’ve hosted was a holiday brunch where the only alcohol in the room was in the sterno burners under the chafing dishes. There was lots of sparkling cider and egg nog without the brandy. I kept it going as long as Riley wasn’t making a fuss, but the minute I saw a potential problem, I started trying to head people out the door.

Any activities outside of the brunch and family, I attended solo. When I was working in the corporate environment there were many events that were not mandatory, but an absence was negatively noticed. In the interest of my career, I went to everything for which I received an invitation. I just didn’t drag Riley with me.

When Riley and I separated, my holiday life became much, much easier. He didn’t partake of my family gatherings, so I was blissfully free of his alcoholic nonsense. I choose my dates carefully for business functions and even included a gay male friend with a Master’s Degree in Business for one holiday party. (We had an awesome time – a lot more fun than some of my straight dates!)

Riley was always invited to our family Christmas dinner at my house with the kids, but he seldom accepted the invitation. He preferred being with other drunks and his other girlfriends. We were all OK with that.

Last Christmas was the second Christmas since Riley has been back with me. I was uneasy about Riley being around everyone. He ended up wetting his pants while sitting on my daughter’s brand new white ottoman. It was snowing so hard that we couldn’t leave for two days. I was miserable. Riley was pacing like a caged tiger. When the roads cleared a bit, my son-in-law was able to take us home in his four-wheel drive. A normal hour-plus drive took us three hours. We got home safely. I was so happy to be back in my own house.

We can learn from our experiences and I will not repeat last year’s Christmas – or Thanksgiving. I will miss the excitement of my great-grandchildren running down the stairs and being surprised by the gifts under the tree. I will miss watching my 2 year old great-grandson sucking on the turkey leg. I will even miss listening to my grandson as he tries to coax his daughter into eating just a few more green beans. But, I will not miss the feeling that I must constantly supervise everything Riley is doing.

Choices are sometimes difficult. My choice is to give my family the gift of Riley-free holidays – both Thanksgiving and Christmas. I know they want me to be there. I know they will miss me. I also know that they will understand. They know I don’t make the choice easily and they are willing to compromise.

Monday is my birthday and on Sunday, the family is coming to the country to throw me a birthday party. I haven’t had a birthday party since I was a kid. I’m beside myself with excitement. New Year’s Day is on Sunday this year and, again, the kids will be here for a New Year’s Day dinner. I’ll take my birthday and New Year’s Day over Thanksgiving and Christmas – it’s a good compromise!

When I first started this adventure, I never thought Riley would be around for three more Thanksgivings. But, he’s still here. If I ask him what he has to be thankful for, he will probably say he’s thankful that I keep him supplied with alcohol. I’m thankful for too many things to list in this post. But, I will openly admit that I’m thankful that there will not be too many more Thanksgivings as Riley’s caretaker. I know that when the end is here, I will be most thankful.

If I knew...

I have been remiss at posting. I apologize. For the past four days I was in Asheville, NC at the North Carolina Writer’s Network Fall Conference. It was amazing. I learned so much that my brain hurts! But, I am back and I hope you find this post of value.

If I knew...

Riley likes telling people that he fought in Viet Nam. Well… that’s a bit of a stretch since he had broken service and the war was just approaching its full swing when he left the Navy. By the time he re-enlisted, the war was winding down. He never stepped foot on Viet Nam soil, nor did any of his submarines venture into those nearby waters.

Brain damage can manifest in many ways. For Riley, this is one way. He often shapes reality to be whatever he thinks it should have been based on whatever his criteria is for that moment. One caring person once said to me “Well, maybe he’s an alcoholic because of the stress of what he witnessed in Viet Nam.” Unless she’s talking about the pictures in Life Magazine – I don’t think that explanation fits for Riley.

There are men and women who witnessed first had the devastating effects of fighting the Viet Nam War or any other war for that matter. They were left with scars so deep no amount of cocoa butter or vitamin E oil could ever diminish. Many of these servicemen (and women) left the military and began using street drugs and alcohol to try to erase the experience from their memories. But their solution only intensified the problem.

It would take years for the term “Post Traumatic Stress Disorder” to come into our vocabulary. For the people suffering the dread of daily life accentuated by fear and anger, it was a welcome relief to know that they were not just “crazy” or “wacked out” or “shell shocked”. Their difficulties had a name which meant it could be cured. Or does it?

PTSD has far more reaching victims as we have learned more about the disorder over the years. The disorder now includes any type of extreme stress that has a negative effect on a person’s life, such as being the victim of a crime, the loss of a job or person, bullying, etc. I often wonder if I have PTSD as a result of being Riley’s caretaker. Maybe it’s why sleep is so fleeting…

I met a woman at the conference who is doing research on the subject and as we were talking she came to realize that her husband was probably an alcoholic before the PTSD event occurred. So the question became, did the event occur because of the alcoholism, or did the alcoholism become the result of the PTSD, or was there no correlation between the two. She decided she needed to do some more investigation into which came first – the chicken or the egg.

In the disease of alcoholism there can be many underlying disorders such as, depression, anxiety, paranoia, bi-polar. The question becomes, is the drinking a result of the underlying disorder or is it the other way around? I knew a man who had an anxiety disorder and as long as he took his meds, he didn’t drink. If he stopped taking the meds, he went right to the bottle. In a sense, the alcohol became his meds.

End-stage alcoholism is so frustrating in that, at this point, it doesn’t really matter which came first. We wish we had known back then that the alcoholic may have had something treatable and manageable. In essence it is the age-old, “If I knew then what I know now…” issue. Our medical and psychological researchers come up with new information everyday. Unfortunately it is too late for the end-stage caretaker to use much of it.

Why? You ask? I could be wrong (I am occasionally), but in order to use the meds or to determine if there is an underlying condition, the alcoholic would have to be sober for the period of time necessary for a diagnosis which means a potentially dangerous detox. It may be difficult to find a facility who will accept the risk and admit the end-stage.

The alcoholic would have to undergo therapy and that’s difficult when falsehoods have become a way of communication. No therapy or counseling in the world will work, if a person is unable to be honest and open.  The circle continues in that, if the alcoholic has been able to honest and open in other relationships or in AA or whatever, they may have been able to get a grasp on the addiction long ago and would not now be at end-stage. At least it would be so in a perfect world.

We end-stage caretakers could drive ourselves crazy thinking about all the possibilities. In my opinion, we are where we are and it’s best to accept the reality. We don’t have a time machine that will let us have a “do over.” Accept the choices our alcoholics have made and learn to thrive within those parameters. Be grateful that those who become entwined in alcoholism, and are not end-stage, after us may have more options, solutions, explanations. There is hope for their sobriety. That is a good thing.

For me, as I returned home to find an uncomfortable but not devastating status in the condition of my home, I think to myself – I wish I could hide in the recesses of the brain damaged insanity of Riley’s mind. But, I live in reality. There’s only room for one inside his head. It’s his space and I won’t intrude.  I wish I knew what happened in his past, childhood, school days, career, that may have lead to where he is now.

I wish I knew then what I know now.

To find out more about PTSD, visit this website offering information about PTSD at http://www.heal-post-traumatic-stress.com/. I think you may this very helpful and interesting.

Let's talk sex...

I never understood the story of the birds and bees. If a bird and a bee get it on and they have a baby is it called a biree? I never quite got the connection. I never believed babies were cultivated in cabbage patches either. If that were true, why isn’t their head all leafy and green? And I’ve never seen a stork flying through the air with a baby in its beak. Is the beak even strong enough to hold a baby? I don’t think so.

I’m not really talking about babies. I’m talking about the process of making a baby – it all starts with having sex. The majority of the time the sexual act has nothing at all to do with creating a baby. It’s about pleasure. It feels good. Sometimes it’s a purely physical thing and other times it’s an emotional communication of the depth of our affection for another. Unfortunately, I think, that when being sexual with an alcoholic, sex is more physical and not so much emotional. In my opinion, sex with an alcoholic cannot be an expression of anything other than the purely physical satisfaction of an organism or ejaculation.

Charming, baffling and powerful… I remember hearing those words over and over again when I was attending my very first family rehab groups. Riley was so very charming. He always knew just the right words to make me feel that everything would be just fine. He also knew what to say and do to get his best friends wife to fall in love with him. Simple affairs were never his forte – he had full blown out lovesick relationships. He was soooo charming that he was able to do that with several women at a time, including his wife. He was a master womanizer.

To his credit, he was darned good in bed. He knew how to make love even when he was just having sex. I was never surprised to hear that some woman was in love with my husband and there were many. For women, when a man takes his time and is fully attentive, gentle and considerate – it stops being “just sex” and turns into a loving communication. He never has to say the words “I love you.” His actions are loud and clear.

That was then, this is now. Riley wants a girl friend. He wants me to help him get a girl friend. The truth is he doesn’t really want a “girl friend.” He wants a sex partner. When I ask him what he brings to the table to a new relationship he answer is stark, but honest. “I have a big dick and a prescription for Levitra.” Well… in some women’s world, I guess that enough. But, I don’t know any.

Riley sees nothing wrong with him that he needs to change before hooking up with a woman. He sees no reason to shower or wash his hair. He doesn’t have a problem with poop drippings stuck to his legs. He isn’t bothered by the urine stains on his bedding. He has a big dick and Levitra and thinks that’s all he needs.

In my mind, Riley is a sexual predator. He preys on vulnerable women in need of some tender loving care. He’s not a screw and run kinda guy. He will keep the relationship going for as long as he possibly can while adding other women into his equation. He will eventually tell one woman about another and then not understand why the women no longer want to be with him. To him, his honesty was enough for them to want to stay. He has told me over and over, women want honesty but they don’t want the truth.  Humm… I think Riley doesn’t understand the true definition of the word honest.

Anyway, back to sex… for men, sex and alcoholism just doesn’t work. The alcohol makes it difficult for the penis to stand up at attention. Before I realized Riley was an alcoholic, I was concerned about the lack of sex in our marriage. This was before I knew about the other women. We went to a doctor and the doc said – “You can’t get it in if you can’t get it up.” I thought he was so crude that I never went back. Now I know he was so right.

I don’t know about the difficulty of having sex with a woman alcoholic. Maybe you might have trouble keeping her awake and focused. I don’t know.

I’ve always had a healthy sexual appetite. No matter my size, age or distractions, I’ve never been without sex if I truly wanted it. But, since Riley has come back into my life, I’ve had absolutely NO desire for sex. Just the mechanics of meeting someone and developing a relationship leading to sex (I don’t have sex with strangers), would be exhausting. The explanation of the situation, the scheduling of dates, all while trying to respect Riley enough not to flaunt my new attraction, it just seems not worth it.

If there had never been a separation, if we were truly a married couple, I can imagine my difficulties magnified by a million times. If I were in love with my husband, I would want a sexual relationship – it’s natural and normal. But, with end-stage, the person in that bed is not the person that stood with me at the altar and said “I do.”  If I were much younger, I think it would be even more difficult.

Sometimes I wonder if I’ll ever be passionately attracted to a man again. This whole caretaking ordeal has me feeling like men in general are just not worth the trouble. I know that’s not fair. Not all men are alcoholics. Not all men are cheaters. In fact, since doing this blog, I’ve “met” lots of men. I just have no desire to go there.

In a less extreme manner, I’m like Riley. I still shower, brush my teeth, keep my hair neat and am concerned with the cleanliness of my personal space. However, I no longer apply make up every morning and am not always concerned about my top matching my pants. I reserve the make up and fashion consciousness to events that are more public. You would not find the woman I am now living in my house three years ago. I would love to have that woman back, but I just don’t have the energy.

Maybe energy is the key. It takes energy to have sex and even more to “make love.” Maybe I’m just too tired to be interested. Unlike the birds and bees, which have lots of energy, I no longer want to reproduce. The real purpose of the sexual act is procreation. I don’t want to procreate. So I don’t need that much energy.

I also don’t have the energy to go traipsing through any cabbage patches nor do I want to go “stork hunting.” I think I’ll just leave all that to the birds and bees.

Attitude of gratitude...

Once a year my mother took me clothes shopping. It was the last week of August – every year for 12 years. This is when I would get the basics, such as underwear and shoes. I also got school dresses and outfits --  we didn’t wear pants to school then. I so looked forward to that day of shopping. It was a special day that was not shared by my brothers or cousins.

Our family wasn’t poor, but there were never less than six kids to outfit each school year. Money was budgeted tightly. I now know that my mother was as an astute shopper. My parents bought me three pairs of shoes each school year – one in the fall and one in the spring and a pair of gym shoes. They also bought me two pairs of “tennis” shoes from the local grocery store. If I wanted any other shoes, I had to pay for them out of the money earned through baby-sitting.

All the girls in my class were wearing flats. I wanted to keep up with the style as all girls do, so I asked my mother for a pair of flats instead of white oxfords. Of course, this was not practical because after inspecting the soles and determining how long they would last, she would say, “It’s really not a wise choice, honey.” Until my first year in high school when she surprised me by saying that she understood that I wanted to dress like everyone else and we’d find a good quality pair of flats.

I was ecstatic! I tried on at least a dozen pairs of flats. There was just one problem – my feet were so small, the only flats they had that would fit were had the convertible strap. I hated that strap. It made me feel like a baby. My body and feet may have been small, but I wanted to look like the rest of the girls. They didn’t need that stupid strap and I didn’t want it.

I reluctantly decided to go with the standard white oxfords. My mother said that we would buy the oxfords, but she promised she would make sure I got a pair of flats as soon as we found some that would fit.

As we left the store, I could feel the tears starting to fall from my eyes. My mother knelt down in front of me and said “Don’t cry, honey. Someday you’ll see that being small will be to your advantage. Someday people will think you are ten years younger than you really are. And you will smile.” I know she meant well, but I just couldn’t see that silver lining.

I think what my mother was trying to say was that I needed to be grateful for what I had. I think she meant that I needed to develop an attitude of gratitude. Things may look just really, really awful, but I needed to turn that awfulness around and be happy.

Before Riley first came back to live with me, my life was totally different. I had a job that I loved and I was telecommuting. I had a man who cared about me although we didn’t see each other as often as I would have liked. I went to parties and festivals with my friends. I cooked. I wrote but never finished a book. I watched my favorite programs and I was happy. Even though I was sad from the loss of my son, I was happy with the way things were.

I expected a change when Riley came back. I knew I would have to compromise with him and tend to him. I was prepared. But, we had interests in common 20 years ago; surely we’d have things to share as roommates. And we did share. It was difficult but not so bad that I couldn’t handle it.

When I was 14, I spent a lot of time taking care of my grandmother who was terminally ill. I approached Riley with the same attitude. I saw a dying man in need of some caretaking. That was how I treated him. It was difficult at first because we were just about to make the move across country, but there was nothing I couldn’t manage. The adjustment was hard – no more parties and festivals – no more man to come for dinner – and my TV program line-up changed. So things changed, but I still didn’t feel UNhappy.

I’m looking back now and hearing those words that my mother said about those shoes. If she were here today, she would say “See… there’s always something for which to be grateful.” She would be so right.

If I had not taken Riley back, I would still be at the job that monopolized my day. I would still be doing things pretty much the way I was. I would be happy, but would I be satisfied?

Having Riley has opened my eyes to something that I had avoided after we separated. I did a lot of research on alcoholism. If it were not for Riley, I would never have started the blog. If not for the blog, I would never have started writing The Immortal Alcoholic’s Wife or started the FaceBook page. If it were not for caretaking an end-stage alcoholic, I would never know the warm feeling of accomplishment when I get the e-mail that says I’ve helped someone through a difficult time. I would never have discovered my passion for trying to make a difference. If it weren’t for all that, I would have hated about being forced into retirement. Maybe I would be spending my days dying my hair blue and going to the senior center for bingo. Actually, I love playing bingo – so let’s forget about that.

Today, I have an attitude of being grateful for having Riley in my life. I’m grateful that he gave me fodder for my book. I’m grateful that he feeds Jade and Jax everyday. I’m grateful that he unloads the dishwasher. I’m even grateful when he is talking nonsense because he gives me a reason to snicker. Yes, he is exasperating, irritating, frustrating and he keeps me on my toes. I hate it that I’m helpless in trying to get him to make the right choices. But, I’ve learned to respect the boundary.

When Riley is gone, my life will be easier. I might even find a sweet guy that will come to dinner. I will expand my social circle. I will write the next in my series of IA books. And I will continue to be happy in this world that Riley forced me to discover.

Tomorrow I may want to wring his neck, but for today I know my mother is watching me smile.