Christmas 1992...

This is a continuation of my orginal post from last year. My readers who have been with me from the start will recognize this post. I'm reposting because I believe they show the extreme contrast between a non-alcoholic holiday and then one where alcohol has taken over completely.

Ghosts of seasons past…

1992…

Both Brian and Alea have become adults and have moved into their own homes to start their own lives. That year, Brian was off in Hong Kong working for a company that sent him around the world. His current assignment would last five years. He wasn’t crazy about the country, but he met a young lady that he was hoping would return to the United States with him.

Alea was now a single mom. She worked hard and barely made ends meet. She shared an apartment with a childhood friend and it seemed to be working as well as most roommate relationships went. She received no child support from Ryan’s father. She was stubborn, independent and determined to do it all on her own. That is – unless her independence meant Ryan would not have something important.

Christmas was important. Alea had money for the necessities, but that didn’t include big Santa gifts or even a Christmas tree.  Much like her parents in 1972, she was a young family on a very strict budget.

Riley had moved out of our home and was sharing a house with another couple who drank as actively and alcoholicly as he did. It was a bad environment and Alea would not allow Ryan to be a part of that particular home scene. That didn’t seem to matter much to Riley. He didn’t have time for his family. He had a girlfriend – who was married to someone else – and he had his roommates. They shared common interests – alcohol and sex. It was no place for a 3 year old.

Alea invited Riley to her home often. She still wanted that Daddy with the handlebar moustache, but he was long gone. Whenever Riley knew there would be young female friends visiting Alea, he always showed up. He would focus his attention on the young women. They teased him and tolerated him. When his passes were turned down often enough, he would be off again to someplace else that held more sexual possibilities.

I didn’t have a lot of money. I was barely making ends meet and that was even working two jobs. Riley was retired and had his retirement pay – and he made it clear it was his. We had lost our home to foreclosure and our two new cars had been repo’d. I had a small apartment and was trying to keep my head above water.

I had managed to get a new car and gave the older one to Alea. It was to be part of her Christmas present. I bought the Christmas tree, stocking stuffers and the food for Christmas dinner – which was to be held at Alea’s. I also managed to buy Ryan some clothes to be used as gifts. And I had a heart to heart talk with Riley. I asked him what he planned to give Ryan. He said he would get whatever I thought was best. I told him toys. We needed to get him a Santa gift and some other toys. I told him to plan to spend about $100. I told him not to worry about Alea, all she wanted for Christmas was for Ryan to have a great day.

Two days before Christmas, I called Riley and asked if he wanted me to wrap any of Ryan’s gifts. He said he would bring them over. When asked what he got for him, he rattled off different toys. I thought, oh, that’s nice. He really listened to me. But, the next day – Christmas Eve – when I called again about the gifts, he told me he didn’t have any. He said someone had taken them out of the truck. And he didn’t have any money to buy any gifts.

His past behavior was always to present the image that he was thoughtful, caring, responsible and the rest of the world was all ridiculous. In my heart, I know there had never been any gifts bought. I knew he had other plans for his money. I knew he needed to buy gifts for his girlfriend and roommates and their families. His real family didn’t stand a chance.

But, Ryan had a wonderful Christmas morning because Alea’s friends pulled together and they bought him several great gifts. Several of my friends also chipped in. The little guy was happy. He played and played and Alea and I watched him with tears in our eyes. We had the best gift ever. We had Ryan.

Riley showed up for dinner and Alea was cordial. He brought with him a box of candy for me and a box for Alea. He had nothing for Ryan. He left very early – right after dinner – because he said he had other gifts to deliver.

I don’t know what happened to the man I spent Christmas with in 1972. The alcohol pod people must have taken him while he was passed out after a stupor. As much as I had loved him in 1972, I hated him in 1992.

Christmas 1972

My readers who have been with me from the start will recognize the next couple of posts. I'm reposting them because I believe they show the extreme contrast between a non-alcoholic holiday and then one where alcohol has taken over completely.

Ghosts of seasons past…

1972…

We were a young family of four --my petty officer sailor husband, my 5 year old son and my 2 year old daughter. We lived in a small community in a townhome that once served as officer’s family quarters during WWII. It was a quiet narrow street that only allowed one car to traverse down its pavement at a time. A car in one direction was always pulling over for another car coming in the opposite direction. For the most part, our neighbors were carbon copies of us—young families who were just trying to make ends meet and have a good life.

We didn’t have a car. We were within walking distance to the business circle where there was a grocery and drug store. There was also a soda shop, hardware store and post office. Riley commuted with a shipmate to the nearby naval base where his ship was home ported.  Everything we needed was right there. It was our very own

Wisteria Lane

.

Although Riley may have been vertically challenged, he was strong and brilliant. He was set in his ways and routine. Getting him to be spontaneous was impossible. If he switched coffee brands – well that was spontaneous enough for him. He was a planner.

When arriving home after work he removed his jacket, took off his shoes, put on his slippers and then he would wait. He would stand in the hallway and wait. I would come out of the kitchen and give him a kiss, ask about his day. He responded, but he didn’t leave the entryway. He was waiting.

Brian would get up and come over to his father and give him a hug while being a little irritated because it meant he would have to stop whatever was holding his attention at the time. But, Alea… well... she would bounce through the room and almost literally climb her father’s frame to get into his arms. Once there, her little arms would wrap around his neck. Then, as though it were choreographed, she would trill his handlebar moustache between her tiny fingers. The wait was over. Riley could now head upstairs to get out of his sailor suit and into his real clothes.

There wasn’t a lot of bad weather, but when it hit us – it hit us hard. This particular holiday season we were dodging snowflakes on an almost daily basis. Walking to the grocery store was nearly impossible. And, it was almost Christmas and Santa had not done much shopping. We were spending quite a bit on taxi cabs to run our necessary errands. So, Santa’s budget was dwindling.

We were down to our last $50 when we finally made it to the drug store on Christmas Eve. They didn’t have a lot, but we spent the entire $50 on cheap plastic toys that parents now-a-days would ban from their homes -- A plastic dump truck, a few little cars, some pop-beads, a little doll, some coloring books and crayons, socks and two hats. We still had some left for candy, a couple of oranges and apples for the stockings.  We’re talking about nearly 40 years ago – so a little $$ went much farther then.

On our way home, we passed the Christmas tree lot. The lot was closing down and to keep from having to burn the left over trees, they were giving them away. We dragged one home along with our other goodies. It was still early and Brian and Alea were delighted with the short bushy tree. It was given a place of honor in the corner next to the big boxy black and white TV.

We drank hot chocolate, ate caramel apples, cookies and carrot sticks. We strung popcorn and made paper chains and hung them on the tree. Then we decided to put out a snack for Santa. Riley insisted that Santa was trying to trim a few pounds so we set out carrot and celery sticks instead of cookies.

Once the kids were tucked into bed, I started to work on wrapping the gifts. I wanted to have a large “Santa” toy unwrapped under the tree, but we didn’t have one. Thank goodness I saved the previous year’s wrapping paper. So I meticulously wrapped each gift and placed it under the tree in a way that made it look like there was a lot more than there was.

I had a glass of wine (a gift from the neighbors) and Riley had the rest of the bottle. We stared at the tree in awe over how festive it looked. We ate Santa’s snack as a reward for having done a good job. We were exhausted and no doubt the kids would be up early in the morning – at least Brian would be – Alea not so much. Even at two years old, she liked her beauty sleep. The true test of our success would be determined in the morning.

We were up early on Christmas morning. We were preparing our coffee when we realized we were out of milk. We absolutely could not be out of milk. Alea would surely have a terrible temper tantrum if she did not have her milk with breakfast. We thought maybe would could say it was a holiday so everyone would drink apple juice, but we knew that really wasn’t going to fly.

So… in the middle of a snow storm… on what had to be the coldest day in the history of the world… Riley bundled up his body and walked the three blocks to the store. I watched him disappear into the swirls of little white clouds.

Just as he was returning both the kids were making their way down the stairs. He looked awful – cold and frozen. Bits of the hair that had been exposed looked frosty. Riley stood in the entryway, removed his jacket and he waited. Brian passed Riley by with a “Hi Dad” and as he turned the corner, he yelled “Whoaaaa!” when he saw the gifts under the tree. Alea, climbed up to her father’s face and started to twirl his moustache. Instead of a giggle, I heard her cry.

She had this little whimpering cry as she looked down and saw she had broken the frozen handlebar off Daddy’s face!! She looked at Riley with tears in her eyes and she looked at me as though I should try to glue it back on. Riley told her, “It’s OK. Daddy can grow another one. You can help me cut the other side off. Let’s go see what Santa has brought.” My love for Riley swelled at that moment. I could love no man more than I loved him. He was my life, my love and the father of my children.

The gifts were opened and there were smiles all around. It didn’t seem to matter that they didn’t cost very much. Brian drove his truck from one end of the house to the other. He loaded the cars into the back of the truck and unloaded them at some imagined dumping ground. Alea immediately undressed her doll and re-dressed her. They both colored and played. Riley sat in his overstuffed chair and worked in his crossword puzzle book, looking up occasionally to check on the kids. I cooked Christmas dinner and enjoyed my sense of secure happiness.

Riley left his moustache just the way it was for the entire day. Then, just before bed, he and Alea went to the bathroom armed with a small pair of scissors and they ceremoniously trimmed the other side of his hairy lip.

Santa before pilgrims?...

I can feel the depression settling into my brain. I have fought it with a hard consistent repetition of a list of things I have to be grateful for. But, unfortunately, the dark monster has taken hold and doesn’t seem to be leaving anytime soon. My mantra has always been “find the humor,” but I’m afraid I’m in so deep that humor will be quite elusive. I’m a trooper. Giving up just isn’t a part of who I am --- so let me try one more time to find something – anything – that I can use against that monster in my head.

Riley can drink 14 beers a day and has no qualms about telling anyone. He can drink a half-gallon of wine and then tell anyone who will listen that it was a very good year for that box of mass produced, chemically aged, white zinfandel. And he’s serious about that. There it is! There’s some humor in that box of wine.

My first experience with wine was with Riley. He took me to very fancy restaurants and ordered wine with our meals. He told me to sip it slowly and would then ask me questions about what I tasted. It was because of those dinners that I developed a love for smooth, velvety dark cabernets and the lightness of a delicate white. He also taught me about brandy and the difference between Sherry and B&B. He was my professor and I was his awestruck willing student.

The mere idea that he would covet his supply of boxed wine is such a contradiction to those dating days of wine tasting that I have to laugh. Well – maybe not out loud – but at least a little snicker. Riley has digressed from a liquor snob to a booze whore. I have to shake my head at that one. The contradiction in itself, is humorous and I give a little smile at the mere thought of him going from Chateauneuf-du-Pape to Red Mountain.

Riley has returned to drinking vodka. I admit that I bought the clear stuff because he had mentioned that it might be more cost effective because he would drink less of the beer and wine. After he asked for it more than a dozen times, and with my bank account dwindling from alcohol expense, I relented and bought him the vodka. I understand the possible implications of that purchase. My resolve appears to be beat down and I gave in. So be it. It’s what he wants and this will eliminate the daily barrage of requests.

So far, it’s not soooo bad. He still drinks the beer and wine and I’m not running to the store every other day for more booze. However, I know that there will be a slow decline in his mental state and overall outward drunkenness.

The storage of the vodka is interesting. While the wine is out on the counter and the beer cans get stacked neatly in the pantry prior to going into the designated refrigerator space, the vodka is a whole different story. He doesn’t want it visible anywhere in the house. He says he doesn’t like it sitting out where people can see it. I didn’t realize that until I thought we were out of vodka and I asked if he wanted me to get some more. I was shocked at how quickly it had disappeared. But, he told me we still had two bottles and they were in the panty.

I searched the pantry shelves and could not find the vodka. I determined it just must be another one of his memory lapses, so I put it on the grocery list. But, Riley insisted that we did not need more vodka – we still had two bottles! I asked him to find it for me. I watched as he went to the laundry room and opened the cupboard containing the detergent and other cleaning supplies. It was not there. Then he opened the cupboard containing the paper towels and toilet paper. He moved the TP aside and behind it were the two bottles of vodka.

I scratched the vodka off the list and thought to myself – Behind the toilet paper?? Inside the cupboard?? Hidden away?? Why?? There are only the two of us living here. We seldom have visitors and when we do they are just the family. Who is he hiding it from??

Well… there’s humor in all that. I can see it and I have the start of this little upward curl on my lips. So now I’ve gained a snicker and a curl – not too bad for someone who admits to being depressed.

I know that Riley is not the only cause of my depression. It’s the holidays, for goodness sakes! It is, in fact, suicide season! And who wouldn't be depressed? On Halloween, my favorite radio station started playing Christmas music. Really?? Can’t we just take a moment to breathe?? If we start Christmas in October, I don’t think it’s so unthinkable that anyone would be burned out by December 1st. Just the thought of it is depressing. I don’t want to think about Santa when I haven’t even ordered the Thanksgiving turkey!

I’m feeling my son’s absence acutely this year so I was elated when my nephew called to tell me he was spending Christmas with me. But due to unfortunate circumstances, he won’t be able to make the trip. I’m very disappointed about that. To add more insult – my granddaughter has a loose tooth. A loose tooth!! A true slap in the face that she is growing up!! How could she do that when I’m not done with her babyhood yet! I guess I’m pretty much doomed this year.

My previous experience is that I typically want nothing to do with Christmas until we get closer to the actual day. Gradually, I warm up to the idea. Reading back over this post, I’m struck with how ridiculous I’m being. I’m not the only one who is depressed. Many people are depressed for much more valid reasons than mine. Many people won’t even have so much as a Christmas tree, let alone gifts under that tree.

So what if Riley hides the vodka? It’s his vodka. So what if I listened to carols in October? I could have changed the station. So what if my nephew can’t visit me? He’ll be here in the summer. So what if my granddaughter has a loose tooth? She’s still excited to see the red dress I made for her. And as for my son – he’s still here with me in spirit.

And now – I must say – thanks to all my readers. Because writing this post has pulled me out of my depression and made me see that I have much to be un-depressed about. I’m so encouraged, that I believe I’ll wrap some of those gifts that have been piled up on my dining room table. As I wrap each gift, I’ll think about the person I’m giving the gift to and say “thank you” that they are a part of my family.

I found the humor in my situation with Riley and I have come to the realization that there are other contributing factors. So bring on the Christmas – I’m ready!!

TLC's DUI...

If you’ve been reading my blog for a while you will know that I’m listed as one of the Top 40 Blogs against drunk driving. I’m proud of having that honor and am a die-hard advocate of drunk driving prevention. When I noticed a program on TLC titled “DUI” I knew I would be watching.

They are 30-minute programs that show many people being stopped at safety checkpoints in Oklahoma. Many drivers are shown in varying states of drunkenness – zero to off the charts stupid. Two of the stopped drivers are featured for each program. The two drivers are followed from the roadside sobriety test all the way to their court appearance.

I’ve never been arrested and that means, I have no first hand knowledge of what it’s like to have your mug shot taken and placed in a cell. Well… I’ve been fingerprinted from employment security purposes and I’ve been searched by TSA agents at the airport. But, somehow, I just don’t think that equates to the fingerprinting and searching at the jail.

It was interesting to see the process. I was expecting to see more of a “Scared Straight” type of jail scene, but it was just not there. Everything was clean and the officers were understanding and – actually – compassionate. They weren’t wimps. I wouldn’t want to take any of them on. But, I would not have been afraid of them.

All the drivers arrested were remorseful. Of course they would be, they’ve been arrested and are on camera, for heaven’s sake! But another thing kept being repeated over and over again by the drivers. They all stated at some point in the process that “they didn’t deserve this.” I wondered what they DO deserve for putting other people’s lives in danger. What did the drunk drivers think would be an appropriate punishment? Would they deserve it if they killed someone as a result of driving under the influence?

I was further dismayed when not even ONE of the drivers served ANY jail time. They were all either issued deferred sentences (meaning their record would be expunged if they had no further incidents within the next year) or probation. Some lost their licenses for a while – but not long enough. One young lady was required to install a breathalyzer in her car. I thought that was a good thing. But, in general, the state of Oklahoma would be an easy state to live in if I were prone to drunk driving.

There was a gentleman who decided to go into rehab after the arrest. He was not forced into it by the judge. He simply made a decision to go and then went. When he completed rehab, he went back to court and received a sentence that made him spend two weekends in jail. My hope is that he continues along his non-alcoholic path. So let me get this straight -- this guy stopped denying that he has a probem and got help and still served some time. The others stayed in denial, one even openly continued to drink excessively, and they didn't spend so much as one full night in jail. How is that justice?

Two of the drivers featured on the program had all charges dropped. After submitting to the blood test to determine the level of alcohol in the system, there was not enough to deem them as drunk drivers. I think it’s good for us to see that law enforcement makes mistakes and that we have nothing to fear if we are not intoxicated. As I was watching the field sobriety test, I knew I would fail without so much as being in the neighborhood with alcohol. I can’t stand on one foot and my balance is not so good, so I’m not sure I could walk that straight line so well. I always lose my place when counting backward. So although I don’t drink – I might not pass the test. It’s good to know that a blood test would absolve me.

But, the two that were fortunate enough to get the charges dropped had actually been drinking before they got behind the wheel. They just had not drank enough to warrant any consequences. I wonder if they had just been stopped too soon. If they had been stopped an hour later, would they still have been let off? Or would have be drunker because he had more time to get wasted?

It was only the first four programs in a series, so maybe the cops and judges will get more hard-nosed as the program goes on. I certainly hope so. I would not want my teenagers to view this show, because I don’t like the message it sends. The learning experience here is not the dangers of drunk driving, but rather that you can get away with it with only minor consequences. It also doesn’t seem to convey that jail is such a bad place. You go to jail, get a bond and then go home. It just appears way too simple.

According to the NIAA website, in 2004, 39.5% of all fatal traffic accidents were alcohol related. (See  http://www.niaaa.nih.gov/Resources/DatabaseResources/QuickFacts/TrafficCrashes/Pages/crash01.aspx) I suppose that’s good since it has come down from the 1982 statistic of 59.6%. And according to the CDC we've only come down to 32% in 2009. (See http://www.cdc.gov/motorvehiclesafety/impaired_driving/impaired-drv_factsheet.html)  So we’ve come down from more than half to about a third. I guess that’s something we can be proud of. But, I still don’t think those are very good odds.

I know of one drunk that does not drive because I make it impossible for him to do so. Riley badgers me everyday to get his car running so he can drive. But, I drag my feet and make excuses because to turn him lose on the road would be paramount to putting a loaded gun in his hand in the middle of Times Square and telling him to shoot the pigeons. It’s just not a good idea.

In my opinion, TLC has an opportunity to show the real dangers of drunk driving. My message to them is – toughen up. The real danger is not that the wife will be upset or that they may lose their jobs. The real danger is that some innocent person may end up dead in the middle of the pavement on a cold, dark road. Drunk drivers need a reality check. TLC has the chance to do that and I hope they don’t miss the mark.

DUI is scheduled to air again on December 15, 2011 beginning at 8 pm and will show four programs in a row. It will also repeat two programs beginning at 11 pm that same night. On December 16, 2011 two shows will repeat at 1 am.

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.