Detach...

With very few exceptions, as parents we want our children to grow into loving, caring, responsible, productive adults. We teach them right from wrong. We encourage education. We convey our spiritual beliefs. We teach them to help those who are less fortunate. We instill a sense of compassion and understanding. And, in my family, we took care of those who were ill and unable to take care of themselves.

Our development is furthered from outside sources – mainly the entertainment industry. We see moral values defeat evil doings. We watch lovers overcome such malady such as cancer or life-altering accidents. Romance is everywhere and implies that it is something that MUST be attained in order to have a full productive life. We’re left with the idea that marriage/partnership is the primary goal. And, once found, that it should last forever and ever until death we do part. Well – that’s the plan anyway.

For the most part, it is possible. But, when one of the partners has an addictive personality, things get complicated. Our first instinctive action comes from all our moral value teachings – we must help the person who is the Ying to our Yang. It’s reasonable. It’s expected. It’s perfectly normal. Sometimes it even helps.

As time goes on, the addiction becomes the third party in the relationship. The alcohol becomes the mistress with a locked-on hold over the couple. The alcoholic begins to change in personality and values. There comes a point in time when the alcoholic is no longer recognizable to the non-alcoholic spouse. Now there are four people in the group – the two spouses, the alcohol mistress, and the alter ego of the alcoholic. That’s too much and no one is having any fun.

You’ve tried everything and don’t know what else to do. There is really only one thing to do. Most people consider that the title alone could be classified as obscene. Detachment. Just the word alone implies that you should stop having any compassion or concern for the alcoholic. Many people think that it means not caring. This is far from the truth.

When you think about detachment, try thinking about the detachment only being for the alcoholic’s alter ego. You still love and care for your spouse. That’s undeniable. But that other person – the insulting one who embarrasses you and complicates your life – that is the person from which you must detach. If you can do that, you will be much more at ease and able to cope with whatever is taking place around you.

If you are at the stage in the alcoholism where the spouse is so consumed in the disease of alcoholism that they become totally unrecognizable – it is time for drastic measures. The spouse you loved, the one you promised your heart to forever and vowed to support until death – is now dead. Even though he/she may be walking around and breathing the air in your space – that person is lost to you forever. It’s time to grieve. Allow yourself this. Go to a grief support group (I wish there were ones specifically for loved ones of alcoholics – but there is not) and tell it like it is. Cry. Get angry. Eat gallons of Ben & Jerry’s. Cry and then cry some more. And then you may find that you can accept the fact that your beloved no longer lives in your house even though the alter ego is still present.

Now what?? You’ve cried, etc., etc. and what’s next? Do everything you would do if there were an actual death. This is the practical stuff – let an attorney advise you as to how to handle the finances, etc. Hire a housekeeper (if you can afford it). Do whatever it is you would do if you suddenly found yourself as a single person. I don’t encourage dating – that just further complicates things because the spouse you love is really still there – but just gone on some sort of mental hiatus. When/if that person returns you want to be emotionally available.

The alcoholic alter-ego is now a roommate and not a spouse. You may not like this roommate, but you provide everything necessary for a safe haven. That’s how you fulfill that idea of taking care of those who are sick or unable to care for themselves. It doesn’t mean you lie to his/her boss – that job is not your business – just as any roommates job would not be your business. It is not your responsibility to see to it that the alcoholic stays sober. It is none of your business if the alcoholic seeks treatment or not. While you can be supportive – let things happen as the play out. Don’t answer questions for the roommate or make commitments – it’s not your place. Put those responsibilities squarely back onto the alcoholic’s plate.

Of course, you must consider children – if there are any in the household. That’s a whole other post. See my page Leave or Stay?

Re-discover your own life. Did you like to play golf before you were afraid to leave the alcoholic at home alone? If so – go play some golf. Develop new friendships -- if they are also spouses of alcoholics, that’s even better. You are in there somewhere – you’ve just gotten lost and now it’s time to be found. Stop spending all your time thinking, hoping, and doing for the alcoholic. Focus on your needs and what you want.

So are you thinking… it’s dangerous to leave the alcoholic home alone… what if something happens while I’m gone? If it makes you feel better, find a cooperative friend that can stay with the alcoholic while you are out. But, don’t let that stop you. If you have no support system, try attending some Al-Anon meetings. You may not like everything they say – but there are people there who understand what you are going through.

You’ve grieved over your loss. You’ve found yourself again. It’s time to find some humor in your situation. Let’s face it – as sad as it is there are aspects of alcoholic actions that are funny. Looking for the milk in the oven – putting a jacket on upside down – illogical conversations – all good for a laugh. When you find yourself getting angry with the alcoholic – stop and ask yourself… if this were on a sitcom… would it be funny? If this were not happening in your house – would you laugh or at least chuckle?

I used to get frustrated at Riley when he would insist that a program from season one of NCIS had never been seen on television before. Especially when I knew he had just watched it a few weeks before. I used to try to tell him it was not new… it was a re-run—again. Now I just smile and say… Oh that’s nice. That smile leads me to thinking how fortunate I am to have that program be his big issue of the day.

Instead of thinking of detachment as distasteful… think of it as a life saver – your lifesaver for your life. Not the alcoholic’s because the alcoholic must find his/her own lifesaver.

I’m not saying this whole thing is easy because it most certainly is NOT. I consider that I’m fairly well detached from Riley – but there are days when I have to just get through each minute. I still get angry. I still yell. But I also laugh and always remember – this Riley is not MY Riley.

By the way… I had a friend who was the spouse of an alcoholic. She gave a specific name to her alcoholic’s alter-ego. It helped her keep her perspective about who was with her at any given time – her husband, Henry or the alter ego, Hank.

99 bottles of beer...

I have noticed that Riley has been having a lot of intestinal issues over the last month. They seem to be increasing in frequency -- daily vomiting and explosive diarrhea. During his last drinking session before detox, he had issues, but they were different. Last time he didn’t start vomiting until the very end – just before Alea and I took him to the hospital when we suspected he had had a stroke. He had bowel issues for many months prior to that but not like what he is experiencing now. His alcohol of choice during that time was vodka.

I don’t consider him to be as close to the end right now as he was just before the last detox.  He still has some reasoning capability and although a lot of the symptoms have reappeared, they don’t seem to be as intense. Except – for this intestinal thing which I felt was out of sync with the rest of his issues. This time he is drinking only beer and I have attributed his slower rate of decline to the fact that it has less alcohol content than vodka.

I was concerned so I did some research and discovered that drinking beer in excess creates a whole new set of complications. Beer has been linked to cancer in the large intestine, rectum, and esophagus while other alcohol doesn’t increase the likelihood of these cancers. This is referring to CANCER rather than the normal errosion of the lining of the intestines. I didn’t know that.

What I do know is that beer (also known as liquid bread due to the high yeast content) is high in calories and will cause weight gain. Since any alcohol prevents the burning of fat, once a “beer belly” settles in the mid section it can be difficult to get rid of. This is especially true since the alcoholic is no longer able to exercise and burn off the extra calories. As a result, that belly can quickly turn into a high risk cardiac situation and even diabetes.

There is an increased opportunity for the beer drinker to experience gall stones or gout. Beer contains chemicals that double the uric acid content in the body and promotes gall stones and gout disease. I had heard this before.

The liver can detoxify about 12 ounces of beer per hour. That’s one can of beer per hour. If Riley drinks 12 cans a day it will take 12 hours for his liver to detoxify the alcohol.

There’s as much alcohol in a can of beer as there is in a shot of hard liquor. Beer is no better for the alcoholic than a shot of whisky or vodka. They can get just as drunk and do just as much damage as with any other type of booze.

Something else I found on the internet was that beer brewing material contains lead – which, of course, can cause lead poisoning. In elderly drinkers this can lead to senile dementia. I don’t know about that one. I found this in only one internet article and could not find anything else that would substantiate this theory. If anyone knows anything about this – please post a comment of send an e-mail. This interests me, but I doubt that it is in fact true.

However, the lead poisoning thing would make yesterday’s conversation with Riley more understandable. It went something like this:

1. Riley doesn’t really like the taste of beer.
2. Riley doesn’t get the desired level of float-y-ness as he does with vodka.
3. Riley knows that drinking a beer has the same alcohol content as drinking a shot of vodka.
4.  My question is – considering all three points – why doesn’t he just drink vodka since it is all going to kill him anyway?
5. His answer – he just wants to drink beer right now even though he doesn’t like it and it doesn’t give him the effect he wants.

OK – it’s his choice – I won’t argue the point with him. Maybe that internet article about lead poisoning and dementia is true after all because this just doesn't make any sense to me. I can find no viable reason why someone would kill themselves by overindulging in something they didn’t like. But, I don't have an addictive personality and maybe I just don't get it.

Anyway, I can guarantee you that if I’m going to kill myself with a substance; it will be one that I like and makes me feel warm all over. I think it is Sara Lee that makes a Chocolate Mouuse Pie – give me about 100 of those babies!!

Imagine the headline – Woman dies from overdose of Chocolate Mouuse Pie while in bubble bath, sipping on Benedictine Brandy and reading the latest Janet Evanovich novel while listening to Nora Jones. She was surrounded by pictures of her children and grandchildren while her cat sat on the edge of the tub. What a way to go!!

I feel good...

The store room is all clean and neatly organized!! YEAH!! Riley was very helpful. He made many walks out to the shed. It got very hot yesterday and I was about to tell him to wait until sundown to finish the storage room stuff, but when I looked it was all done!! I am thankful and grateful (do those words mean the same thing?) that the chore is complete and I can move on to finishing my office / sewing / crafts area. Riley can't help me with that.

I've had several e-mails about how cruel it was for me to put the garbage in my son's bed. I think I better explain before someone calls Child Protective Services. Having a social worker show up to check things out would be interesting since I no longer have children in my household.

I simply put the can on top of Brian’s (my son) bed. I did not dump the garbage out. It was a reminder that made an impression. My son was 16 years old -- old enough to be expected to remember the he had this one thing to do once a week. He had three responsibilities -- school, lawn and garbage. That's not too much for a 16 year old to handle.

Brian was a very good kid. I never had a lot of drama with him. He liked things simple and quiet and tended toward living his life in that manner. Ohhh... there were problems... but they were far and few between compared to his sister, Alea. When Brian had a problem it was a big one -- I remember only three in his entire childhood.

While Brian liked things simple, Alea seemed to complicate the simplest things. She preferred chaos to tranquility. Her problems tended to be little ones that were repeated over and over again. She had difficulty learning from her mistakes.

Two completely opposite personalities… both originated in my womb. Sometimes I was sure the hospital had given me the wrong baby. And I always said that if I had had Alea first, there never would have been a Brian.

But there was a Brian and I loved him very much. He died from alcoholism when he was 41 years old. There is so much controversy over why alcoholics become alcoholics..... is it nature or nurture? I don't know. But one thing I do know... Brian did not become an alcoholic because I was a strong disciplinarian.  Alea had the same type of discipline as Brian and she doesn’t have any desire to drink.

Now that I’ve cleared that up… if you hated my punishment for Brian’s garbage duty forgetfulness, you’ll really be sending me hate mail when I tell you what I did in response to discovering that Alea had been smoking.

Alea was 15 when I discovered she was smoking in her bedroom. I was livid. She grew up in a smoke-free house. I touted the dangers of smoking from the time both of my kids could understand my words. So… I told her that if I caught her smoking in her room again… there would be repercussions. I couldn’t control what she did outside our property, but I damn well would make every attempt to make it difficult for her to continue that disgusting habit.

Of course the inevitable happened. I went into her room to change her sheets and there was an ashtray sitting next to her bed. I went into action. I called a friend who owned a bar and asked him to dump the contents of all the ashtrays into a plastic bag and save them for me. (That was back when you could smoke in places like bars and restaurants).  I went to the hardware store and bought sheets of plastic. Three days later, I picked up the bag of ashtray stuff from my friend. It was a large kitchen size bag filled to the top.

After Alea left for school, I went in and moved her mattress out of her room. (She had a twin bed, so that was easy.) I covered the entire room with the plastic sheeting. Every inch was covered. I closed the central air vents and closed the windows. I dumped the ashtray junk all over her room. It literally covered the floors. Then, just before I knew she would arrive home, I went in and set out a bunch of ashtrays with lit cigarettes. (I was careful that they would not start a fire.) The room became hazy with smoke. I shut the door and waited.

Alea arrived just about 10 minutes after I had lit the cancer sticks. She went straight to her room and the next thing I heard was “Aaahhh!!!! Mom!!!!” After the shock wore off, there was silence. She set about cleaning up the mess and airing out the room. We never spoke about the punishment. There was no need for conversation.

Alea still smokes – much to my dismay – but she has never since smoked in my house or even her own.

I suppose you would say I had an unconventional way of discipline. But, it was my experience that the normal “grounding” and “restricting” never really made much of an impression on my kids. This was before cell phones and computers, so I couldn’t take them away. I always got more compliance when I hit them with an unexpected consequence at an unpredicted time.

As fiercely as I disciplined, I also protected, enjoyed, and loved my two beautiful children. Life couldn’t have been all that bad in our house because my kids’ friends were always there. I loved all of my extra-kids... and I still do. I am still MommaLinda to at least five children who are not blood-related. I am so very blessed to have them.

I count my blessings every time I think of what life could have been like if my alcoholic husband had actually been present more often. Since he was a sailor he was gone 60% of the time and the other 40% was taken up with his mistresses and drinking buddies. Riley was never violent… when he was drunk he was just mentally absent. I am grateful for that.

Looks like I have a lot of gratitude and thankfulness today. Can you see this happy smile? I wish all my readers could feel as good as I do today.

Another word for nap...

SOMNOLENCE – (Noun) Sleepiness; a strong desire for sleep; drowsiness. See the page Alcohol and Biology. This is one of the conditions found when an alcoholic enters into hepatic encephalopathy.

It takes four years for the body to be able to expel all the toxins from the brain and for the brain to resume to a normal level of functionality. If the alcoholic resumes drinking within the four year time frame the new toxins will join with the old toxins and have a little party in the frontal lobe. See my post Sobriety does not mean sanity.

In my case, Riley hasn’t reached the magical four year point in sobriety in 20 years. Each time he starts drinking, it doesn’t take long for him to revert to being the child-like person created by whatever his booze of choice happens to be.

However, Somnolence alone doesn’t necessarily mean hepatic encephalopathy is the culprit. I suppose there are degrees of the condition and maybe that is what I’m dealing with here. But I’ve been through this stage with Riley three times and have never seen it like this before.

Yesterday… I began the task of organizing the store room and unpacking some long overdue boxes. We’ve lived here for six months and I still have packed boxes in both the store room and guest room. I’m fortunate to have a store room at all. We have a laundry room the size of Texas with also contains pantry shelves so I don’t need another pantry. Just inside the back door there is a small room that was once used by the owner as a home office. It’s very small six feet by eight feet but with proper shelving it’s a perfect place for the vacuum cleaner, pet food bins, hammers and tools, canning supplies, etc.

I was having difficulty moving some of the boxes around when it hits me – this is physical labor. There is a man in this house, but he’s too busy napping to help me move these things around. There’s something wrong with this picture.

I know… I know… I know why he is napping… he is in a state of somnolence. Riley takes between four and six naps each day. But, I look at him and think – he’s not that bad yet. I’ve seen him far worse than this. And I start to feel as though I’m being played. That cunning, baffling and powerful alcoholic has conned me into believing that he physically can’t help me – when he’s not that bad yet.

Just to be sure of my suspicions, I watch him. He is able to fix a sandwich and clean up his mess. He takes the trash out. He does a load of his laundry. He naps. So there is still some physical activity that requires brain function. Even if he is at the early stages of hepatic encephalopathy, he is still capable of helping me finish the store room as long as he has supervision and I don’t expect him to do it all alone.

Riley has established a pattern in his life with which he is comfortable. He does only the chores he chooses to do, he eats and sleeps whenever he wants, and doesn’t take responsibility when he screws something up. He imposes himself into my space and no matter how many times I ask for him NOT to do something – he does whatever he wants anyway.

Gosh… wish I could do that. Even without Riley, I would still have to do things I don’t want to do. Like – my real job – I want to retire, but my attorney tells me to wait one more year. I don’t like it – but I’ll do it.

So… I tell it to him straight. We will finish up the store room this morning before I go to church. He will take certain things to the shed and put some things into the trash. We will do it together to be sure that it is done correctly and I’ll help him with the really heavy stuff. When the task is complete… he can nap as long and as many times as he wants.

This man knows me -- he knows how to manipulate me. Sometimes, he has the power to make me doubt what I see or sense. But it only happens when I allow it to happen.

That slip in my consciousness usually happens when I’ve taken on too many tasks and have become overly tired. This week has been filled with stressful situations and I needed to rest. I got a good night sleep and today he will not be able to fool me into believing that he does not understand or is not physically able to do what I ask. I will not treat him so much like an adult – but like a defiant teen.

I’m a firm believer of having the punishment fit the crime – especially for teens. Our son, Brian, was assigned the chore of taking the trash can to the street on garbage day. It’s a simple thing to roll the can out as he was leaving for school. But, he kept forgetting and to keep from becoming an invitation to critters on the days when he had forgotten, I would do it myself. I warned Brian that if he forgot one more time, I would put the trash can in his bed.

The very next trash day, Brian forgot. But I didn’t. Rolling that can around to the front door and up the steps, through the hall and then hoisting it onto his bed was hard work. It would have been easier if I had just taken it to the street myself. But, where was the lesson in that?? He never forgot again.

If Riley does not comply in helping me finish the store room – well – let’s just say I hope he likes napping without a bed.

An organized mind...

Yesterday, Alea had an issue and needed her Mommy. Of course, I accommodated her. We talked on the phone for a couple of hours going over her issues, feelings, and options and then planned a course of action. I don’t care how long I was on the phone, my child needed me and that was the only important thing in my life at that moment.

I had closed my office door thinking it would keep Riley from disturbing our conversation. I thought that he would understand that the closed door meant that whatever was going on was important and needed my undivided attention. Silly me.

In the mornings, Riley and I sit at my desk and he tells me his plan for the day. Yesterday’s plan was to clean out and reorganize the refrigerator. I wanted to move the shelves and make it easier to find things that get pushed to the back. I told him to take everything out, wash the shelves and then I would come in and put it all back.

I didn’t mean I would jump up from my desk the minute he completed his share of the task. I was dismayed when he opened up my office door and informed me that I had to come out right now and finish the refrigerator. I told him I’d be out when I was done. He returned two more times to let me know that the things that needed refrigeration were getting warm. I repeated that I would be out when I was done talking to Alea.

The phone call was over. I went out to the kitchen and saw everything on the counter. Riley was sitting in his chair, but when he saw me he jumped up and said I had been inconsiderate because now he wanted to take a nap but had to stay up to help me. I told him I didn’t need his help yet and to go lie down if that’s what he wanted.

From there he proceeded to tell me that I shouldn’t be on the phone for three hours talking to someone – anyone. I also shouldn’t be playing computer solitaire when there is work to be done – especially when I have my real job to do. Then he went off into his usual tirade about living in the real world – his personal fav.

I lost my temper and began yelling back. (Never try to come between MommaLinda and one of her kids.)

Then I abruptly stopped.

I shut up.

I looked at him and told him he should go take a nap.

A sober Riley would not have cared how long I talked to Alea. A sober Riley would have realized there was nothing frozen on the counter and nothing was going to spoil in that time frame. A sober Riley would have been impressed that I could talk on the phone and play computer solitaire at the same time. The person I was angry with was not a sober Riley. I lost my temper and began yelling at – who?? No one. No one that could understand or hear what I was trying to convey.

It’s perfectly normal to lose your temper and defend yourself. But, you can’t defend yourself and be successful at protecting yourself when dealing with an alcoholic. There’s really nothing to defend. The angry, defensive words are lost in the haze. It means nothing. The only thing I gained was a raise in my blood pressure. 

Riley mumbled all the way to his room. And I looked around. OK. I needed to fix this. I got the plastic shoe boxes that I bought just for this task. I sorted out the cheese from the lunch meat and the condiments from the leftovers. I put the cheese into a box, and did the same for the lunch meat and condiments that I use most often. The less used condiments are placed into another box. I threw away the very old leftovers. If I had two of something, I consolidated it into one. And the stuff that only had a small amount in the jar got put into a smaller container.

I put the boxes into the refrig, all lined up nice and neat. Now I can slide the boxes in and out and get to what is in the back of the shelf. Everything looked great. I was so proud of myself.

As I was looking at my handiwork, I thought that at one time this could have represented Riley’s brain. All neat and organized with everything having a purpose and place. It was one of the things I had loved and admired about him. Now his brain couldn’t connect to logic and order. He tries, but just doesn’t get there.

Instead of being defensive, I should have said… “I understand you’re upset.” I must remember that I only hurt myself when I become angry. There is nothing to gain by vehemently expressing my point.  In this house, my point is only important to me.

Good but not great...

My first in a series of presentations was held on Friday evening. The topic was whether or not to “Leave or Stay” with the alcoholic. It was general in nature as to the entire world of alcoholism rather than focusing on just end-stage alcoholism. I think it was too much information – too broad of a subject. I felt I came off as a bit speech-y rather than as a true presentation. I was unsure of what equipment would be available, so I had no slide show or anything fancy. It was just me. And I can get a bit – well – boring.

But, although the attendance was small and one attendee nodded off, I think everyone took something away that they had not heard before. I know everyone related. That was good.

Hey, it was my first attempt at reaching outside my self into the public eye. It was a baby step… next time it will be more of a giant leap. It may not have been a resounding success, but it was a success. I am thankful for that.

I have visions of grandeur for my next presentation which will focus entirely on end-stage. I’m planning a slide show depicting the journey of alcohol as it travels through the body; a tidbit from a doctor (in person or via Skype or pre-recorded --- any volunteers?) about illnesses related to alcoholism; and I’m not sure what else… but it will be spectacular. Did I ever mention that I’m an over-achiever who takes bites larger than a python can swallow?? Oh well, I have to have SOMETHING to reach for that is outside my comfort zone.

The food was wonderful – even if I do say so myself since it was all created by me. I included the recipes in the handout – and the handout was well received. Since cooking is something I do to distract myself from the chaos around me. I thought it would be nice to share some of my creations. All my food is from recipes handed down through my family and friends. I also use recipes I find on cooking shows and on-line, then I revamp and revise them to suit my own tastes. I’m thinking about publishing a cookbook – but that’s a ways in the future. How about a title of “Cooking the Chaos”? Maybe not – send me your suggestions.

I’ve posted the Cliff Notes version of the presentation as a page titled “Leave or Stay”.

Sunday is my usual posting day. But, today I’m just going to leave you with this and the new page. Things are quiet in Riley World today and I’m going to enjoy the peace while it exists.

Have a beautiful day…

My own addiction...

I have an addiction of my own. For an hour of each day, I transport myself to Genoa City and become a part of the world of Young and Restless. I have watched it from the very first episode in the 1970s. With so many soap operas being cancelled – I pray that God will spare me my one addiction and help the powers that be understand that this is an important program.

It’s an hour a day that allows me to be a part of the fictional city. I can be any one of the characters, but I think I relate to Nikki and Phyllis more than any of the others. I see in them traits that resemble my own.

I’m getting off tract – because that’s a whole other post. The point is – it’s only an hour a day and I need that hour so I can just stop and breathe.

Riley interrupted my hour yesterday. He came barreling into my office with that little smile on his face – and – announced that it was storming in California. He sat down directly in front of the TV. When he has done this in the past, I’ve just let it go. But, today – I needed my little brain trip to somewhere else. I asked him if he could wait another 15 minutes to tell me about the weather.

He abruptly stood up and stomped out the door.

The truth is – unless California has had an earthquake and fallen into the Pacific – I don’t really care about the weather in a state where I’m not living. If there is severe flooding in an area of the state where my relatives and friends reside – yes – I want to know. But, will waiting 15 minutes change anything? Is there anything I can do about it? I don’t think so.

Later in the day, I had to go out and run some errands. Before I left I asked Riley if he was sure that he didn’t want to come along. The answer was that he did not want to go.

There was something in his attitude. I knew something was going to happen.

Then – there is was – Riley could not understand why it was more important to watch TV than doing the things I needed to do or talking to him about the what was going on in the real world. Although, he would never admit to it – he was angry that I had asked him to wait.

He proceeded to tell me about how he lives and deals with the real world where things need to be done. He told me he had responsibilities and in his world he didn’t have time to waste on soap operas.

I responded by telling him exactly what I thought – how could he talk to me about living up to my responsibilities when he doesn’t do what he says he’s going to do around the house? It’s hypocritical for him to chastise me for watching TV when that’s ALL he does all day long.

He almost got me. He almost got me to go into a triad of self-righteous indignation. And he almost managed to make me feel guilty about watching Y&R. But – I took a deep breath and then it hit me. Riley 2 was in the building and Riley 1 had disappeared.

A month ago all the things Riley 1 said he was going to do managed to get done. Currently, very little actually takes place. The problem is – I really hadn’t noticed so much until yesterday.  I have been so busy, I didn’t realize that the floors hadn’t been sweep and the furniture was covered in dust. Both chores are his self-assigned duties.

I’ve been spoiled because I’ve enjoyed Riley 1 over the past few months. He is someone I can tolerate and actually talk to. He is someone who helps me by keeping the house tidy and doing other little things that I need.

Riley 2 has a problem with the accumulation of ammonia in his frontal lobe. His reasoning is not always logical. He is angry most of the time. He makes unreasonable demands. He thinks he’s done things he hasn’t and thinks he hasn’t done things that he has. I am all too familiar with Riley 2 because I see him far more often than Riley 1.

Riley 1’s return to drinking – even though it is just beer – has finally caught up with him. Beer is booze. Booze is a toxin that likes to make a home in the frontal lobe. His body is not able to fully metabolize the alcohol and it is taking over his persona.

I have taken things for granted. That was not wise.

My escape to a world where there is continuous serious drama – infidelity, corruption, lies, alcoholism, lost children, questionable sanity – will not change. It will happen for me everyday for as long as the producers produce. My addiction will continue and I will not be seeking out a 12-step program to help me stop.

In Linda and Riley World there is also drama, questionable sanity, lies, and other things that might make a good soap opera. We already have a Young and Restless. How about an Old and Buzzed??

In some people we trust...

All others pay cash…

I trust that the sun will rise each morning. Without fail that sun will edge its way over the paddock and provide a beautiful view for about 20 minutes. It happens everyday. Even when it’s storming outside, I know the sun takes the expected route – over the paddock and on up into the sky even if I don't actually see it.

There are very few things in my life that I trust without contingencies. The sun and moon are only two. I also trust that Jade will chase after any mouse she sees. I trust that my great-grandson will laugh when he sees me. I trust my great-granddaughter to tell me truth no matter what – after all, she’s only four. I trust my bff, Carrot to keep my secrets. I trust my navigational instincts. I trust my soup-making abilities. And, I trust that Riley cannot be trusted.

I have to have a heart catherization to determine the extent of a heart attack I had more than 4 years ago. It was never done when I was told that I had the heart attack. I don’t know why, but never the less, I need to have one know. It’s really just an elimination process because I’ve been having chest pains. If my heart can be ruled out – then the chest pains are most likely caused by living in a stressful environment and being overweight. I’m not a doctor. I’m at their mercy. I’ll do as I am told. I’m not saying I’ll trust them to be right, but if they talk to me in a language that I understand, I’ll totally lean toward their direction.

Actually, having the heart cath is a relatively simple procedure. It’s done on an outpatient basis. I’ll be sedated and won’t remember a thing about the procedure itself. I like that. There are times and things I just don’t need to know and my body’s surgical details are right up there on the top of the list.

Unfortunately that fact that I’ll be sedated brings up another issue. I must coordinate with Alea’s work schedule so she can take me. The hospital is two hours away. She also feels that if she weren’t there and something went wrong, she would never forgive herself for not being there. It’s a closed issue – at least for me and Alea.

Riley says he should be the one to take me. Riley, who has not been totally sober for more than 76 days, wants me to trust that he will be sober on that day. He wants me to trust that he will not forget me at the hospital. He wants me to trust that if I ask him to not drink – that he will not drink. He wants me to trust that the two hour ride will not put my -- or anyone else’s -- life in danger. And – if something goes wrong – he wants me to trust that he will make the right decisions concerning my medical care. He has become so insistent that he yells that I should “trust” him to do as I ask him to.

Alea and I have been over the medical scenario many times since Brian’s death. We know -- without a doubt – what each of us would want if the unthinkable ever becomes reality. I trust Alea to make the right decisions for me. I trust her to not leave the hospital while I’m there. I trust her driving ability. I trust her to be sober for the entire day.

Yesterday my project was to re-do my closet configuration by moving the shelf and hanging bar up to adult height. I don’t know why the master bedroom would have a closet designed for a kid – but there it was. It needed to be fixed so I could finally unpack the rest of my clothes. To accomplish the task, I needed some wood screws that were a shorter length than the ones I had. That meant a trip to the hardware store. I also needed celery for the chicken soup I was making for the presentation I’m giving on Friday. That meant a trip to the grocery store. Both stores are easy to get to and close to each other.

I was so busy with unpacking boxes and assembling bookshelves that I found myself being resentful that I couldn’t send Riley to the store to get the necessary items. He starts drinking at 5 a.m. By the time I realized I needed the items it was almost 9 a.m. There was no way I could let Riley drive to the store. In fact, I couldn’t have sent him even at 5 a.m.

So, here’s this man who says I should trust him with such an important task as taking me to get a heart cath when I can’t trust him to go to the hardware store.

I understand that a part of Riley wants me to treat him as my husband and partner. I also understand that he wants to appear to others that he lives a life that is not alcohol infused. I understand that he wants to be drunk while trying to live a sober life. In my mind, it’s all a part of the alcoholic game of “Let’s see who I can con into believing I’m not really drunk.” It’s the same game he played while being a district representative for AA while he was drinking more than a fifth of vodka every day. I don’t believe he really conned anyone. Those AA people are too smart for that. And I’m too smart for that.

I trust that all his ranting were simply drunken bravado from a man whose hazy brain thinks he is capable of doing anything the same as any sober person.

Living with an alcoholic has not caused me to be incapable of trust. I just reserve it for things that have proven to be trustworthy. In Linda World, using the analogy that “In some people we trust…” Riley would have to pay cash.

Georgia and the Captain...

I have a friend who fell in love with a Captain. I imagined him to be a swashbuckler kinda guy from a romance novel. He was always with my friend accompanying her on shopping trips, wine tours, to the beach, and sometimes he even went with her to work. What a guy!!

When I first met Georgia I was a little intimidated. She’s almost 6 feet tall and when standing next to her, she loomed over my 5 foot frame. She spoke in a quiet voice which meant that I had to listen closely or I wouldn’t understand what she was saying. All of our mutual friends loved her and everyone knew that she loved this guy named Captain Morgan.

As I got to know her, I started to like her. I found her to be funny, considerate and caring. She could not, would not, allow herself to be pushed around and I admired that. She was more loyal than an old dog to its master. She would take your secrets to the grave. I found her to be a safe harbor which, for me, is the cornerstone of a solid friendship. Eventually, she became one of my best friends.

In spite of the friendship, I knew in my heart that Georgia’s relationship with the Captain was unhealthy. He was her favorite person to have over for the evening and he was there nearly every night. Sometimes I could smell remnants of the Captain’s visit as it came from the pores on her skin. I knew there was a problem and I wasn’t secure enough to talk to her about it. This was before I found my anti-alcoholism voice, before Riley came to stay with me, before my son died. I crossed my fingers and tried to mind my own business.

One day, soon after Riley had returned to my home, I was having a particularly bad episode and I was extremely distraught. There was very little privacy in my smallish cottage, so when I was upset I would pace up and down the driveway until I had regained my composure. On this day of pain, I paced and paced and then paced some more. I didn’t seem to be able to get a grasp on my calmness and the tears just did not stop.

Just as I was about to try a longer walk, Georgia called. “Hi Slick!” When I heard her voice I started reiterating Riley’s conversation and all my feeling became the ranting of a lunatic. She listened. She did not interrupt. She just let me go on and on. When I slowed down and she saw a window of opportunity, she simply asked, in that soft, calm voice of hers, “Are you better now? Is there anything I can do?” The minute I heard her say that – I knew I was better. There was nothing more she could do because she’d already done what I needed her to do. I was grateful for her patience and friendship. And now, she was no longer just my friend – she was a sister.

A few months later, Riley and I moved to North Carolina and my relationship with Georgia became one of phone calls and e-mails. I heard from her almost everyday. I could always count on her to send me things that would make me laugh and make me cry. She was a vital part of my daily routine.

I hadn’t heard from her in almost a month. I knew she had been planning a vacation so I wasn’t concerned when two weeks had gone by and I had not heard from her. But as we edged on into the third and forth week – I started to worry. I called a mutual friend and she told me Georgia was having some medical issues. She had no other information.

I called Georgia’s house and her daughter answered the phone. In my mind I was thinking that this must be serious if Georgia wasn’t even at her home – images of her lying in a hospital bed shot through my brain. But what I heard next was actually good news. Georgia had ended her relationship with the Captain and entered rehab. There was an intervention and she agreed to get help.

Just about that time, Georgia came into the house and picked up the phone. I was so very happy to talk to her. I asked how she was doing and told her how proud I was that she had taken this step. She told me she loves the support of AA and had found a “home” with the people in her groups. At this time she was not missing Captain and could now see how unfaithful he was. If she started to miss him, she had her new AA friends to help her keep him at bay.

It was interesting that when I was talking to her, she was not speaking softly. She was talking right out loud and clear. I didn’t have to strain to listen to her. She was still the same confident Georgia, but there was a little more bounce to her voice. I liked that.

My fears of the worst have been set aside. Sometimes living so far away is a disadvantage when you can’t be there for the friends you love. I’m sorry I could not have been there to support her. But she has a wonderful group of people behind her – her son and daughter, uncles and aunts, loyal friends both in and out of AA – and there’s a restraining order out on the Captain. He’s been beat down and I hope he will not show his face ever again. Ding dong the Captain's gone.

Tornado warning...

When the Emergency Broadcast came over the television announcing that we were under a Tornado Warning, I gathered my stuff – blankets, pillows, laptop, water, etc – and put it in a secure place in my bathroom. I was ready.

Riley was in his rocking chair watching his usual NCIS. I told him we needed to get his bathroom ready in case the worst came about. He just said – “Don’t worry, I’ll be fine.” And being the good little caretaker that I am – I stocked his bathroom. Both the bathrooms are small and there is really only room for one person in each.

As the night wore on, I settled in and listened. Wind, rain, hail, more rain, quiet, wind and more wind – but there was no rumble. I was waiting for the rumble sound of an oncoming train. It never happened – and I was thankful.

As I was waiting, I could feel the house swaying with the wind. We have a brick rancher – solid as possibly could be – but the wind was so strong it was moving the house. I thought of the three little pigs who built their last house of bricks. What a smart thing to do.

In spite of the three little pigs’ wise decision to use brick in the construction – some lyrics kept running through my head -- but they weren’t verses about the pigs’ quest for a secure dwelling. Instead, I was hearing in my head the lyrics to a song from The Wizard of Oz.

The wind began to switch – the house to pitch and suddenly the hinges started to unhitch.

Life with an alcoholic is much the same as a house in the middle of a tornado. This first verse could well define what it is like to watch the beginning of an alcoholic downfall. Things are unsettled, the family never feels secure and things start to fall apart.

Just then the Witch  – to satisfy an itch went flying on her broomstick, thumbing for a hitch.

The alcoholic (the Witch) needs to satisfy the craving for alcohol and so he/she seeks it out. Sometimes they ask others to help them obtain the alcohol – as in hitching a ride to the liquor store.

And oh, what happened then was rich.

I think if we substitute the word “sad” for the word “rich,” this would be exactly correct. Because what happens after the alcoholic gets the booze is rich with sadness.

The house began to pitch. The kitchen took a slitch.

Things become increasingly upsetting in the alcoholic household as the drinking continues.

It landed on the Wicked Witch in the middle of a ditch, which was not a healthy situation for the Wicked Witch.

The consequences of the alcoholic’s actions cause him/her to land in unpleasant situations. Eventually the health of the alcoholic deteriorates and puts the alcoholic’s life in danger.

Who began to twitch and was reduced to just a stitch of what was once the Wicked Witch.

The person who was once a vital, productive, happy member of the community is reduced to becoming a mere servant of alcohol. At that point, the entire family is not in Kansas anymore, but rather in some uninhabitable place – like Antarctica. No matter how many times you click your heels, those ruby red slippers are not going to help you now.

I’m told by fellow country dwellers that this is unusual weather for this time of year. Funny, in Linda and Riley World – living in a tornado is a way of life.

Top 100...

The Immortal Alcoholic has been listed as one of the Top 100 Blogs for Overcoming Addiction. I’m honored.

I’m also in great company since several of my fellow bloggers also appear on the list. Congratulations to Syd of I’m Just F.I.N.E. and Dave of higher powered. If you haven’t been to their blogs – do it. Both blogs are a source of inspiration, comfort and humor. You can find their link on the left side of my layout under My Blog List.

Although they didn’t make the Top 100 list, I would be lost without Addy of Alcoholic Daze and Anna of HyperCRYPTICal. These two bloggers are a vital part of my support group. Thank you for being there.

To see the list go here: http://www.nursepractitioner.org/addiction-blogs. Since I don’t have time to read all 100, let me know if you find one to be outstanding. With all those blogs there has got to be a lot of great information and support among them.

Not my choice...

The one aspect of living in the country bit me on the butt this weekend. It was Easter and I would have loved to have had a big family dinner at my house. I have the perfect yard for an Easter egg hunt. We also have lots of rabbits to hide those eggs.

My grandson’s wife has a lot of family where they live. They have a lot of obligations. There just isn’t enough time in the day for them to drive two hours to see us. I understand and I do my best to accommodate them, but I miss them terribly.

So… why don’t we go to them?? It certainly is the best alternative and, until now, we have done just that on previous holidays. This holiday was different because things are changing with Riley.

On Friday night, I cooked a wonderful beef stroganoff. The meat had simmered in a red wine which made it sooooo tender. The onions had caramelized. The mushrooms were fresh. There was nothing low cal about it and every calorie tasted superb! Riley loved it. I loved it. I wanted to lick the pan!

About an hour later, Riley lost his dinner. The stroganoff probably didn’t taste so good going the wrong direction. He went to bed and was up and down to the bathroom all night. The problem continues even through this morning – four days later.

Basically, he has not had a real solid meal since Friday – which doesn’t count because there’s no nutritional value in a meal that can’t be kept down. He has had toast, crackers, soup, and a bit of mac and cheese. In spite of it all, his liquid consumption remains about the same – 12 cans of beer a day with a few sips of water in between.

When my stomach is upset, I want nothing to eat or drink. I have to force myself to eat crackers or soup and to drink water. I usually try to stick to dry toast and warm unsweetened tea. But, I certainly could never drink a beer. The thought of it would send me on a run back to the porcelain bowl. It’s difficult for me to understand how Riley can continue with the beer. I don’t get how it is even physically possible to get it down at all.

So on Easter Sunday, driving two hours to my daughter’s was really not an option. Riley would certainly insist upon going. If he has the flu – I cannot expose the babies or anyone else. Our last trip to her house resulted in Riley peeing all over Alea’s brand new ottoman – that trip was a disaster. So even if the vomiting is part of an alcohol related illness and not contagious – I cannot expose anyone to that either.

One of the reasons I moved to the country was to separate Riley’s alcoholism from the children. As I fret over not being able to see them, I know I’m doing what’s best for them. My plan is working.

In the meantime, I make do with hearing my great-grandson laugh over the telephone. He has such an infectious raucous laughter for a little guy. My great-granddaughter briefly talks to me – she’s a 4 year old with things to do – such a little diva. I enjoy every second of hearing their voices. Afterwards, my resolve is reinforced that I’m doing the right thing for them. They are too little to understand. There should be no need for them to have to understand.

Is the vomiting alcohol related?? The logical part of my brain says – absolutely. We are probably on the downward spiral. I no longer check his feces or intestinal matter for signs of internal bleeding. I’ve freed myself from that by not trying to save him. If I don’t know that he is bleeding internally, I won’t feel compelled to get him to the hospital. I won't ignore it, but I won't look for it either.

I asked him if he wanted to go to the doctor – he said NO. I asked if he wanted to go to the emergency room – he said NO. I told him if he changed his mind to let me know and I would take him. He has not changed his mind. I don’t plan on asking again.

Oh – I know what you are thinking – how could I be so cold!! I’m not cold, I’m doing as Riley has requested. His loud and clear statement of his desire to choose death over sobriety rings clearly in my head on a daily basis. It’s not my choice to make. I won’t go against his wishes again because I’ve done that over and over and I’ve gained no ground.

Just to clarify – I will not keep him from getting to the hospital. I will gladly take him if he asks me for help. If he doesn’t ask for help, I will do nothing until he is unconscious. When that happens he will no longer be able to decide for himself and I will get him medical care. It may be too late by then and if so – it was his choice.

If it turns out that the Immortal Alcoholic is in fact truly mortal… well… next Easter the kids will come to my house the Saturday before and I will have a family holiday in the country filled with love and laughter.

Then again… it could be that Riley simply has the flu.

Tuesday's towel...

One of my very first needlecraft projects was to embroider a set of kitchen towels. My mother bought seven blank “flour sack” towels and ironed a transfer onto each one (do they even make those anymore?). The lines were to be stitched using bright colored embroidery thread in several different stitch styles. There were seven towels – one for each day of the week and each day had a specific task: Monday-Sweep; Tuesday-Dust; Wednesday-Laundry; Thursday-Ironing; Friday-Mend; Saturday-Shop; Sunday-Rest. It took me a while to get them completed, but I was sooooooo proud of them when they were all done and neatly hung on the handle of the oven. For months I changed them daily so they matched the appropriate day of the week.

My little girl mind would often drift into believing that maybe this is how life was supposed to be lived. Was there a day for each chore and was it always to be done consistently each and every week? I wondered if this was the way life was suppose to be lived and the fact that my family didn’t operate in that manner meant that we were somehow not living the “right” way.

After a few months, I forgot about putting the right towel out for the day and just grabbed one when needed for drying the dishes without concern for what day of the week it was. But, I did, however, carry over a bit of “neatish” behavior through my teen years. While other teens had rooms resembling the city dump, mine was neat and organized. My closet was divided by dresses, skirts, tops and pants and in each section the clothes were organized by color. For a teenager – I was definitely not normal.

As I have gotten older, I have digressed… Fast forward 40+ years… left to my own devices, I would have a house that was livably clean but not spotless. You might find yesterdays coffee cup still on my desk and the newspaper might be thrown about the sofa. In my room there is a stack of clothes that needs to be hung up or put away. If I lie down during the day, I do not re-make the bed. My toothbrush doesn’t always make it back into the holder. My bedroom slippers never make it into the closet.

I know I have a point here somewhere in the clutter of my mind… In Riley World there would be a kitchen towel for every day of the week and each would have a list of tasks. He would adhere to those tasks as though they were the holy grail itself. The towels would be changed at 12:01 A.M. every single day. They would be clearly hung on some special hanger in view for all to see. There would be no deviation.

Imagine the frustration he must feel when comforted with the fact that the pile of things… *#!% ...as he calls it… accumulates on my desk and my attitude is “I’ll get a round to it this week.”  It must cause extreme stress for him when he gives me a grocery list and I come home with only seven of the ten items. Riley lives in an absolute black and white world. I live with approximations and shades of gray with an occasional absolute thrown in.

Riley says he has Obsessive Compulsive Disorder – I’m not so sure. The absolute routine of Riley’s world has a purpose. He has told me that if he gets everything done that needs to be done, his time then becomes his own do to with as he pleases. And what he pleases is alcohol related. In his mind, it’s OK to be drunk to the point of peeing your pants, if the kitchen counter is spotless. It is OK to be oblivious to the end table having rings from his beer cans if he vacuumed the floor this morning. That doesn’t sound like OCD to me. It sounds more like alcoholic behavior.

There is a jagged sort of logic in his thinking. It’s not one I agree with – but it belongs to him and I have no right to try to take away his thought process. As he – again – progresses towards end-stage, he needs those daily reminder towels to keep him on task because he sometimes confuses Monday with Wednesday. He has difficult remembering his self-assigned tasks and when he is to do them or even if he has already done them.

I know that part of it is the memory loss from the stroke. But I am also acutely aware that most of it is that his frontal lobe is saturated with ammonia and therefore not truly able to agree to anything for a long period of time. I also know that he finds some kind of “pay back” in creating minor difficulties for me.  If he is not happy in the living arrangement, he will not let me be happy either. Or, if he makes me miserable enough, I’ll send him away.  Whatever…

I just want to give fair warning… if I see that Tuesday Towel around here, I will promptly burn it and then claim no knowledge.

Pure $$ and ¢¢….

There comes a time in most alcoholic’s drinking career when the money may run out.  If he/she is not old enough for Social Security or hasn’t retired from some entity that provides a monthly income, the alcoholic will eventually cease to be financially solvent. And even if there is an income, most of it will, in all likelihood, become booze. There may be a check, but that same check will surely morph into a bottle.

The best thing that could happen now is to go buy that lottery ticket. It’s really easy. Just make sure you buy the winning ticket and you’re set. And don’t go after those namby pamby ones for a few hundred dollars – go for the millions or even billions! You just have to plunk that dollar down on the right ticket and waah-laaa – you are set for life! How hard could that possibly be!?!

Now that we’ve taken a fantasy trip to lottery land – let’s get back to the real issue at hand in the real world. Because pinning your hopes on a lottery ticket is like depending on an alcoholic to be responsible – it’s just not likely to happen.

I can’t tell you what is right for you, but I can tell you some things I have done to make mine and Riley’s financial life a little easier. While reading this, remember that I have no small or dependent children at home. It is just the two of us that needs to eat and have a place to lay our heads at night. Things get complicated when there are children involved.

Control of the money is solely in my hands. While I include Riley in financial decisions and he participates in “budgeting time,” really I am the one with the control. It has to be that way. Riley will prioritize booze and porn above food and electricity. It’s up to me to make sure the bills are paid.

When Riley came back to live with me, I had him sign a Power of Attorney for his financial matters and one for his medical issues. I then contacted all his creditors and provided each of them with a copy of the POA. That meant I could now act on his behalf in negotiating payments in financial situations. I also opened a joint checking account so his military and social security retirement checks could be directly deposited into an account with which I had access.

I had no problem surviving financially for many years prior to Riley coming back to my home. I know how to support myself by myself and I have the means to take care of ME. Now that HE is here, I need his money to meet our joint expenses. So I must be sure there is, in fact, money to manage. Fortunately, I’m in an unusual situation for a family dealing with alcoholism – I have guaranteed income as long as Riley is alive. Most don’t have that luxury. But when he dies I will only have a small portion of what I get from him now.

So the question becomes – could we survive if we didn’t have his retirement pay? And how would I do it? Of course we would survive, but it wouldn’t be pretty. We would do without a lot of things and I would be cutting corners to the point of creating a hostile environment. That’s really not a big change in our present living conditions.

Currently, I give Riley small amounts of cash. What he does with it is his business and he seldom has enough to do much with – certainly he couldn’t buy much vodka with it. He does spend it on beer – his newest attraction. I take care of his priority list in as much as I can – new shoes, new printer -- those things are taken out of the household budget and not his pocket.

My financial goal is to get as much paid off and gone as possible so I only have to contend with the basic living bills. I want to pay off the car. I continue to stock my pantry and freezer to the brim so I have good healthy food to eat during really lean days. I’m building up my video library so I won’t be tempted to get pay-per-view or go out to the movies. I check out the dark end of my closet before I buy new clothes or shoes. I try to learn how to fix things myself before calling a repairman. I look for ways to get a few extra bucks. I try to put away just a few dollars a week – it almost never stays in the savings account, but at least I make the attempt.

In short, I’m preparing for the inevitable. I’m preparing for the day when Riley takes his last drink and my income is more than cut in half.

Thank God, I don’t have children in this house because that would make things so much more difficult. Those of you with children are truly blessed and I admire that somehow you find the means to keep it all together.

I got one of those chain e-mail things the other day. I thought I would share it with you.

Dear Congress… Last year I mismanaged my funds and this year I cannot decide on a budget. Until I have come to a unified decision that fits all of my needs and interests, I will have to shut down my checkbook and will no longer be able to pay my taxes. I'm sure you'll understand. Thank you very much for setting an example we can all follow.

I don’t know who the author was, but I am giving him/her a standing ovation!!

Smile...

This past week has been a tough one. Riley’s return to drinking has left me a bit frustrated and angry. I knew it would happen eventually and I thought I was prepared for it. But there is always a sense of “What the f……?” when the cycle does a 180.

There have been conversations – albeit nonsensical – about Riley’s drinking. I’ve asked questions like, “Do you understand that drinking is killing you?” The answer has never changed – his answer is “Yes.” Does he care? Yes, he cares but that’s not going to stop him.

During one of these conversations, Riley asked what would happen if I died before him. I told him he would have to go live with Alea. He asked, what if he didn’t want to live with Alea? I told him there were no other options. He then asked about what would happen if he didn’t want to live with me anymore? My answer was the same as the other one – he would go live with Alea. He said he didn’t want to go live with Alea. I told him there were two choices – me or Alea. He then told me he wanted to go live by himself in California. I repeated his two choices – California wasn’t one of them.

Riley is passive aggressive. He has ways of trying to get his way via the backdoor. We’ve had conversations this week about conflicting house rules. That is I have a rule and Riley has a directly opposing rule. For example, I don’t want the dog to be feed table scraps. Riley would set a place at the table for Jade if he thought he could get away with it. He ignores my rule and gives all the scraps to her when I’m out of the room. No matter how many times I have told him that this is not healthy for Jade, he insists upon feeding her those scraps.

In my mind, I believe he will do everything he can to generate a stressful environment so I will get tired of it and send him back to California. This is exactly the sort of thing Riley will do. I know this and I become angry with myself when I fall into the trap of letting him anger me to the point of yelling. Yelling has never done any good. All it does is make my throat sore and give me a headache. It’s definitely not worth it.

At the moment the only alcohol Riley is consuming is beer. Alcohol is alcohol. It doesn’t matter if it is beer, vodka or Listerine. The only difference, at the moment, is that the beer haze doesn’t seem to carry over to the early morning hours. That means I can have a semi-reasonable conversation with him prior to him popping that first beer of the day. I am grateful for the conversation; however, he is only SEMI-reasonable. I never know what the topic will be or if it will make any sense.

In order to maintain my own sanity and health, I have to reach into my bag of magic tricks and pull out my extra-strength survival wand. It’s in there somewhere – mixed in with my One Day At A Time and the chocolate bars. Then I see it… dim little lights in the darkness of the bag and they are spelling out… Smile and Nod!

When Riley’s conversations are unreasonable and I run out of things to say before I start yelling… I must smile and nod. Close my mouth. Turn off the reactive part of my brain and just smile and nod. It is not a nod that implies acceptance of what he says – it’s just an acknowledgment that he is speaking. The smile is to let him know that he has not succeeded in riling my anger.

So now the conversation is about how many clothes to put into the washer. I ask him to not put so many in at one time. He responds with – OK, I’ll just use less water. I tell him that won’t work because it would be the same thing as one of his “regular” loads. I tell him to keep the water level at high and use fewer clothes. He begins to give me a litany of why I’m wrong. I tell him, OK – just don’t wash any of my clothes. Of course, he has an answer to that and I can feel the frustration turning into anger. I shut up. I don’t express how irritating he is instead I simply… Smile and Nod.

Information please...

I received an e-mail from a reader whose mother is as an end-stage alcoholic. She mentioned several times that the medical personnel were not forthcoming with information. This post is dedicated to her, and her father, who are trying to make sense of the insanity.

On average doctors receive only 30 hours of instruction on alcoholism. Alcoholics don’t usually like going to the doctor because they know they will be told to stop drinking. That means uneducated doctors are not getting much real world experience when it comes to the end-stage. They are well versed in the affects of alcohol on the body’s organs. They know biology. Please see my page, “The Medical Dilemma.”

Let’s not discount the fact that doctors are humans. We often place them on a pedestal, but in fact they are just more educated in the field of biology than us. They are experts in things of which we have little, if any, knowledge. Now that I’ve said that, I want to stress that a good doctor will tell you everything they know. They won’t mince words. They will tell you just exactly as it is. A good doctor will tell the alcoholic he/she is dying. A good doctor will say it over and over again. Trying to find such a doctor is hard work. It’s like fishing for a shark in Lake Tahoe.

There are doctors who specialize in addiction, but most often they are addiction psychiatrists. These are medical doctors, but the focus of their practice is in the psychology rather than physiology. A Hepatologist is a doctor who specializes in the liver as an organ, but finding one can be an issue. A Gastroenterologist specializes in the digestive system. The Internist is highly trained in the internal workings of the body including hepatology and gastroenterology.  A Family Care Physician treats the patient and the entire family. By that criterion, the best doctor would be an Internist who is also a Family Care Physician.

Do a little fact-finding before you make an appointment. Call the potential doctor’s office and ask what the approximate percentage is of patients that the doctor treats who are dealing with alcoholism or liver ailments. Ask if the doctor has any special training in either of those areas. Get referrals from other caretakers of alcoholics – ask at an Alanon meeting. Call a local rehab center and ask for a referral or suggestion. If you have your own family physician – ask him/her for a referral for the alcoholic. 

Finding a doctor is only part of the requirement. The family has to do their own due diligence. The family must consult with Dr. Google and understand the terms you may encounter. It is unfortunate that the family must do this, but it is a fact of the life of a non-alcoholic in the world of alcoholism. But, be advised, you won’t find much information on “end-stage” alcoholism. However, you can find information about certain terms or conditions. I’ve listed here some things to Google: Cirrhosis, Hepatitis, Delirium Tremens, Hepatic Encephalopathy, Esophageal Varices, Wernicke-Korsakoff Syndrome, and Alcoholic Cardiomyopathy. Please see “Alcohol and Biology.”

The best way to deal with doctors is to be educated. If you present yourself to the medical community as an informed, intelligent person, they will respond in a more informed, intelligent manner – most of the time. Instead of asking what you can do to keep the alcoholic alive, ask instead about the liver enzyme level or the ammonia level.  The only real way to keep an alcoholic alive is to instill in them a desire not to drink. In the case of an end-stage, reducing the desire to drink is not likely.

Blood tests contain vital knowledge for the caretaker of an alcoholic. The right blood test can give the information needed to determine an approximation of the chance for survival. Or… in other words… how long to expect an alcoholic to live in the present state of drunkenness.  There are two tests for making that determination – Child-Pugh Score and MELD Score. These scores are used in the calculation to determine the survival rate for someone on the liver transplant list. But, I want to be clear that most alcoholics do NOT qualify for liver transplant.

One of the best places to find information on either of the two scoring systems is in Wikipedia. They provide a good explanation of the test and how to rate all the different factors. You can also Google for Child-Pugh Score Calculator or MELD Score Calculator. See which site works best for you.

The liver is only a tip of the ice berg waiting for the Titanic. End-stage alcoholics have brain damage due to the lack of blood flow. Also to be considered is the pancreas, immune system, kidneys and heart. Alcohol in excess is poison. Poison does not do nice things to the body.

When you meet with a doctor you must have your facts in order. Keep a journal of the alcoholic’s progression of deterioration. Get and keep copies of the lab reports. Show how you reached your score’s determination. Write down everything – how often the alcoholic falls; how many nosebleeds a day; amount of alcohol consumption; what type of alcohol; and last date of sobriety. Present to the doctor a timeline. Doctors love facts and figures. So give it to them.

The caretaker of an end-stage alcoholic is really no different from that of an end-stage cancer patient. However, you will be hard pressed to find a doctor who is willing to provide hospice for the end-stage alcoholic. If the caretaker feels the alcoholic is near death, ask for hospice support or other outside help. If you don’t ask, you may never receive. And if you don’t receive help from someone, anyone, the doctor may end up with two patients – the caretaker and the alcoholic.

It is a thankless path on which the caretaker walks. Finding the right doctor and knowing the facts will lower the incline of the pathway. Be warned, the walk will never ever be a stroll and will often feel like a run up Pike’s Peak. Keep your pace as close to a walk as possible and don’t forget to stop and smell the flowers along the way. But, before sticking your nose into those petals, check for bees.

Abnormal lives here...

When I was growing up I thought my family was normal. If some other family was different – they were NOT normal. Normal was what I was trained from childhood to believe everyone else should be. My parents didn’t set out to make me believe that – I think it just happens in every family. If I had grown up with alcoholic parents I would have thought it was normal until I got closer to my teens and could figure out that it wasn’t.

The first time I realized that other family dynamics could be extremely different from mine was at about 12 years old. I had a friend, Crissy Q, whose mother was different. There was a formal living room in her house, but Crissy and her sister were never allowed to go in there except for dusting and vacuuming. I had been in and out of that house many times in the space of nine years and we never went into that room. I saw into it from the doorway, but that was all. I thought that was odd because at my house we used every inch of every room. The only rule we had was that we knocked before entering a bedroom with a closed door.

Mrs. Q always wore lots of makeup. It seems she always had thick layers of lipstick that wasn’t reserved just for her lips. Her cheeks were smudges of red giving her the look of a china doll. My mom only wore makeup when she was going out and even then it was applied sparingly. “Less is more,” Mom would say.

The other thing about Mrs. Q was that she took naps – a lot of naps. And we were not allowed to go in any room in the house except the den which could be entered from the back yard when she was taking one of her many naps. Once inside the house, we always whispered.

I had started visiting Crissy when I was nine and I just thought those were the rules of the house. OK. Every family had rules. So this was just their rules. It wasn’t until three years later that I realized why the rules were in place.

We were going to the drive-in movies. Mr. and Mrs. Q, Crissy’s sister (Cathy), Crissy and I all piled into the beautiful T-Bird that, like their living room, was seldom used. It was a beautiful car. The three of us girls were in the back seat, with Crissy directly behind her mother. When Mrs. Q pulled out a flask and took a few sips, I notice a look between Crissy and Cathy. Crissy hit the back of the seat with her foot. Her mother protested. Crissy did it again and told her mother to give her the flask. Her mother refused. Crissy hit the seat again. Her mother was now visibly angry and started spewing profanity. I had never heard such vile things from a woman before. Crissy kept hitting the seat and insisting that the flask be given to her. Mrs. Q turned around in her seat and started trying to hit Crissy.  I could not believe what happened next. Crissy pushed on the seat with both of her feet and it folded over encasing her mother. That’s the way it stayed until we arrived at the theater.

During the trip, Mr. Q just kept driving. He didn’t say anything. He didn’t do anything. He just kept driving. Cathy looked out the side window and seemed intent on the passing scenery. She also said nothing. It was as though, I was the only one witnessing the interchange between Crissy and her mother. It felt surreal. I didn’t know what to do – so I, like the Cathy and Mr. Q, did nothing. But, I was horrified, frightened and just wanted the night to end.

I was very happy to return home that evening. I had not felt safe the entire time I was out with Crissy’s family. When I walked into my own house, I could feel the love and security all around me. Every pre-teen has issues with their parents, but that night I felt that mine were as close to perfect as you could get. My parents were normal, Crissy’s parents were not.

I visited Crissy’s house many times after that. But, I never went anywhere with her family again. I never stayed for dinner. We spent most of our time in the pool or on the patio. I tried very hard to never interact with her parents.

As I grew older, I realized that Crissy’s mother was an alcoholic. I didn’t know much about it because I grew up in a non-alcoholic household. I never really thought much about alcohol or alcoholics until I realized that I was married to one. After I reached the realization, I found myself using Crissy as a measuring stick on my own children. I would think – they aren’t as angry as Crissy was so everything must be OK. Things weren’t really as bad as they were for Crissy and Cathy.

In reality – it’s all bad. Children do not belong in an alcoholic household. It is not safe and they can’t possibly understand all the insanity around them. Children’s idea of normalcy is created by the environment and sanity of those around them at an early age. If as a child you perceive folding your mother in a car’s seat to be normal – unless there’s lots of therapy involved – the adult version of the child will believe that to be normal. I don’t really believe any sane adult would think it OK to do such a thing. Folding a car seat while occupied with a human is a bit extreme. I don’t think most of us make a conscious decision to do things that are clearly abnormal. But the subliminal idea may be there. It may creep into the mind of someone under stress at unlikely times.

It’s a lot like children who grow up in physically abusive households. The child grows up and repeats the cycle. The abuser knows it’s wrong. But, it is almost as though the abuser is driven to repeat what they may have known as “normal” during the very early developmental years. It’s hard to determine what a child will carry over into their adult thinking. I know that I remember the Mrs Q incident very clearly. If I had seen that over and over again, I might have come to believe it as being a normal thing to do.

I’ve never strapped Riley into a folding seat of any kind. But don’t believe for a single moment that I haven’t thought about it. And that may be a huge neon sign pointing directly at me that says “Abnormal Lives Here.”

Reference and shocking images...

The website that gave me the "four year" statistic was www.alcohol-drug.com/neuropsych.htm. For clarification, blood flow starts increasing immediately after the drinking ceases, but it takes approximately four years to regain FULL blood flow activity. With out the correct supply of blood to the brain, the brain cannot function properly. It's frustrating for the non-alcoholic, but probably even more frustrating for the alcoholic.

I also found a site that has some shocking scan images of the brain after excessive use of cofee, nicotine, alcohol, and marijuana versus a normal brain. It has made me think seriously about cutting back on my coffee consumption. My average is 3 cups a day -- maybe I should keep it to only one. The link is http://www.dailymail.co.uk/health/article-1177258/Are-wrecking-brain-Chilling-pictures-reveal-shocking-effects-alcohol-cigarettes-caffeine-mind.html