Dead? Alive?

This was written by an OARS member who is the daughter of an alcoholic. She has chosen to take a step back from her father as he walks down his alcoholic path. The invisible umbilical cord binding child to parent still remains as she tries to minimize her involvement in his insane behavior. In my opinion, she has mastered the art of detaching with love.

Ms Forland writes:

I don’t go to my alcoholic father’s house as much as I used to… but do pass it on the way to work. I phone him often to “check in” but when I don’t get an answer a knot forms in my stomach and won’t go away until I hear from or see him. This week it was about two or three days and since he had received his check for his pension recently, I figured he was on a bender.

Dead or Alive? Dead or Alive? Those thoughts keep going through my head as I drove to his house a few days ago.

I shoveled his driveway and steps and was comforted to see footprints in the snow leading to his door. I could not bring myself to actually go into the house. I figured he was plastered or dead, or in bed asleep since he sleeps all day and drinks all night.

The next day, I couldn’t handle the stomach pains from the anxiety of not knowing if he was dead or alive, so I went to his house again. As I walked up to the door, I threw salt on the steps and waited to see if the front door would open on its own. It did not.

I walked in, paused and listened for sounds of life. Both the TVs were on full blast. Dead or Alive? I slowly walked through the kitchen. The counters and table were cluttered with empty bottles of rum and vodka among the food and dirty dishes. Dead or Alive? I entered the living room, some papers were scattered everywhere along with plates of food on the floor. There was no sign of him on the main floor. No blood or vomit. Good sign, right?

Dead or Alive? Dead or Alive?

Upstairs, I pause and listen. Quiet. Dead or Alive? I took a deep breath and slowly walked to his bedroom. Dead or Alive? I turn the corner and can see into his room. TADA! There he is. I see his body move slightly and I know he is still alive. I sneak backwards out of the room, turn and go down the stairs and, quietly but quickly, out the door.

As I drove home, I could feel my stomach knots unravel and relax. I’m good. That is until the next time. 

Detaching is one of the hardest things ever needed when someone we love is addicted to alcohol or drugs. The problem seems to be more complicated when detachment is needed between children and parents or vice versa. I always have the option of leaving and forgetting about my husband, but it never feels like an option for a parent to leave a child or a child to leave a parent. Those ties cannot be cut by a bunch of legal words on a court-recorded document. The ties are binding for life.

I admire Ms Forland for finding a way to satisfy her need to protect him and, at the same time, protect herself. I know that what she wanted to do was wake him up and shake some sense into him. I know I would have had a hard time resisting that urge. I admire her for not cleaning up his house, stocking his refrigerator with healthy food and thereby letting him believe she will take care of his messes. She was able to recognize HER need to know if he was still alive and once that need was met she did nothing more. Nothing more would have done anyone any good or made her feel any better.

If the person had been her child, I think it would have been even harder for her to walk out the door. It’s so extremely hard to keep those maternal protection instincts from kicking in and trying to save the child from imminent danger. Sometimes trying to save the child in that moment only teaches them they can depend on the parent to always come to their rescue. That in turn prevents them from actually taking responsibility for themselves and saving their own lives.

I think it’s normal for each of us to think we would know what we would do if we were placed into a certain situation. The fact is that we never really know how we will react or what we would do. There are so many scenarios to life, it’s impossible to imagine every which way we would turn in the real event. Sometimes we just react instinctively and other times we think things through to a rational end.  The main thing to remember is that no matter what we do, we will always do what we feel is the right thing in whatever the circumstance and in that instant. It may not seem right to others, or in my own hindsight, but there is no need to feel guilty or accept others criticism. Pushing down those feelings of guilt are sometimes harder than doing what you felt was right at the time.

As for me, I fight the “guilt-monster” every single day. But, I am confident I’ve always done what I felt was the best thing to do at any given time and in any given circumstance based on the information at hand and from my previous experiences. To do any less would be like trying to revive the Pansies I planted last spring.

Peer support coaching...

As many of you may remember, I recently went back to working a real job. It’s only part-time, but it is brain-demanding. I find it a struggle to devote my attention to something that simply provides me an income. To top it off, my Immortal Alcoholic in-box continues to bulge over with more and more requests for help. I often spend three hours a day just on answering e-mails and I would spend more if I had the time available. How can I focus on my paying job when what I really want to do is help others who find them in my situation?

My journey has taken me down many different paths along my walk of life. I tried to count how many “careers” I've had. I've been an apricot cutter, baby-sitter, mother, receptionist, waitress, marketing assistant, sales administrator, executive assistant, word processing manager, liaison, administration manager, reporter, event planner, author, and title examiner. The longest time I've spent at any one thing was 15 years. Considering that I started working at the ripe old age of 14 that means I've been in the workforce for 50 years. So my longest tenure is just a drop in the bucket. Looks like I've been a bit of a “job jumper.” But, in the grand scheme of things, that’s OK because I believe I can use all my past experience to embark on my next career adventure.

I have always said that I wished I could actually make money at writing this blog or by having the support groups. The reality is I can’t make money at doing those things. Any money I receive through donations goes directly to supporting the OARS Group and helping it grow into a non-profit organization. I have grand visions of OARS becoming the next Al-Anon. Wouldn't that be great? A non-12-step alternative for friends and families of alcoholics just gives me a smile too large for my face. It’s one of the reasons I went back to work after retiring. I needed the money to support my dreams.

I've become gung-ho about getting the OARS meeting up and running as live, face-to-face group meetings. To do that, I contacted the local substance abuse facility and asked for their support. They were interested and asked if I was a peer support coach. They gave me some phone numbers and names of people that were “in the biz.” Over the next few days, I googled, phoned, talked, and reached out to anyone who might give me ideas or help me get started.

Recovery Innovations hires peer coaches for the purpose of providing support to addicted persons by recovering addicts. They also have a training program for people interested in coaching. The big “but” was that it was not for friends or family – just substance abuse addicts. The criterion for their program was set out by North Carolina’s Health and Human Services Department and they did not have anything in place for collaterally damaged people. My contact encouraged me to rattle the chain of that government entity and bring attention to the need.

(If you are an addicted person and the idea of a peer support coach is appealing to you, go this website:

www.recoveryinnovations.com.)

I asked the contact if I need to be certified before I could start offering my services as a peer support coach. The response was that I had already been doing coaching for several years simply by extending my hand of support to others through my blog, e-mail and support group formations. I just wasn’t being paid to do it. He knew of no reason why I couldn't become an official peer coach without any certification. Besides, there’s no certification offered in our state and therefore the job doesn't exist. If I issue a disclaimer about not being a professional counselor or therapist, in his opinion, that was all I needed.

My next stop was the SAMHSA (Substance Abuse and Mental Health Services Administration) site which is a part of the federal government’s Health and Human Services Department. I found a grant for the creation of peer-to-peer support. I thought this must be a divine sign that I was on the right path. I called the contacts and after many attempts (it is the FEDERAL government, after all) I finally reached someone who told me that she didn't think the intent of the Grant was for anyone other than the addicted. However, she told me that I should apply, but I would have to be a non-profit organization in order for the application to be accepted.  However, she again, encouraged me to apply. Nothing worth having is ever easy.

Well, I would like that $250,000 grant to set up the OARS Group, but I must take those baby steps. I believe I've already taken a few of them. This month I will file for non-profit status in the State of North Carolina for the OARS Group. If I can get it done quickly, I can apply for the federal grant.

While I’m doing that, I will officially hang out my shingle as a Peer Support Coach. I have a website that I have neglected for a while (I apologize to everyone who has been there) and is now being re-vamped and renewed. It will have my rates and how to schedule an appointment to meet with me via the telephone or Skype or Instant Messaging. When I am ready for clients, I’ll post it on the blog with a link to the website. If I can make enough money at doing that, I can quit my day job and focus on doing what my heart is telling is the right thing to do.

As part of the coaching, I have a plan to start offering myself as a public speaker. I’m not exactly sure how to do this, but I've been told in the past that being a speaker is the most profitable way to go. Talking to an audience is not frightful for me and I’m looking forward to the opportunity.

I wish I could win the lottery and not have to worry about paying rent or buying little things like food and electricity. The reality is I haven’t found the winning ticket yet – I guess I have to buy a ticket before I can win which is something I only seldom do. Anyway, if I did have that ticket, I would be able to devote my time, money and efforts solely on supporting people who have walked in my shoes. Unfortunately, the reality is that I MUST pay the rent, buy food and electricity and that takes both time and money.

Forget about the alcoholic...

Over the past few months, it seems that my e-mail is over-flowing with letters relating that the alcoholic in their life has died. The mixture of both regret and relief is often the focus of the letter.

I like to call this passing of the alcoholic a “Gift of Freedom.” It is a gift of being able to regain a life without the insanity brought on by the alcoholic’s actions. It is an opportunity to reach for happiness in a new life. I don’t know how many times I have said, “I just want this to be over. If he’s going to die, just let him die.” Letting him die seemed like the most humane thing for everyone concerned. It would be Riley’s final gift to me.

I’m not alone in those thoughts. Almost everyone has used those words even if they were never truly vocalized. When we say/think it, we are only seeking relief from the immediate situation. The truth is that if the alcoholic could die and still leave behind the pre-alcoholic person – all our prayers would be answered. Unfortunately it does not work that way.

Once the loss has happened and we are gathered in a church, graveside, meeting room, or however it happens, we get the opportunity to eulogize our loved one. So what do you say about a person who showed up at your Junior Prom and knocked over the punch bowl? What do you say about a person who lost many jobs and all friends who did not share a penchant for inebriation? What do you say about a child who never really lived a full meaningful life past the age of 14? Instead of standing up and saying you’re happy the alcoholic is dead, what do you say?

While communicating with these people who have shared my experience of losing a loved one, I found that what we say and do is never about the alcoholism. We talk about the person before the alcohol took over. We share funny little anecdotes and memories of a time long ago. We silently put to rest the alcoholic and focus on the person.

In my opinion, it’s about the only thing we can do. No one wants to brow beat the dead. What good would that do? I have an image of a two-part cartoon of a wife shaking her fist at her husband and saying, “If you don’t stop, the drink is gonna kill you!” The husband responds that she doesn’t know what she’s talking about. The next frame is the wife standing over her husband’s open grave which is littered with booze bottles. She has a tissue to her eyes and weeps “Do you believe me now?” It’s a sad cartoon, but it’s what we all are thinking. Best it stays as a cartoon.

So how do we handle the grieving process and not harp on our own disappointment?  I’m a firm believer that some things are just best if left private. Publicly, I believe, we should remember the good and relate what a wonderful writer, provider, cook, etc., the person was before. In private with a group of people who understand you and your situation, you let all those negative emotions flow. Weep openly with those who care the most about you. Reach out to them for support in rebuilding your life. The group can be family, Al-Anon, OARS, a therapist, or any other support group. The point is to surround yourself with those who care and can offer direction.

Most caretakers of end-stage alcoholics grieve several times during the course of the alcoholic journey. They grieve every time the alcoholic relapses, every time they go into rehab, every time they cause chaos. The grieving seems to be endless. Then when the alcoholic dies – they grieve some more.

The good news is the “gift” part of the death. Once the survivors have recovered from the initial loss, they are able to move on. A constant state of chaos creates a form of “post-traumatic stress syndrome” and once the chaos stops the opportunity exists for peace and quiet. It is a bittersweet reward.

When Riley dies, I don’t want to be the one to eulogize. I’ll leave that up to others. His daughter will talk about the time he held her all night long when she was very sick. His brother will probably share stories of the time they shared in apartment. A friend from his past may talk about how he could make an electronic technician manual read like a masterpiece novel. A former shipmate may tell the story of how he “supervised” the changing of a flat tire. There’s lots of good stuff to tell. I’m sure the group will not leave with the image of Riley falling down the stairs in a drunken stupor. I’m happy for that.

Whenever someone wrongs me, I always tell myself that the best revenge is living well. So when Riley is gone, my revenge against the alcoholism (not against him) is that I will attempt to live my life well. I will survive and be happy.

WAIT A DARN MINUTE!! Why should I wait until he dies?? I think living your life every day to make it the best it can be is the only way to go. I’m not going to waste one second of potential happiness on allowing the stress of alcoholism to take me to a dark place. It's a tall order for someone who lives inside a craziness bubble. I'll have to remind myself to be happy several times during the day.

My mother used to tell me “This is a day you will never have again. Better make the most of it.” I think my mother was right! Today I will be happy, productive and make lemonade!

Jury duty...

Jury Duty is one of the responsibilities of being a member of our society. It may be inconvenient and feel like an intrusion on our life, but it is necessary. Anyone chosen for the jury duty process of selection should take the event seriously. The following was overheard as I waited for to be granted entrance into the courtroom. People were being screened through the metal detector. There were two bailiffs involved in the procedure.

First Bailiff: “Are you drunk?”

Potential Juror: “No. I’m Ashley.” She held out a very shaky hand to the Bailiff, but he rebuffed the salutation. Ms Ashley’s mother stood next to her with a support hand at the back center of her daughter’s waist. She would have been voted as the best dressed juror in comparison to the other candidates. She wore a beautiful blue knit dress with a leather belt in the same color blue. Her hair looked as though she had just come from the beauty salon. Her makeup was flawlessly applied yet subtle. She could have been a politician’s wife on the campaign trail. But the swaying and shaking of her body told a tell that the togetherness of her exterior did not match her interior.  

Second Bailiff: “What’s in your drinking glass, Ms. Ashley?”

Ms Ashley: “It’s OK. It’s just water.”

Second Bailiff: “You won’t be able to take that glass into the courtroom.”

Ms Ashley: “It’s OK. It’s just water.”

Ms Ashley walked away (with the aide of her mother) tottering on her high heels.

First Bailiff to Second Bailiff: “We’ll have to do a breathalyzer on her. She’s smelly of the stuff.”

Second Bailiff to First Bailiff: “I agree. Let’s get a female officer down here.”

About ten minutes later, a female officer arrived and there was a conversation about what would happen if the results were over the legal limit. She would be arrested. They spoke quietly, but the small lobby made it impossible to carry on a private conversation.

Riley looked up at me and said, “So what if she’s been drinking. It doesn’t mean she wouldn’t be a good juror.” I proceeded to explain to him that jurors in to be in a clear state of mind so that they would understand the facts of the case presented. “It’s not illegal to drink,” he said. “So she’s had a few. It’s OK.” I didn’t respond.

Now that the posse had been assembled and measures / counter-measures were in place, the First Bailiff went outside to find Ms Ashley. She was not there, but her mother was. Her mother explained that she only had that odor because she had been drinking constantly over the past three weeks. But, she had not been drinking that morning and therefore she was not drunk. The First Bailiff explained that she could not be allowed into the courtroom if she was above the legal limit on the test.

Ms Ashley appeared from the ladies room and said she had no idea why they would want to do a breathalyzer on her. Her comment was directed to an innocent, handsome, male by-stander. “Are you kidding me??? You reek of a distillery!” He exclaimed and then walked away from her. She muttered “Asshole” under her breath, but everyone in the lobby could still hear her.

The posse came over to her and said they needed to take the test. Ms Ashley informed them that she did not want to take the test, but would speak to her attorney who just happened to be in court that day. The lawyer came from around the corner where Ms Ashley stopped him and told him she did not want to take the test. The lawyer shared a few words with the bailiffs. It took less than five minutes for the lawyer to turn right back around and tell Ms Ashley to wait an hour or so and then take the test. She left to go outside to have a cigarette.

It was about 30 minutes later when the lawyer came up to the bailiffs and asked if they had gone ahead and taken her into custody. They told him no. He said he could not find Ms Ashley or her mother anywhere on the grounds. Someone in the background said – “She said she was leaving. She said she wasn’t going to stick around for this bull shit, got in her car and drove off. She wouldn’t let her mother drive. They were arguing.” The bailiff’s thakedn the informant and then notified the police of a potential drunk driver by the name of Ashley etc., etc.

I don’t know what happened to the woman and her mother. Shortly after all the drama, we were informed that we could all go home. Well, it was an entertaining morning anyway.

I wonder how many people show up for court appearances while they are still in the midst of foggy-mindedness. I bet it is more than I had ever anticipated. The thought of being a defendant with the question of my freedom on the line – and having my fate determined by someone who obviously is not of sound mind – is more than irritating, it’s downright frightful.

Should all jurors be given a breathalyzer before entering the courtroom? It seems logical to me. On the other hand, it could be construed as a violation of a person’s civil rights.  After all, an occasional drink in the morning doesn’t make you an alcoholic. Or does it?

For me, it’s not so much about determining if a person is an alcoholic. It’s more about having the good sense NOT to drink when you know you will be in a situation of having power over another person’s life. If I were on trial, I would prefer all my jurors be blessed with sound judgment and sober minds.

Out with the old...

I knew that it would be difficult for me to downsize from a very large four bedroom house to a more compact, one bedroom in-law apartment in a house that I now share with my grandson and his family. As I unpack moving boxes and do my best to “get rid of” things I no longer use or want, I am reminded that a generation of youngsters has lost the concept of valuing what you have. My grandkids must walk through the garage portion of our very large house to enter mine and Riley’s living quarters. If I’m out there sorting, opening, organizing, there is almost always a comment of “Why don’t you just throw all this stuff away?”

Throwing away seems to be a theme these days. It’s a theme that I don’t understand. If you drive down the side streets into the residential areas, you will see appliances set out on the curb for either the trash man or a freebie seeker. These appliances may be out there because the owners renovated their home or maybe because it has stopped working for some reason or another. Whatever the reason, they’ve been discarded.

I have a fond admiration for the freebie seeker who will pick up the unwanted appliance, take it home and work on it until it is a productive piece of equipment again. In my day, things were repaired and/or repurposed. My mother could repair almost anything except her car – she left that to Dad. I remember her greased smudged face after she replaced the pump in the washing machine. The point is – we didn’t throw things away when they didn’t work the way they did when they were new.

I don’t work the same way as I did when I was new. I’m slower and things I’ve always been able to do for myself are far more difficult now. I fear I may wake up and find myself in the trash next to the coffee pot that has a clock that doesn’t keep the right time. The pot still makes a good cup of coffee, but the clock portion is no longer programmable. I’m a lot like that coffee pot and I hope that the fact that it takes a bit longer for me to make the coffee will not be of consequence. But I’ve already seen signs of de-valuation. My opinion is no longer listened too with undistracted attention. My suggestions are met with a sigh and roll of the eyes. I’m considered to be “old-fashioned” and sometimes a bother.

When I read that a suggestion to “just get rid” of the alcoholic in a person’s life, I feel it is another way that we simply “throw things away.” In many cases, I believe the best course of action would be to walk away from the alcoholic. But that is not to get rid of something useless, but rather to encourage a change for the better for all parties. Just because you don’t live with someone doesn’t mean you’ve put them in the trash can.

I have always been a bit of a hard-ass bitch that could stand up to almost anyone. I seldom show my fear – if you see it in my face, you should probably run for cover. With Riley remaining sober, even if it is not by his own choice, I feel I may have softened a little. While I may have wanted to “throw him away” many, many times during his drunkenness, I feel less inclined in his present condition. It could be the fact that he knows he needs me to help him manage his life so he is less antagonistic or it could be that he is now taking Prozac. It doesn’t really matter. I think I see in him a slight glimpse of the man I fell in love with back in the 60’s. The glimpses are few and far between, but just enough to be a reminder.

Riley doesn’t work the way he did when our relationship was new. He doesn’t have much to contribute towards any part of sharing a home or being a husband. The truth is, that part of him was gone when he decided he liked life better as a drunk than he did as a husband. I didn’t throw him away even when I separated from him. I may not have been in his life on a daily basis, but I was always there – in the background being silent and watching him choose his own direction.

For the grandkids, Riley is disposable. In the kid’s defense, Riley has made himself become disposable. He doesn’t participate in family activities and is unable to have conversations beyond guttural noises and heavy sighs. He cannot and does not want to relate to them. The result is that the kids have thrown him away and moved on to focus on other family members. I understand.

There are times when I feel sorry for Riley. I see this physically debilitated man who can no longer remember what happened the day before and must take several naps a day. He has no sense of smell and his entire right side is weak and nearly useless. He doesn’t have the strength to carry in the groceries or help me move boxes around the garage. He can’t drive. His life is all contained in his room with re-runs of NCIS. I’m sad for him. That’s where I’ve softened. In spite if it all, Riley still has value. He washes the dishes and puts away the groceries. He cleans the bathroom. Since his memory of the far distant past is better than his ability to remember what happened yesterday, he shares memories of a better time over our morning coffee. I will miss those things when he moves on to his next life.

Those soft episodes of emotion for him aren’t long lasting. I take a step back to remind myself that Riley is in the condition he is in because of his own doing. He created his situation and now must live with the consequences. He denies that alcohol had anything to do with him having a stroke or heart attack. He claims that alcohol isn’t the reason why he can’t drive or live alone. It’s easy for me to go back to being my naturally bitchy self.

Going through the boxes and sorting out the good from the bad, useful from the useless and historical from individual memory… I know to throw things away is not in my nature. It’s hard to make those determinations. I’m not a hoarder, but I’m not a discarder either. I value what I have and see worth where others see none. I can live with that.

My Uncle Hank...

Growing up in a very large family created special holiday experiences. I always thought that would be the way Christmas would be every year for the rest of my life. What we think when we are growing up doesn’t always turn out to be the reality when we reach adulthood and seems to fall farther from reality as we reach our senior years.

I didn’t grow up in an alcoholic home. I can only remember one family member that may have had alcohol issues. Uncle Hank was the husband of my father’s sister – so my aunt’s husband. He was a handsome guy with dark wavy hair and blue eyes. He had a wiry build and rumor had it that he had been so injured during World War II that most of his body was held together with wire and screws. He seemed to be in pain most of the time, but was never daunted by physical labor. He fit in well with the other hard-working family members.

My aunt was head over heels in love with Uncle Hank. You could see it in her eyes. Everyone knew that nothing would ever come between them. But, he had a darker side to him as well. He was a firm believer that sparing the rod, boot, belt or fist would definitely spoil the child. He would demand silence and when his demand was not met; his children would cower in fear. Even so, his wife and kids were the world to him.

I cannot talk about the dark stuff without mentioning that he was also a very funny fellow. He could always tell a good joke and get everyone laughing. He knew when to keep it clean for the kids and a bit raunchy for the adults. Things were always light-hearted when their family came to visit ours. Christmas visits were always extra special.

One year my aunt wanted Santa to bring her a Hammond Organ. It was all she wanted, but she believed that it was not within their budget, so she never pushed Uncle Hank to deliver. That was the year that all the families converged upon my parent’s house to celebrate Christmas together. All total there were 23 kids in the house under the age of 18. My mother cleared out the office and one of the bedrooms and turned the rooms into a wall-to-wall mattress where the kids could fall asleep at will.

It was getting late and those of us who were not asleep were talking softly so as not to wake the other kids. The laundry room was just on the other side of the door. We could hear bits and pieces of conversation from the kitchen where the adults were gathered around the table telling stories of the past and happily cajoling each other. Uncle Hank was in the laundry room. He was crumpling up paper every few minutes he would let out a howl of laughter but said nothing. Occasionally, he would ask my mother to fix him another high-ball and bring it to him. My mother did as he asked. We counted how many times the request was made and granted – nine times. Nine high-balls in the space of two hours which really meant nothing to us children because what did we know after all?

Christmas morning we woke up to find Santa had, in fact, found his way to our house. We had to step over presents to get to our individual treasures. We were in Christmas heaven. Kathy went to Uncle Hank and gave him a big hug. His hands were shaking and he had an awful smell to him. His wife came into the room with a shot of whiskey and a cup of hot black coffee. He seemed to be in a much better mood after downing the little glass of golden liquid.

When it came time for the gifts to be handed out, the fathers each took turns pulling a gift out from under the tree and handing it over to the designated recipient. The system continued until there was only one box left. It was a box the size of a refrigerator and was wrapped in a patchwork of bits and pieces of left-over holiday paper. The box was to my aunt from Uncle Hank. This was the box that had provided so much laughter from him in the laundry room the night before.

My aunt started out by being careful, but that idea quickly fell by the wayside. She tore open the box and it was filled with newspaper. She looked at Uncle Hank and he told her to keep searching. Taped to the very bottom of the box was a Christmas card with a note that said her Hammond Organ would be delivered when they returned to their home. She hugged him and planted a sloppy romantic kiss on his lips. The kids giggled and laughed. My aunt cried. And the best part of Christmas morning was over.

There was breakfast and then food flowed freely from the kitchen for the entire rest of the day. We always had a sit-down Christmas dinner and that was no different this year. The whiskey also flowed into my uncle’s glass continuously. I had never noticed anyone’s drinking habits before, but that year I was acutely aware of how many times Uncle Hank refilled his glass. I lost track because it seemed his glass was never empty.

For me and the other kids, it wasn’t a big deal. Uncle Hank was happy and there was no strict punishment dealt during their visit. There were no angry arguments – as sometimes happen when the entire family convenes. It was just a good day creating good memories.

Uncle Hank died just a few years later. They lived in the mountains and his commute to town was over the winding highway. He missed a turn and his van ran over a cliff. My aunt and the two children were devastated. We were all told that he had fallen asleep and that’s what caused him to miss the curve in the road.

As an adult, I once asked my mother if Uncle Hank had been driving drunk. She responded “Why NO! Why would you think such a thing?” I said I was just wondering because he was such a good driver. I never told her that I remembered him drinking constantly during that Christmas holiday. After all, I was just a child. Maybe I remembered it all wrong. But, I don’t think so.

Crazy is as crazy does...

In light of the cancer craziness that is going on -- I thought it might be good to revisit a previous post about Riley's immortality and the craziness of it all. I wonder if I'll be faced with this again.


Just because the alcoholic in your life is sober for the moment, do not assume that everything is back to normal. Be aware. Sobriety doesn’t always equate to normality.

Riley has not had even a sip of anything alcoholic since May 4, 2012 when he had a near fatal heart attack. He’s not supposed to be alive right now. According to numerous doctors, nurses, social workers, etc. he was so close to death during his last hospital stay I was coerced into trying to “get on with my own life.” Believe me, I welcomed the suggestion. But, deep down inside I knew I had been here before and not to completely trust what they were telling me. I went forward, but with guarded trepidation.

I gave away some of his clothing and books. I melded his file folders into mine. I got rid of the old computer monitor that originated in the 80’s. I threw away the very old worn tennis shoes and saved the new ones. His mattress and most of his other bedding, along with his area rug, were sent to the dump because they were so covered in human excrement. It was a step in going forward as I had been advised.

On August 4^th I was told the ones who advised me to assume and prepare for his imminent death had been wrong. The situation had changed and I was to take him home and care for him as best I could under the circumstances. I was given vague instructions as I loaded him into my van. This was to become another segment in my journey through this adventure in the world of insanity.

Almost four months later, Riley is walking without assistance from me, but rather with a walker and, sometimes, a cane. He is able to shower by himself and feed himself. He can wash dishes and clean out the refrigerator (well… sort of…). He takes great pride in going around and making sure all the clocks are set correctly in accordance with the time displayed on the cable network channel. The highlight of his day is making lists – grocery lists, to-do lists, phone call lists, etc. When outsiders are around he can communicate with them logically for about 30 minutes. Most of his stories are never real, but they don’t know that.

I know it doesn’t sound so bad does it – or is it? There is an aspect to all this that most people wouldn’t even notice if they did not live with him. Even his doctors are starting to say that he is competent. He knows the date, the president’s name and can remember a list of numbers for a short period of time. In fact, he may even be capable of living on his own. How I wish that were true.

My day starts every morning with a cup of coffee which is gratefully made by Riley. It is between 4 AM and 5:30 AM. Each day I try to only engage Riley in conversations that I think will not create any conflict. I try to suggest projects for the day within his means of ability. I ask what he wants for dinner. Simple little diatribes to start the day. But, things always seem to take a turn for the worst.

Riley will ask me why I have decided to paint the kitchen in certain colors when those colors were never even mentioned in the plans. He will ask me why I don’t do this or that and I will have to repeat everything concerning the subject over again every morning for numerous mornings in a row. He will ask me when he is getting his computer back and when I tell him he can’t have the computer back – he tells me he’s leaving as soon as he is done with his coffee. I try to reason with him that the computer is off limits because of his being visited by police officials concerning his illegal porn usage. He doesn’t remember it and so believes I’m lying about it ever happening.

A peaceful morning almost invariably turns into a frustrating round of trying to make sense of it all for Riley’s sake. He may be able to remember that string of numbers, but he can’t remember anything about yesterday. He does not believe he ever had a heart attack and thinks I just put him into a nursing home because I was tired of him. He wants me to tell him how many days until he can start drinking again. He wants to know when he can drive. And mostly, he wants to know when I’m going to get out of his life.

Riley has turned into a mean old man. He dislikes the grandchildren’s dog, kids, friends and anything else he relates to them. He becomes angry with me and the world at the drop of a hat. If I don’t share his interest in the latest news story, he claims I’m not concerned about political issues. He must recount to me every episode of every NCIS he has watched that day. If I mention that I’ve seen all of them more than once, he replies that can’t be true because he’d never seem that episode before. In Riley’s mind, I’m a lying, conniving, underhanded, prison warden who revels in making him miserable. He doesn’t hesitate to tell me so every chance he can.

I’ve heard that insanity is doing the same thing over and over and expecting different results. Somehow I think that if I just keep explaining things to Riley that eventually he will see that I’m not the bad guy and grow to accept his circumstances. The only person I’m hurting is me. The only really crazy person in the room is me. I know better. But, my instincts are to try to answer his questions with honest answers. Try to give viable explanations without being cruel. I’m reaching the end of my ability to keep going in this manner.

Riley has new projects assigned to him now. I suggest he go for a walk around the block since we now live where there are blocks instead of pastures. I suggest he go with me to the grocery store. I’ve shown him how to use the washer and dryer, although each week we have to repeat the lesson. I don’t dial his brother’s phone number for him anymore. In short, I’m forcing him to try to be more self-reliant. Maybe by doing so, he will eventually REALLY be ready to live on his own with just an occasional visit by a family member to check up on him.

Of course, the minute he is in his own place, he will be drinking alcohol. If he has his car, he will drive drunk. His health will fail rapidly and his days of immortality may be over. This is where my moral compass kicks in. I must get rid of the car before he moves out. And I have to turn a blind eye to whatever he is doing during his downfall. It feels like I’m killing him.

There is no great love lost between us, yet I still feel a responsibility. And then, there is forever the issue of not wanting my daughter to pick him up, dust him off and destroy her life. The question is… by the time she scoops him up to take care of him, will he be so far gone that he will not be too destructive to her sanity. 

In the dark...

I had a moment of peace and quiet and was enjoying just sitting in my big wing-back chair sipping on a cup of tea. I looked around the room and saw my antique iron bed and the big boxy television. Across the room was my dining room table which had been turned into a makeshift desk. I thought to myself that it was going to take some work but this room had great potential. Just as my mind was finishing the word “potential” the lights went out – literally.

At first I thought somehow a breaker had blown and I groused at having to find the breaker box in an unfamiliar house by groping around blindly. It was so very, very dark. Something didn’t seem right. If I had blown a breaker, there would be some light from the street. I peeked out the door and realized that the lights were out on, what seemed to be, all over our block. There wasn’t even any light from the street lamps on the main road which is about two blocks away.

Riley came from his room and was panicking. He had a candle and we used that to find our two flashlights. He started barking orders to unplug all the electrical appliances and not to open the refrigerator. He told me this power outage would last indefinitely. There was fear in his voice. He suggested some sort of government plot or terrorist activity.

I hadn’t prepared dinner before the lights went out and Riley was asking me what we were going to eat and how were we going to cook it. He was concerned that he might not have any coffee in the morning. I told him I would fix him a salad, but if he were really that hungry, I’d fire up the barbeque and grill him a steak. I made a large salad and served a plate to Riley. That seemed to stop his pacing for a while.

He asked if my cell phone worked. I checked it and received a message that it could only be used for emergency calls. Riley informed me that this was a BIG emergency and I should be calling someone in authority. I tried to calm him by telling him to listen and he would hear the sirens just a couple of blocks away. There was no one to call.

Even though images of the new television series “Revolution” kept playing in my head, I stayed calm. Eventually, Riley went to bed and fell asleep. I, on the other hand, waited for the lights to shine again. It was almost three hours later when the entire neighborhood lit up and life returned.

While sitting in the dark, I had a chance to reflect on the previous weeks activities. Riley had appointments with a medical doctor and a psychologist. We were gradually moving which involved cleaning, sorting and manual labor. It had been a tough week and there was something comforting about being in a cocoon of darkness.

Riley’s appointment with the MD went about the way I had expected it to go. He seemed to be improving and things were going just ducky until… Riley expressed that he wanted me to let him go and find a place on his own. The conversation seemed to veer off in the direction of making the appointment more about me than about Riley. While no one REALLY believes Riley would fare well on his own, however, the question was once again brought up about why I don’t just kick him out the door.

It becomes irritating because this question comes up often during Riley’s appointments. Someone must have written that answer down somewhere in his record. Repeating the question never changes the answer.  Once again I give my definition of my personal moral obligation to prevent him from harming himself or others – especially my daughter. Everyone agrees the only reason he wants to be on his own is so he can resume drinking. If/when he goes back to drinking he will quickly become blight on society’s butt. It is morally repugnant to me to put him in a position of becoming so unable to care for his personal well-being that he interjects his insanity on my daughter as she tries to rush in and save him from himself.

I know what you are thinking… If my daughter wants to take him in, it is her choice. It may be her choice, but it is my choice to prevent her from living with Riley as he stops showering and wallows in his unsanitary clothes. It is my choice to prevent her from having to deal with vomit, urine and feces soaked bedding. It is my choice to not have her career ruined by having to take time off to clean up his messes. I am his wife and I stayed his wife knowing full well that someday I would have to be responsible for this grown man who is really just a child. I have and will continue to live up to that responsibility.

I tire from having to repeat my reasoning over and over again. When asked the questions, I always have to work diligently at keeping my anger in check because I know they know the answers. It always feels like some kind of Al-Anon intervention. My eyes are wide open. I know what is ahead for Riley and for me. I don’t live in a fantasy land and don’t feel I need someone to force me to see what I’m doing to ruin my own life. My life is NOT ruined if I can make my daughter’s life better. OK. Maybe I’m just a stubborn old lady – I’ll own that as well.

As distasteful as it was to see the medical doctor, it was almost equally as pleasant to see the psychologist. We discussed how he could help Riley right now in the current timeframe. Since Riley has not been drinking since May he wanted to focus on that. He only wanted to discuss the very early stages of his alcoholism and where he is right now. He answered my questions with straight direct answers. He has objectives and I came away feeling that they were reasonable. The Dr. knows that he can’t stop Riley from wanting to drink, but maybe he can make this sober period more enjoyable for Riley. He believes he might be able to help Riley accept his physical limitations and learn to live more harmoniously with me as a result. Maybe, just maybe, Riley will stop seeing me as the enemy.

Just before the lights returned, I had made a resolution that I would give Riley more “things” to do. He can set up the coffee pot the night before. He can fold the clean laundry. He can keep the bathroom tidy (I’ll do the heavy cleaning). There are things I can do to make him feel more useful and that might make him feel better about his life in general.

In the brightness of the incandescent lighting, I felt a little dismayed. Reality seemed harsher in the brightness of the room. I set my teacup in the sink and crawled into my bed. Even with the lights turned out, the darkness was not the same. That’s OK because at least I know the ending isn’t just like the television show. Riley’s paranoia was for nothing and for that I am grateful.

It's been a while...

Well… hello there… finally I’m back. Since August 4^th, I’ve moved from the country house into my temporary place in my grandson’s house and now into a place that I hope will turn out to be a permanent home. I won’t say “forever” home – I’m way too much of a gypsy for that. Overall, this house will allow me a lot more office space in the future while allowing me to be just downstairs from my great-grandchildren. It’s the best of both worlds.

The additional office space will be greatly appreciated as I reach out towards the next phases in my life. There are changes about to take place and I hope that some of those changes will affect my readers in a positive manner.

Thanks to all the contributors on our funding site, OARS now has its own independent website on Ning.com. I will provide the link at the end of this post. The Facebook site is still up and running and will continue to do so, but for those who aren’t on FB there is another alternative. The independent site will be the primary website for OARS. It is private and secure. New members must fill out the appropriate questionnaire and be approved by an administrator. Each person will have their own page that they can customize to their liking. I request every member to go to their page and change their name to a nickname if they prefer complete anonymity.

Just like Facebook, it is free to join the independent site and free to use. All are welcome who are dealing with the realities of alcoholism. The new site offers several different groups for more specific discussions – such as one for parents of an alcoholic or siblings or spouse. There’s even a space for alcoholics! There is a “humor” group just to keep us laughing. We have a place for posting videos, pictures, etc. A calendar of events will keep us informed of relevant activities. We can easily find personal one-on-one help by consulting our map of members and find someone geographically close to each of us.

Next on the agenda is our very first OARS group meeting planned for Spring 2013. We will meet somewhere (probably in the mid region of the USA) and share stories, laughter and support. The type of place depends greatly on how many people express a definite interest in attending. This will be our inaugural meeting, which means we will be laying a lot of ground work for our organization.

Besides our big meeting, there will be smaller groups forming all over the US and, hopefully, beyond. While these groups will be similar to Al-Anon in providing support, they will be different because we are not a 12-step program. Each meeting will provide something enjoyable for the member to experience – a dinner out, miniature golf, a movie, anything that provides a bit of respite for the caretaker.  These meeting will always include sharing stories and offering of support and resources.

I had thought a few months back that I would write a cookbook and include all the recipes that helped me use cooking as an escape. However, the OARS members are creating a cookbook of their own and will be selling it as a fundraiser. I was hoping it would be out before the holidays, but that’s not going to be able to be the case. Our new goal is to have it out before Mother’s Day. It will be a great gift for either Mother’s or Father’s Day.

There is investigation into OARS becoming a non-profit organization. We have an advisory committee in place and we are diligently working on this prospect. More funding is needed to make this a reality. It always seems odd to me that it costs a considerable amount of money to become a non-profit. The filing fee alone is $845. That doesn’t include an attorney’s fee, accountant, etc. We will be applying for grants and seeking more assistance with funding, but for now we are completely dependent on the Go Fund Me site for financial support.

As you can see, I may not have been HERE, but I have not been idle. That new office space is going to really be a blessing! On my wish list is an assistant who can help me get my office organized and keep me on track!

The Immortal Alcoholic’s Wife is still only available on this site as a PDF file only. I’m hoping to get into Kindle version before the end of the year. I’m working with a printer to make real soft cover books. I’m not sure when they will be available, but hopefully in the same time frame as the Kindle. I have several other books in my brain just trying to crawl out, but they will have to wait.

The Workbook for Caretakers of End-Stage Alcoholic’s is being updated, revised and improved. Anyone who already has the workbook will receive the updated version for a very nominal price. Expect the workbook to be out before the Spring meeting of OARS.

I think that should catch you up on what I’m doing. I know this is just business stuff and what you really want is to hear about my take on medical info and daily living with an end-stage alcoholic. Check here tomorrow and I think you will find what you really want.

To become a member of OARS on the new website go here:

http://oarsffgroup.ning.com/?xgi=5RdlI9D9YVdEJw

To become a member of OARS on Facebook go here:

https://www.facebook.com/#!/groups/273999545981419/

To make a financial contribution via Go Fund Me and help OARS grow into a non-profit organization and assist with other expenses, please go here:

 http://www.gofundme.com/17t82w

Tomorrow I’ll be writing about Riley’s current condition and my exciting rounds of visits to the doctor and psychologist. I hope you come back and read about my continual adventures thru the medical looking glass and back.

Can you hear me now?

There is so much going on right now and I don’t mean to ignore my readers. I apologize for not being able to post more often. In just two more weeks we will be moving into our new house. I’ll be back to having a dedicated office instead of working off the kitchen table while the two toddlers and three little ladies run in and out with many requests for all sorts of things. Hectic is an understatement for the situation right now.

Riley has reached a point of physical recovery that he is now as good as he is going to get. He shuffles from room to room without his walker while using every handhold available to keep him from falling. When we leave the house, I insist that he use the walker or the wheelchair – he always chooses the walker.

His OCD is only slightly tolerable for me. He squares the corners of the DVDs to the edge of the table and straightens his blankets on his bed several times throughout the day. Any wrinkle is cause for smoothing. He has a regimen and any deviation upsets him greatly.

The diagnosis for Riley is “alcohol dementia”. Basically, it’s the same are regular dementia except it was brought on from his alcoholism. The bad news is that it will get progressively worse even though he is not consuming any alcohol.

From the outside, he would appear to be just a normal old guy who has past his prime. You can have short logical conversations with him. But, his ability to relate events of the past in an accurate manner seems to be sketchy at best. He sometimes doesn’t remember where we really live or why we are living with our grandchildren. He believes he is in charge and issues ultimatums and dictates actions. No one is listening to him. We hear him and breathe a sigh when he starts, but we don’t really pay attention. If he asked any of us if we can hear him now, we’d say “NO”.

I have noticed little lapses of memory in my own brain. I seem to be without as much patience as I had in the past and I often yell at Riley when he steps on my last nerve. This disturbs me.  I spent some time with a social worker last week and she informed me that often times the caretaker starts to display some of the same traits of craziness as the person needing the caretaking. Well… this is not good. It will take a lot of restraint and control of my own emotions to not join Riley in his crazy world.

Sometimes I think things were easier when he was drunk. But, then I think about it and realize that I do not need nor want to hurry the process of him returning to drinking. I know that eventually he will find a way to obtain alcohol. It may not be in the form of vodka or beer. It will more likely be something from our panty, like vanilla extract. Or it possibly could be something from the medicine cabinet, like mouth wash or cough syrup. Once that happens, I’ll be faced with more decisions that I don’t want to make.

The social worker asked if there was anything on my plate that I could remove with an idea of making my life a little easier right now. I ran through my mental list of projects – blog; OARS Facebook support group; OARS website; editing my book for Kindle; developing the cookbook for an OARS fundraising; turning OARS into a non-profit organization; going back to work at a real job; planning a reunion for my family; general cooking and cleaning in this house; negotiating a lease for the new house; plan and organize the move; etc; etc.

Well, I don’t really see what I would eliminate, but maybe I can prioritize a little better. Maybe if I can just designate some time for a long leisurely bath or an early morning walk, that might give the break I need to be able to keep my brain devoid of too much craziness. Personally, I think I’m just frustrated with the responsibility of taking care of someone who cannot understand that he needs to have a caretaker. I’m frustrated that I don’t feel qualified to give him what he needs and yet I manage to do it every single day.

In my opinion, once we get into the new house things will be easier because we will have more than 1200 square feet all for just Riley and me. I will have space for working on my projects. The privacy of not having to share a bedroom with Riley will be THE best thing. Cooking from my own pantry on my own time schedule will be awesome. Yes. I believe things will settle down and become more “normal” inside the craziness.

I’m very impressed at that OARS has grown to 100 members in less than a year. I reached out for help in creating OARS into a group with real meetings and becoming a non-profit organization. The future for OARS is bright indeed. We are planning an inaugural live meeting in the early Spring which will allow us to come together face-to-face. We will be planning the direction of our group, forming committees, establishing relationships with others who live close to us, and scheduling live meetings in many areas of the country. I reached out and found that they could in fact “hear me now.” Our vision may be lofty, but with all of us working together it can become reality.

To join OARS, go to Facebook and search for OARS F&F Group, request permission to join and you should be granted access in less than 6 hours. If you would like to help support our vision, you may go to our fundraising site and make a donation. Every donation is highly appreciated and, while they last, you will receive a tote bag in return. We accept donations of any amount from $1.00 to whatever you are comfortable in giving. Go to the link below to contribute:

http://www.gofundme.com/17t82w

I can hear Riley moving around in his room and I know he will soon be out here in the kitchen. He will want coffee and breakfast. He will want to “talk” and I will make an effort to “hear him now.”