Riley's brain damage...

            Riley’s drinking over the past year hasn’t been as bad as it was the year before. It’s because he was drinking beer instead of vodka and the actual intake of pure alcohol was less. But it really doesn’t change anything. The same things are happening inside his brain and liver as they would if he were drinking moonshine. Beer, wine, vodka, moonshine – they all damage the liver and the residual toxins accumulate in the frontal lobe of the brain. It’s a fact that cannot be denied especially if you were a visitor in my house on Christmas Day.

            Since Riley has changed from beer and wine to vodka, things have been getting a little more absurd than usual. His behavior is becoming less rational and more demanding. He is falling several times a day and talks to himself (and the TV) constantly. He is unable to walk through the house without holding onto a piece of furniture or the wall. He eats very little and usually ends up giving his full plate of food to Jade when I’m not looking.

When things get like this I do a little review of the facts to help me see things clearly. I came across this picture and thought this would be a great thing to share with my readers. I remember first seeing this when Riley and I were going through his first rehab center via the Navy. It’s been around a long time and I’m not sure who to give credit to for it’s existence.

            This illustration clearly shows which part of the brain controls what functions and from studying it, I can see that Riley’s Cerebral Cortex and Cerebellum have been damaged. The only thing that confuses me is that in my research, it is always the “frontal” lobe of the brain that gets damaged the most. So maybe it’s the frontal portion of the Cerebral Cortex that is the most at risk. So I found another picture:

(How Alcohol Attacks the Brain is from www.kickoff.net/au/alcohol.html. Please visit their most informative site.)

            Both of the illustrations have helped me understand why Christmas Day was filled with the off-beat humor gained from observing an end-stage alcoholic.

First thing in the morning, Riley appeared in my office wearing no shirt – which is very unusual. He queried me with – didn’t I think it was a bit chilly in the house. I replied that he might be warmer if he put on a shirt. His response – he didn’t put on a shirt because he hadn’t made the coffee yet. I’m not sure what one has to do with the other.

Riley fell getting out of his rocking chair while Alea was here on Christmas Day. She tried to help him get back into the chair, but he had no muscle strength to help pull him up. So she just left him on the floor – where he stayed for hours while we snacked and cooked dinner. We would hand him appetizers while he was on the floor. It was such an odd sight – Riley spread out across the floor between the loveseat and rocking chair – Jade sitting at his side and watching with interest – munching on the bite-size bread topped with prosciutto and mozzarella. A bite for Riley… A bite for Jade…

Since Alea was doing the cooking, she apologized to her father because dinner would not be ready at our normal 5 p.m.-ish dinnertime. He responded that he didn’t want dinner until 8 p.m. today. She replied that she didn’t know that we ever ate that late. He countered with he didn’t like eating at the same time everyday – he liked to change it up so it would be a different time everyday. Alea and I looked at each other with that look that implies “What????” She asked him if he lets me know when he wants dinner. His response – “It doesn’t matter. She should just always know when I want it.” Oh!! I was never trained in the art of mind-reading. I better find some classes on the subject.

Later on that day, I passed through the den to find Riley sitting in his rocking chair wearing just his red bikini tighty whities. I guess they aren’t whities if they are red. Anyway, I asked where his pants were. He said he had wet himself because he didn’t know he had to go and so he took them off. My next question – did you change your underwear? And, do you want me to find you some clean pants? The answer – He didn’t change the underwear because they didn’t get that wet. And – no he didn’t want to put on any other pants. I don’t know how you get your jeans wet without getting your underwear wet when going to the bathroom in your pants.

Seeing the pictures helped me understand the “why” of what happened. But, that really isn’t as interesting as seeing the humor in the absurdity of the day. Riley was never in any real danger and nothing he did really hurt anyone else. Well, OK, the fall could have hurt him – but it was a gentle fall rather than the one that gave him a blackened face. He was safe with his illogicality. Seeing for all of it for what it is makes it easier for me to snicker to myself and think – it could really, I mean REALLY, be a lot, lot worse.

A peaceful holiday...

I wish for all of you – a very peaceful holiday season. Living with an alcoholic can feel noisy and chaotic. So the carol “Silent Night” takes on a whole new meaning for us caretakers. A silent night is what we really want and I truly hope you get that – even just for a little while – sometime during the upcoming week.

My Christmas suggestion to you is:

To the Caretaker – take care of yourself. Treat yourself to some special time doing exactly what you would like to do. Read a book. Take a bubble bath. Go fishing. Take a walk. Go to a concert. Get a massage. Do whatever makes you feel at peace.

To the Alcoholic – the gift I suggest you give is not just for you, but for everyone in your family who loves you. There should be links on the left side of my blog for rehab centers that are advertising on my site. Click one of them. If there’s none there – search for one on the internet – there are many. Some of them have on-line chat so you can talk to a counselor TODAY. Even if you don’t agree to go into rehab, at least TALK to someone about it today. Give yourself the gift of a full, happy and productive life. Discover the world outside the body. Be the person that everyone, except you, knows you can be. And, give your caretaker the gift of seeing you happy. That’s all any of us really want.

A friend of mine wrote about when the right time is to tell your kids that there isn’t a Santa Claus. To that I say NEVER!! I wrote a story based on an actual experience that I had intended to submit to a contest on the trauma of telling your kids about Santa. Since I lost track of time, I didn’t get it submitted in time. So my Christmas gift to all my readers is this story. I hope you all enjoy it.

My Santa Story

No one gets through childhood without the harsh glare of reality that the real Santa does not sit on a big red chair in the middle of a large department store. How absurd! Everyone knows he is really in his workshop at the North Pole working with the Elf’s creating all those wonderful toys that are loaded into his big black bag. Just the idea that there may not even be a workshop is so disheartening that the child in cringes at the mere thought.

During my days as a reporter for the local newspaper, I was assigned the task of writing an obit for a gentleman who died just a few days before Christmas. Harry Barker was the owner of a small auto garage in an eclectic area of town known as the “Village.” He settled there as a young man, got married and raised four daughters, one of which, Susan, was a mechanic who worked with him in the garage.

I attended Mr. Barker’s Christmas Eve memorial service. He was highly regarded in the community. He often extended credit on just a handshake. If a customer was in hard financial times, the bill simply got “lost” in the shuffle of paperwork on his desk.

I offered my condolences to Mrs. Barker. I told her I would pray that she would get through the holidays with wonderfully sweet memories. To my surprise, she looked up at me and said “Oh dear, I don’t know what to do about Santa. What am I supposed to do?” I took her hand and tried to reassure her that everything would be OK. But she insisted, “Harry is gone and I’m the only one who knows! You have to help me.” I tried to stay calm while trying to calm Mrs. Barker, but calming people down just wasn’t my forte. I truly did not understand.

I asked her, “What can I do to help?” To my surprise she said, “There’s a list. We have to find it.” She grabbed my coat and tossed it to me as she hurried for the door asking Susan, for the shop keys as she tried to slip by her.

“Mom, let’s wait and go to the shop in the morning. We have guests. Whatever is it, it can wait.” Susan gently tried to redirect her Mother back toward the guests. But, Mrs. Barker was insistent. “No. There isn’t much time. Susan.” And with that we proceeded to walk the three blocks to the shop in confused silence.

Mrs. Barker searched through her husband’s desk, opened all the cabinets, and then… in the back of the shelves, among countless Haynes auto repair books, she found what she was looking for -- an old-fashioned frayed green cloth account book. She opened the book and we saw 1956 written in large block numbers across the top of the page. Below the year there was a list of names and addresses in one column and a description of something in the second column. The book contained year after year of the same sort of list. The last entry was the current year, 1998, and, just like the other years, there was a list of names.

Mrs. Barker sat behind the desk with Susan and me waiting for an explanation. “Harry loved this community. He had such a big heart and felt so blessed to have so much in our lives. We really didn’t want for much of anything. We had financial independence, beautiful girls, our life was full. Harry saw so much trouble in the lives of others and he was driven to give people help and hope.”

“Mom, everyone knows how generous Dad was. It was no secret.” Susan quietly reminded her mother.

Mrs. Barker continued, “You really didn’t know. He wouldn’t tell any of you girls that he wanted to be Santa Claus.”

I sat in the old wooden chair listening and shades of clarity were beginning to form. “Mrs. Barker, are you saying that Harry acted as Santa to people outside his family?”

“Yes! Yes! He wrote down names all year long. These people were ones who had done some unnoticed good deed for someone else. Some of the people would have had difficulty providing Christmas dinner or gifts for their own children. He wrote them all down. Here. Right here.” Like a fog that lifts in the afternoon sun, Susan and I could clearly see what Mrs. Barker was trying to tell us.

“Remember? After Christmas Eve dinner your father always had to go back to work for some reason or another? Yes, he went to the shop, but not to work. He put together baskets of things, food, toys, clothing, gift certificates, and maybe even a small tree. Then he took them around to the different houses on his list and dropped them at the front door. Sometimes he’d do a ‘ring and run’ thing. Sometimes, he’d call them anonymously from the shop and tell them to go to their front door. If was so much fun for him and he was always exhilarated when he returned home.”

Mrs. Barker and Susan decided not to let Harry’s tradition die. They took over his identity of Santa Claus and although Harry was gone – Santa was not. I helped them load the baskets and deliver them to the names on the list.

It was revealed to me at a very young age by my older brother and cousins, that Santa was really my parents. I was devastated. If there was no Santa, there was no hope of me ever getting anything I really wanted at Christmas. But, on the Christmas Eve of 1998 at the age of 34, I learned that there really was a Santa Claus named Harry.

The reality is there are probably a lot of real-life Santa’s out there, but mostly Santa is in the heart of everyone who believes in the good of other people.

My name is Jade...

Jade

And I’m a dysfunctional, co-dependent, Flat-Coated Retriever, mixed with some Spaniel. I live in a house in the country with my human Mommy and Daddy. Daddy is a drunk and so I am a Dog of a Drunk Daddy (DODD). I don’t know if there is a support group for that, but if there is I should probably be going.

Jax the Max Catz

I have a brother, his name is Jax, but I don’t think he is very much like me. He doesn’t bark. He makes this strange sound that sounds like crying and he does it a lot. He runs under me when I’m walking and rubs up against my face when I lay down. He’s all fuzzy and has spark-like needles that come out of his paws when he is mad. He always climbs trees when he is outside. I don’t know if he’s dysfunctional and co-dependent like me. He’s very independent and doesn’t pay much attention to anything other than the mice in the yard. No one rubs his head and says “good dog” or “bad dog”. Mostly they just rub his body without saying anything. I don’t understand why the humans talk to me and not to him.

I didn’t always live with this human couple. When I was just a tiny puppy I lived with Emily and her Mommy and Daddy. They were never home because they worked all the time. I had to stay locked in the place with the big white water bowl. It was small and there were no windows and I heard so many scary sounds. I wanted to protect the house so I barked and barked at all the scary things to make them go away. But they did not go away. They kept coming back all day long. I didn’t like that place.

When everyone came home they took me out and played with me. But they were tired so they couldn’t play with me for very long. I got to go outside for walks, but I had this thing around my neck and every time I wanted to go in a direction the neck thing pulled at me so I had to go where my human wanted me to go. I wanted to run. There were so many different smells. I have a very sensitive nose and could smell what everyone on the street was having for dinner. I wanted to go there and taste what they had. There was so much to explore and my time outside was very short.

I got too big to be in the white water bowl place, so Emily’s Mommy and Daddy locked me outside on the screened porch while they were gone during the day. That was much better than the white bowl place because I could see all the things that scared me before. There was the mailman and cars that screamed as they drove down the street. The screaming cars had colored lights on top that flashed. I didn’t like those cars and I wanted to chase after them. But I was locked on the porch.

Eventually, I found out that I could use my paws to scratch away the screen and escape to the outside world. It was joyous! I ran and ran and ran – all over the neighborhood! I met other puppies and other humans. Almost everyone was nice to me so I jumped up and tried to kiss them on their faces. I don’t know why they pushed me down and yelled at me to “go home!!!” – I just wanted to be friends.

When Emily’s Mommy and Daddy got home, they would tell me I was a “bad dog” and bring me inside the house. After that, they tied me up outside when they left for the day. I didn’t like that very much. I pulled at the rope and it choked me. I wanted to go visit my puppy friends and chase the screaming cars. But I couldn’t. I was attached to a post.

Emily and her family moved into a great big house on a hill with the Mommy and Drunk Daddy. There was a big yard and I was free to run all around it. But when I got to a certain place I would get a little sting on my neck and I learned that I should not go past the driveway.

A great big piece of water was just down the road and I really wanted to go there. Retrievers and spaniels love to swim and Emily’s Mommy and Daddy had taken me to the beach lots of times. My new human Mommy tied me to her and took me down to the big piece of water. It wasn’t as pretty as the other beach, but there were lots of birds to chase. Mommy threw sticks into the water and I would swim out to get them. Oh how wonderful it was to feel the water around me and to paddle with my legs! I didn’t want to go home, but she always made me come with her back to the great big house on the hill.

I was happy there, but I was confused. My new Mommy was always trying to get me to be calm and submissive and when I sat still for a few minutes, she would tell me I was a good dog. But when I put my paws on the countertop to get to the roast beef, she yelled at me and told me I was a bad dog. The meat smelled so good and tasty. I just wanted to know what human food was really like. When I tasted it – I loved it. I wanted more.

My Drunk Daddy would give me bits of his food from his plate. Human food was wonderful and I loved being paid attention to when he was eating. He petted me and talked softly about me being a good dog. He said I was his dog. Then Mommy would come and take away the plate and tell me I was a bad dog. I don’t really know what being a “good dog” or “bad dog” is… but somehow I think maybe it doesn’t really matter.

My Drunk Daddy would pat his shoulders and I would jump up to put my paws where he had patted. He let me lick his face and he rubbed my head telling me I was a good dog. Then he would give me a bite of his human food and keep telling me that I was his dog and that he loved me. But when I tried to do that with Mommy, she would push me down and tell me I was a bad dog. She told me to sit still and I did what she wanted – for a little while.

One day, Mommy took Drunk Daddy somewhere and he did not come back for a long time. Dark came and Drunk Daddy didn’t come home. I sat on his bed and watched out the window because I knew he had to come home soon. I missed him and the little bites of human food that he gave me. I missed hearing him tell me I was a good dog while rubbing my head. I wanted him to come home. It was a long time, but he did come home and we were so happy to see each other.

The happiest day of my life so far was when Mommy and Drunk Daddy put me in the car and took me to a place where I could run without getting a sting in my neck. They took off the stinging thing and I ran all over the open flat ground. There were birds everywhere and I could chase them until I was too tired to run. Another dog came from across the street to say hello. Her name is Maggie and we became instant best dogs. We chase each other all over the open ground and when there are humans with black sticks that make a big noise and smoke (Drunk Daddy calls them guns) in the woods we bark and try to chase them away. I don’t know what they do with those guns, but I just know someone is going to shoot their eye out.

There's a game I play with Mommy and Drunk Daddy. I grab the soft fluffy things from the sofa and show them to Drunk Daddy. He says "Oh, Jade, you're not suppose to have that pillow." Then Mommy yells "Jade -- Drop it!" But I don't drop it, I make her chase after me all around the house. Then when I don't have anyplace else to run, I drop it. She says "bad dog" and puts the soft thing way up high so I can't get it. I love having things in my mouth -- water bottles are really good because they squeak when I chew on them. I like chewing on things like Drunk Daddy's slippers. Mommy chases me to get those back too. I love those games and I will play them forever.

I think I’m dysfunctional because my Mommy tells me one thing and my Drunk Daddy tells me something else. I really don’t know what to do, so I just follow my instincts – like when I took the steaks off the big black thing that was outside. The black thing was hot, but it wasn’t too high for me to jump up and snatch what was there. Drunk Daddy and Mommy came out and there was nothing on the big black thing for them to eat. Mommy was yelling at me that I was a bad dog. Drunk Daddy just rubbed me head and said “Those were good steaks, huh, Jade. You’re such a good girl.”

Jade and Riley taking a nap.

If my Drunk Daddy was not so drunk all the time, I probably wouldn’t get those bites of human food. My instincts tell me that he would agree with Mommy more often and I would have to take a lot more baths and eat a lot more of that stuff from the bag that gets put into my bowl next to my water. I love my Drunk Daddy just the way he is and I wouldn’t want to change anything about him.

I heard Mommy say that she has a new stinger thing to put around my neck. She says it will help to make me a “good dog.” But, I’m not sure I want to be a good dog. I’m afraid that if I am the way Mommy wants me to be, Drunk Daddy will not rub my head and tell me I’m his dog anymore. I’m afraid I won’t get any more steak.

Maybe I should be more like Jax. I should just ignore everything and go climb a tree.

And so this was Christmas 2011...

My grandson, Ryan, and his family called on Friday night and said they wanted to come out and see me on Sunday. I was very happy. It was turning out to be a good weekend. My daughter spent Friday night and Saturday with me and then I would be seeing the kids on Sunday! That’s more company than we have had in months.

Alea helped me wrap gifts on Friday night. We sipped hot chocolate and ate Bruschetta, baked brie and shrimp with cocktail sauce. Riley joined us as we picked at the food and reminisced about Christmas’ past. He retains many long-ago memories so he was actually pleasant to have in the conversation. But, when the conversation turns to more recent holidays, he leaves the room and heads for bed. He has not fallen today and the vodka consumption was down from the day before.

On Saturday we worked on things in the office. We did some scheduling for conferences and brain stormed about the possibility of upcoming speaking events. We then worked on her resume and some on-line shopping. It was time for a break so we made ourselves comfortable in the living room.

We ordered the movie “The Help” off pay-per-view and settled in. I had my cozy red blanket and pillow, she had her favorite throw. With a bowl of popcorn and soda – we were ready. I was so relaxed that I was afraid I would fall asleep while watching the movie. Not a chance. The movie was perfect for me – a writer who is writing a very meaningful story. My eyes were riveted to the screen and my brain was on a journey back in time to the deep south in the sixties. I was transformed into Skeeter. I was so lost in the movie that when it ended, I had to shake myself to come back to reality.

And reality was there to greet me… Riley had decided he was hungry and taken several leftovers from the fridge and lined them up on the counter. He decided on some of Thursday’s fried chicken and soup. He got the can of soup out of the panty and put it next to the pan he had taken from the cupboard. He then popped the chicken in the microwave. I knew the soup would not get cooked and that he would only eat maybe half of one of the two legs he had warmed up.

He sat in his rocking chair with his plate of food next to him on the tray. Alea is preparing to leave. I look up from washing the dishes see that Riley is attempting to get to his room. He falls just as he stumbles into his room. At about the same time, the dog, Jade, grabs the chicken leg from the plate and searches frantically for a hiding place. I’m chasing after her. Alea comes out of the guest room and yells – “Why is Dad on the floor?” I can’t answer her – I’m arguing with the dog over the chicken bone. Just as I get Jade cornered in the dining room, I yell back “I can’t pick him up. He has to stay there until he can get himself up.” I’m now sticking my fingers into Jade’s mouth and prying the leg from between her teeth. “Should I try to get Dad up?” she yells back. Finally, I have the prize and have pulled it away from Jade as I tell Alea – “NO!”

Victorious, I throw the chicken in the garbage and clean up Riley’s lunch clutter. I then go take a look at Riley. He’s on the floor, mumbling, “I’m OK. I’m OK.” Now that I know he is conscious, I can feel OK about leaving him where he lays.

After Alea leaves, I retreat to my room where I can cry in private over how much I will miss her and how much I have enjoyed her. I also cry because I can do nothing about Riley’s failure to understand that he can’t leave food – especially chicken bones – within grabbing range of Jade. I cry because he falls and I cannot pick him up. And I cry tears of joy because I know the next day I will be with my great grandbabies! With my emotion cleansed by my tears, I fall asleep while I look forward to Sunday.

Sunday is here and we are having North Carolina Bar-B-Q made in the crock pot. So that gets on to cook as soon as I am awake. We love trying different locally produced Bar-B-Q sauces and this was a new one. As the roast started cooking the aroma of the sauce permeated the entire house. I had taken the trash out and when I opened the door to come back into the house, the sauce hit me as though I could see the wafts of goodness floating in the air. Ummmm… I hope it tasted as good as it smelled. Homemade cole slaw, onion rings, French fries and sweet potato fries would be joining the shredded pork. Of course, homemade peach cobbler would round out the meal as dessert.

Whenever the kids come out, I have to prepare the house and Riley. Since the little one is only two years old, I have to “baby-proof” the house to keep him out of danger. I leave nothing in his height range if it could be damaged by the curious hands of a toddler. That also means removing anything that could hurt him – like the pencils Riley keeps on his chair side table.

I tell Riley that the kids are coming and I need his help in getting things together. It isn’t that he can really help – but it gives him the feeling that he’s participating. He goes to his room and “cleans up.” Then washes up – he does not shower – and puts on clean clothes. Then he checks the living room to make sure I haven’t missed anything – and he always finds something. After that he goes back to the den to watch TV with a fresh drink at his side.

The kids, Ryan and Nicole, arrive and the house becomes noisy. It’s a good noise -- the sounds of laughter and baby talk. Six year old, Emily is having a diva moment and has no interest in trying on the dress I made for her. She hates the fuzzy jacket and I can’t blame her for that because it’s too small. All little, two year old Mikey wants to for his MeeMaw to pick him up and carrying him around. Riley says hello to everyone and returns to the TV.

Gifts are unwrapped. Paper that Alea and I so lovingly and strategically used in making sure no one person got two gifts wrapped in the same paper, was now in shreds strewn across the floor. Mikey didn’t care what was in the box or who it belonged to, he was delighted in tearing it apart. In contrast, Emily was dainty about opening her gifts. Her little fingers gently slid along the seams releasing the tape. After removing the paper in one piece, she surveyed the contents, put it aside and went on to the next surprise.

Riley missed most of the gift distribution. He was passed out in his bed. He had made it from the den to the bed without falling. I was grateful. When we saw he was up and on his way back to the den, we called for him to come in and open his gifts. Slippers and a new sweatshirt and sweat pants. He squealed in happiness when he opened the slippers. Jade was always getting the old ones and chewing them apart. I reminded him that he needed to keep the new ones out of her reach.

We enjoyed the dinner with all of us seated around the table. Ryan fixed plates for the kids as well as Riley. We talked about how good the sauce was and that we would have to put it on our list of favorites. Riley ate a couple bites of his sandwich and some French fries and excused himself. He went back to the den to watch some more TV. Following his usual routine, he then headed for the bedroom and, once again, fell just as he got inside his room. Ryan rushed in and scooped him up off the floor, placing him on his bed. Ryan is 6’4” and easily manages Riley’s 5’3” frame.

Three hours of coloring and playing with new toys was wearing on the babies. Mikey was fussy and couldn’t decide what he wanted. Emily was whining and now wanted to try on the dress, but couldn’t decide if she wanted to take it off. It was time for them to go home. The car was packed with the new treasures and the kids safely harnessed into their seats. Kisses, hugs and then more kisses and hugs. They drove down my long driveway with Jade chasing the car behind them.

I would clean up in the morning. I put away the food and then headed for my room where I cried. I cried for all the same reasons I had cried the night before. I missed them already. I was saddened by Riley’s inability to see the real gift they gave us – a gift of love. I cried to cleanse away the fact that I live so far away in order to protect them from the constant bombardment of alcoholic insanity. But, I didn’t fall into a deep sleep, just a gentle relaxation until…

“Linny… Jade has my new slipper and she won’t give it back…”

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.