When I say I love you...

I turned 69 years old yesterday. I got up, showered, and dressed as though I was going to a party. The party was at my house and I had only a few internet and telephone guests. Physically, I was the only one in attendance and it was an awesome day. The best birthday I’ve had in many, many years.

At the end of the day, I sat back and thought “How did I get so lucky?” I have three beautiful great-grandchildren, a grandson and his wife, a daughter, brothers, nieces and nephews, sisters-in-law and a variety of other family and friends.

I also have a man in my life that makes me smile. I never realized that I could be in love at this stage of my life. I always said “When my husband is gone, I never want to be involved with another man.” My life with Riley was so painfully heart-breaking that I couldn’t fathom the idea of putting myself into a position of vulnerability again. But… here I am… I must be crazy out of my mind.

Riley’s first love priority was his booze du jour. So each time he told me he loved me, I doubted his sincerity. He said it all the time. Every night before I “tucked” him into bed, he told me he loved me. It got so that I hated hearing the words “I love you.” Hmpf… meaningless waste of the air with which the words came from his mouth. I felt cruel for my disbelief and inability to return the phrase.

I once asked Riley what he meant when he told me he loved me. His explanation was that it meant he loved the way he could depend on me. He loved that I would always be there for him. I would take care of him. However, he didn’t trust me and he made that clear. Love has nothing to do with trust, says Riley. Not once did he say anything about HIS feelings. He never said that he says “I love you” because he cared more about me than any other woman. He never claimed that I was the most important woman in his life. He told me, that he loved me and wasn’t “in love” with me. He claims that he loves many women but he loves them all differently. In fact, he made it a point to tell me that in many ways I was inadequate as a woman and lover. He preferred his mistresses and his vodka. He would not have chosen me to be his end-of-life companion but I was the last one standing.

The words of love for Riley from me were non-existent. The phrase stopped having meaning for me and I only want to tell someone I love them when I could truly mean what I say. There are many different levels of love and I once had given Riley every bit of my heart, but after a while I couldn’t give any to him at all.

I love my grandchildren, family, and friends. I love chocolate mousse. I love my pets. That kind of love means I’ll protect you and care for you. But it’s totally different for the love I feel for the man in my life. I will call him Sam, but that’s not his real name.

When I tell Sam I love him, it means that I want him to be happy above all else. It means that I will give myself only to him. The biggest thing is that it means I trust him and he can trust me. I will be his best friend, confidant, care giver and will put him above any other man who may venture into my life. I want the best for him even if it means that we don’t end up together. I’m happy when he laughs. He can tell a white lie and I’ll swear it’s the truth. My love for him is unconditional. I don’t want to change him even though he is not perfect.

I believe an important part of loving a person is being comfortable with being a part of that person’s life. A person is not just a single entity, but rather a compilation of all people he cares about. It’s the things that interest him like his hobbies and work. For me, loving a person is not just about “oh, baby, baby, you’re so beautiful, blah, blah”. I don’t love Sam for his looks, although he is handsome. I don’t love him because he is financially secure, although it helps to know he won’t be dependent on me for his next meal. I love him for who he really is as a person. I love him because I feel incredibly good, happy, beautiful because of the way he treats me even when we are fighting. People in love DO fight and it’s not the end of the world. I learned that from Sam.

In my opinion, being in love with an alcoholic is not a healthy kind of love. It is very conditional. I always loved Riley more when he was sober and not so much when he was drunk. Eventually there was no love but was replaced with obligation. I spent years believing I was OK – happy – content with the way things were. But I realize now that I was in denial. We were married for fifty years and I think I was only “in love” for a total of 10 years. However, I made a commitment to Riley and to my children to take care of him and I did just that. I was morally and legally bound to Riley for what was the rest of his life.

Being loved by an alcoholic does not incite a satisfying feeling of mutual respect and concern. In fact, loving an alcoholic is always work without reward. It is a one-way street where the love is always from the non-alcoholic partner to the alcoholic. There is no true affection returned. While being in a healthy, loving relationship is a give and take of affection from each partner. It isn’t a forced exchange. It generates happiness. It just happens and is accepted by each other.

We are all a work in progress. My relationship with Sam is just that. I don’t know where it will go. We may not sit in rockers next to each other as the rest of the world moves around us. Our love may not be a “happily ever after” or “everlasting”. But, it is here and now. It may not be conventional. Sam and I are a bit of a different breed. We are both opposite and alike. We are seldom in the same room at the same time. We’ve known each other for 20 years but are just now learning who we are. But, I will always have that unforced “deep abiding affection” for him no matter what happens for us in the future.

Does Sam love me? For him it’s all about actions and not words. He has said it and I treasure the moment of that confession. But… he doesn’t easily trust and I understand that. This post isn’t about how much he loves or doesn’t love me. It’s about how different it is to love a man who doesn’t put alcohol as a priority over people.

I didn’t know that I could be this happy. I didn’t know that love could feel so good. At the age of 69, I have discovered what it truly means when I say “I love you.”

Remembering to forget

I was looking at Riley’s death certificate and saw that the cause of death was cirrhosis. I stared at those words and thought about the pride with which Riley always said his liver regenerated and was not the cause of any of his ailments. In fact, even at the end, he would not admit that alcohol had anything to do with his inability to be an independent person. In his mind he believed he was getting better and would soon be able to move into an apartment in town and away from my nagging and spying. I always wished him luck with meeting his goal.

The liver is a miraculous organ. It is also deceptive. As long as the liver has any healthy cells it can regenerate new cells. But if the percentage of bad cells out-numbers the percentage of good cells… the liver will continue to die through hardening of all the cells. One day the patient can display all the typical symptoms of liver failure complete with extreme jaundice as to make the person appear iridescent and the next day, have almost no symptoms at all.

Over the past year, Riley had no visible symptoms of cirrhosis. It seems he was having more problems with his kidneys shutting down rather than his liver failing. The constant urinary tract infections were what caused the most concern for me. That was probably because they became very difficult to treat.

I’ve learned a lot about UTI’s over the past couple of years. This infection can send a sane man into a world that only he can understand. Riley hallucinated the minute an infection hit his system. He imagined he was back on board one of his submarines and often refused to let me into the room. “Women aren’t allowed in here! Get out! Get out!” he would yell. He regained so much strength that he was able to sweep me away from the bed and throw me against the wall. He insisted I was the enemy and must be shot. His hallucinations were almost always about his navy service.

It was difficult for me, Riley’s wife and caregiver of so many years, to listen to him and console him as he was telling whoever I was in his mind that I was not to be trusted. He told one imaginary ex-girlfriend that he had never loved me nor wanted me in his life. He said he didn’t like his kids and that the only family he had was his brother and the son who hadn’t wanted contact with him in more than 20 years. When an aide came in to help care for him, he insisted that she cook his meal because I was poisoning him. Eventually, I had to leave most of his care to aides.

I thought all of that insanity was due to UTI’s. Now I know that the UTI simply exacerbated the results of his failing liver. Both conditions can cause the brain to go wokky, but to have both problems is… well… impossible to deal with. To make matters worse, a UTI can linger or even become dormant within the patient revealing only minor symptoms over a long period of time. Then when it becomes active, it raises hell to make up for the time it was quiet.

I recently discovered that a friend may be likely to develop Alzheimer’s and he believes he is having early symptoms. There is a heredity issue. However, after doing some research, I discovered that something as simple as a UTI can mimic the symptoms of Alzheimer’s. Knowing that a UTI can create memory loss even if it is a minor infection is in some ways a blessing. A UTI can be cured if the patient is generally healthy. I am confident that his memory issues will fade and he will regain a healthy lifestyle and attitude.

There is no specific test to determine if one has Alzheimer’s or any other form of dementia. That test can only be done during an autopsy. To determine the source of memory loss requires a process of eliminating any other cause. It can take a long time to come up with a definitive yes or no that a person has dementia. The waiting and testing is frustrating.

Alcoholic dementia can also cause memory loss. Of course, alcoholics are most likely NOT going to give up alcohol because they forget a few things every once in a while. Forgetting to pay the electric bill or turn the stove burners off are usually of no concern to the alcoholic. It is left to the people around him to monitor his life. That’s not so good for those around him because they should be worrying about their own lives and not so much the alcoholics.

From early on in our relationship, Riley had selective memory disease. Every wife knows that disease. If he didn’t want to take the trash out he would “forget.” If he didn’t want to confess to something, he would “forget” why he did something or when or how. It was infuriating. I mean come on… how can you forget how a pair of another woman’s panties got into the glove compartment of the car?

I always forget to take my grocery list with me to the grocery store. I can misplace my car keys after having them in my hand. I forget to call friends back after telling them I would. Sometimes my brain searches for a word that I’ve used a million times. I don’t think I have Alzheimer’s and I know I don’t have a UTI. In my situation, I believe I’m still recovering from the stress of caring for someone who couldn’t even remember my name. I don’t want to admit the fact that I’m of an age where it is perfectly acceptable to forget a few things.

Too bad I can’t forget where I hid the candy bars from my grandchildren… I have no problem remembering that hiding place.

Optimistic Gratitude

It’s that time again. It happens every year. “It” meaning the holiday season. Of course Christmas merchandise was put out before Halloween so the “season” actually started a while ago. This is both a horrible and a wonderful time of year. It all depends on where you are in your life and the circumstances of your environment.

I’ve had holiday seasons from both ends of the spectrum – awful and delightful – sad and happy – grateful and not so much. But, I’ve always managed to make something about each one unique and special. I’m an optimist. When I’m having a bad holiday, I try to tell myself that next year will be better. Sometimes it actually is better and sometimes I have to repeat my mantra of “next year it will be better.”

This year brings a different kind of Thanksgiving for me. Since my family will not be celebrating a feast of turkey until Saturday, I’m left to accept invitations from other friends. There are three – count ‘em – THREE dinners that I’ll be attending this year. I’m very blessed to have been asked to spend this meal with such good friends and my family. This coming Sunday I’ll be at a church dinner; on Friday, the 24^th, I’ll be at a friend’s house; and on Saturday the 25^th, I’ll be with my grandchildren. On the real Thanksgiving Day, I’ll be cooking and preparing; calling my California family; and watching “Christmas in Connecticut”, a 1945 movie starring Barbara Stanwyck, my personal Christmas favorite. I don’t know of any Thanksgiving movies.

I have much to be grateful this year. I made a list:

1.       I’m in the middle of writing the sequel to “The Immortal Alcoholic’s Wife” and have received contributions from Riley’s shipmates about life on board submarines. Thank you, guys!
2.       I will not be listening to Riley’s cries for help from his pain. I’m grateful he is no longer suffering.
3.    .  My family is healthy and happy. My great-grandchildren grow taller with each glance in their direction. Their brains are like sponges that soak up every piece of knowledge presented to them.
4.       I’m at peace with knowing I did everything I possibly could to make Riley’s last days more tolerable.
5.       My travel plans are starting to develop even though it still is a bit early. I should be leaving Virginia sometime after March to start my trip across country while making stops to visit with my followers. Be sure to e-mail me a stop request to immortalalcoholic@gmail.com so I can add you to the itinerary.
6.        I’m learning that it’s OK to leave the house and do things to take care of myself. I’m grateful to be able to learn that lesson and act on it.
7.       There is happiness in my life where there used to be despair. I’m grateful for the happiness and to not feeling guilty about being in this state of mind.

 With all this gratitude starring me in the face, I now realize that alcoholism stole from me and my family years of happiness. I have always been grateful even in the worst of times. There’s always something that I can appreciate. But, I didn’t realize there was so much missing.

If you are in the situation of finding it hard to be grateful this Thanksgiving Day, think about the things you DO have and not the things that you DON’T have. Did you wake up this morning? That, in and of itself, is worthy of gratitude. If you are having trouble finding something to be grateful for, e-mail me and I’ll help you find something to help you get through the day. I’ll be there for you.

Thanksgiving and the entire holiday season can be a tumultuous time of the year. Without a doubt, it can be the worst days of your life. But… there is always that light that is not an oncoming train. Like I said before – I’m optimist.     

Because I can...

When a husband dies, people express their condolences in an attempt to comfort the grieving widow. In turn, the widow gets through one day at a time and mourns for the part of her that no longer exists. In some cases, it takes years for the widow to come to terms with her loss and get back to the business of living a full and productive life.

Alcoholics remain on this earth, but die in the mind and heart of the spouse far before they take their last breath. When the death occurs, the grieving process has already started and/or often times it has been completed. It may seem that the spouse is cold-hearted or unfeeling that her/his partner is now gone, but the truth is that the process can sometimes be reaching its end before the actual death occurs.

That seems to be the case in my adjustment from being a wife to a widow. Years ago I accepted the fact that my husband had left me in favor of his mistress – Ms Aristocrat Vodka – or Ms Vodie as I call her. His alliance to her left me without a real husband and left my kids without a real father.

While Ms Vodie held Riley’s heart, he was never monogamous and seemed to take pride in the fact that he could bed down almost any woman in sight. My husband left me and the family way back in the late 1980s although his date of death was September 27, 2017.

Riley and I separated, but did not divorce, early in 1989. I grieved for the marriage that could have been. I cried from the loneliness of Sunday mornings without sharing the newspaper. I longed desperately for the intimate moments we had once shared. I treated every man with hostility because I somehow imagined them to be in some kind of elite womanizing cult. Every man who showed an interest in me was met with the presumption of them being liars, cheaters and jingaloes.  I went through every stage of the grieving process. It was hell.

I came out of it just in time to be able to forgive Riley so that I could take him back into my home, which I had created without the assistance of a man, and take care of him as he withered away with Ms Vodie by his side. The last seven years have been another form of hell.

Riley is gone. I’m truly a widow. And I’m not grieving over the loss. Some of you may think of me as a cold-hearted, ruthless, witch and you may be right. Every night I listened to him tell me, “Linny, I love you” and sometimes “Linny, I care very much about you.” I never responded because those words meant nothing to me. I couldn’t bring myself to hold his hand, but could only manage to rub his shoulders. When he begged me to climb into the bed and hold him, I refused. This man in that bed was not my husband. My husband died years prior to Riley’s requests of affection.

Even though I felt I was attending to a man who was not my husband, I was not free. My entire life was centered on his nurses, aides, physical therapist, doctors, and other visitors schedules. When my daughter was able to come to sit with him, I was able to go to town for groceries and possibly run a few errands. Riley was a prisoner in his bed and I was a prisoner in the house.

September 27^th, 2017, was the day I was released from my responsibilities dictated by our society, legal system, and my moral consciousness. I stood in the middle of the living room and I felt stunned. I was looked around as though I was trying to figure out what it was I was to do next. I honestly did not know what to do. So I did nothing except wander through the house. I couldn’t go into his room. It was too empty. Maybe I was missing him a little. Maybe the absence of him treating me like a servant left a hole in my day. I had become so accustomed to his demanding calls that when there was silence, it frightened me.

Riley disliked having me play music as I cleaned house or cooked his dinner. But Riley is not here, so I turned up the music and danced around the room. I sang at the top of my lungs even though I can’t carry a tune in a bucket. I didn’t care. I wanted noise and I made a lot of it. It was glorious!

I made plans, just because I could. I went for drives in the country, because I could. I ate out at the restaurants that I had only heard about but never experienced because… because I COULD! And I DID!

My life has re-started and I’m enjoying it very much. I’m regaining my health, having my nails done, getting plenty of rest and I’m laughing. Do you know why? Because I can, that’s why.

If you are concerned about your what your drinking is doing to your loved ones, read this post again. This is what it means when your alcoholic husband dies and you are finally free again.

Frog's fur...

When I sit down to write a post I usually say to myself, “I don’t have any words.” I stare at the blank simulation of a piece of paper, but still, there are no words that pop into my brain. I simply start typing. Random words flow from my frontal lobe down to my fingertips and end up on the screen. Eventually, they start to make sense and I can rearrange them into some form of message. The post still might ramble a bit… but eventually I get on the right track.

Since Riley’s death, the ramblings seem to have taken over more than my brain. My attention span is limited and I cannot sit still to watch an hour long TV show. Even my favorite, Survivor, can’t hold my interest for the entire show. I start to clean the house, but I go from room to room picking up this and that but never making a dent in the real task at hand.

I have an incredible urge to be mobile. Well, not just mobile. I want to drive to somewhere, anywhere, the destination is not important. I want to be behind the wheel of my car and start in a direction and keep going. I got up yesterday morning, around 4 AM, and took a drive out in the country. I got lost but found my bearings quickly. I drove around for more than an hour. I watched the sunrise which is always incredibly beautiful, and then returned home.

Riley’s nurse called to find out how I was doing. I told him about my driving urge. According to him, it comes from the fact that I’ve been nearly sequestered for several years and now I have the freedom to go outside my house. It is as though I’ve been locked in a cage and now the gate to the cage is open. I’m just outside the gate, waiting to make sure it’s OK to venture farther out.

The house is very quiet. I’ve been in Riley’s room and thought I’d start cleaning it up and getting rid of all the equipment. But, when I go in, I’m a bit frozen. I look around and worry that if I make changes, he will be back and I’ll have to get everything back to being Riley-friendly. The clean-up and changes can wait.

I’m floundering which is a term I often use when a person doesn’t seem to have any direction. While I have a million things on my mind concerning what I need/want to do, I have trouble completing one task. It’s not that I don’t know what to do. It’s that I don’t know what to do first.

I thought about closing down this blog and trying to go on to something new. But, I’ve had overwhelming requests to continue writing here. Readers are asking about what my life will be like now compared to what it was like before Riley became mortal. So this blog will continue.

The sequel to The Immortal Alcoholic’s Wife should be completed soon and will be available on Amazon just as my other books. Also, in the next couple of months, there will be a book available that takes me completely out of my comfort zone. It’s a sexy romance novel which is purely fictional. I’ll be posting updates on both the sequel and romance novel as information becomes available.

Riley’s aide once asked him, “How ya doin’?” His reply was “Fine as frog’s fur. Ever see fur on a frog? It’s pretty darn fine.” He really wasn’t doing fine because less than a week later he died. When people ask me how I’m doing, I’m tempted to give the blub about frog’s fur. I’m fine, but not really fine. I will be fine, eventually. I will rediscover life in a whole new light. I’m like a blind person who can now see and relishing all the new colors and scenery. I’ll be fine. Give me some time. I’ll be just as fine as frog’s fur.

Being fine means that eventually, I’ll stop waiting and listening for Riley to call me from his hospital bed. I’ll be able to wash the final load of sheets and blankets. I won’t wake up in the middle of the night just to see if he is still breathing. I won’t hesitate to take a shower because I don’t know if I can get out fast enough if he should need me. Being fine will require some patience which is not my strength.

I’m not without a plan. Those of you who have been reading my blog for a while know that I always have a plan and sometimes a back-up plan. Those plans usually turn out to be just general outlines for what I actually end up doing. So here’s my general outline for what’s coming up.

In the spring, I will be travelling across country. It will be a long slow trip with lots of stops at silly little tourist attractions – like the giant ball of stamps or twine. If anyone wants me to make a stop in their neighborhood as a meet and greet/lunch/whatever, I’m happy to arrange for that. If there are more than four people in a place, I can do a mini-seminar. I’ll have with me signed copies of all my books. Send an e-mail with “travel” in the subject line to immortalalcoholic@gmail.com so I can work my route to include your area.

My only other plan is to rest, clean house, re-create my office, and take care of my physical health. I’ll keep writing as long as you keep reading.

A mere mortal after all...

After weeks of fluctuating between screams for help and lapses into unresponsiveness, Riley went to sleep peacefully and never regained consciousness. The Immortal Alcoholic’s reign of immortality has come to a close.

Rest  in  Peace

RILEY

The Immortal Alcoholic

8/19/1939 – 9/27/2017

Born in Clinton, Iowa

Died in Newport News, Virginia

I won't forget the good times even though I can't forget the bad times.

I mourned the death of the man I married many years ago. Today just makes it official. -- Linda

I don't got this...

It’s been a full day out here in the country. Nurses come and go. The aide comes and goes. My daughter comes and goes. The pastor comes by and also the social worker. They go into Riley’s room and check on how he is doing. When each returns to the living room, I ask if he responded. They all have a negative response. Sometimes he opens his eyes just to a squint or a slit whichever you want to call it.

I can’t sleep in my bed because I want to know who is here and who has left. So I lay on the sofa and drift in and out. Several times during the day I’m told to rest. “Just rest. We got this.” They’ve got this. But I don’t “got” this. I flounder around the house and roam from room to room. I open and close the fridge. I’m not hungry. I wipe off the counter tops with bleach and then wipe them dry. One bread crumb and I grab my spray bottle.

Papers are strewn over the coffee table, end table and desktop. They are what needs to be sorted and organized for the Veterans Administration. I straighten them as I pass by, but then spread them out again. I have bits and pieces of my new novel in scraps of paper waiting to be entered into the manuscript. Post-a-notes keep me organized as to all the players in my imaginary world that’s coming to life inside my computer and is just about ready to give birth. Immortal Alcoholic’s Wife sequel is another stack of papers on the printer table. I don’t need any post-it to keep track of those characters.

I’ve been encouraged to video record Riley’s end of days. But, really, there is nothing to record. Unless of course I should have recorded his attempts to shove me out of the way and yell that I’m poisoning him. Maybe I should have recorded his attempts to block anyone from giving him the medication that keeps him calm. That was last night. Tonight is different.

Over the past two years, Riley has been bed bound. Each night when I would “tuck” him into bed and give him nighttime meds, he would say to me “I love you Linny.” Sometimes he would change it up and say “I care about you.” I would become irritated every time he said it because I knew he loved me because I was the only woman left standing out of many. He cared about me because I was the only one who kept the poop from clinging to his butt. I knew it. There was no profound revelation that I was the only woman who had ever loved him enough to take him back in when there was no love left. It was just that he had worn all the others out, driven them away, they were not inclined to put up with his tom-cat attitude.

Tonight there was no “I love you, Linny.” Tonight he lay in his bed and emits an awful death rattle. He breaths in very slowly and then stops as if he is holding his breath. But there is a gurgle in his throat. It sounds like he needs to cough it up. He isn’t conscious enough or strong enough to make the cough happen. I don’t miss the nighttime declaration. I won’t pretend to believe that he is sincere. I’ve fallen victim to that way too many times. Even on his death bed, I just don’t believe it.

When he is a bit more alert, he is hallucinating. I’m not Linda then. I’m his mother or his first wife. He proclaims his love for them. She cries out for Mother to please say the prayer with him. We have discovered that as part of his childhood bedtime routine was to say the Lord’s Prayer before going to bed. We oblige him and recite the prayer for him. It seems to calm him so that we can next his next dose of morphine into his mouth.

Our Father, who art in heaven,

hallowed be thy Name,

thy kingdom come,

thy will be done,

on earth as it is in heaven.

Give us this day our daily bread.

And forgive us our trespasses,

As we forgive those

Who trespass against us.

And lead us not into temptation,

But deliver us from evil.

For thine is the kingdom,

And the power, and the glory,

For ever and ever. Amen.

Goodnight.

His dying breath

I’m sitting here tonight at my computer wearing my little rosebud jammies (a Christmas gift from my grandkids last year), a scotch on the rocks (yes, you read right – a scotch), and a box of tissue. In the background my dog, Jade, emits as soft snore while sleeping on the coach which is forbidden to her. The other end of the forbidden coach is my cat, Benny, who is purring as he cleans up from the day. It’s peaceful here in my living room which is also my make-shift office.

A sip of the scotch reminds me of my early days with Riley when he always wanted a Johnnie Walker Gold on the rocks when he arrived home from work. On our meager budget, it was a splurge, but one that Riley insisted upon every night. He would only have one. That was before. That was before the drink became more important than his life or his family or his work or anything else.

Tonight I sip this scotch in honor of the life he left behind to pursue a career in drunkenness – in which he excelled. I can hear his shallow breathing as he lay in his bed not really sleeping but not really comatose either. There is no heavy snoring like there was during the days when we shared a bed. He is peaceful.

Maybe it’s the cocktail of Haldol and Morphine that has him in such a gentle state. A few hours earlier he was throwing his fists and threatening bodily harm to anyone who even showed an attempt to touch him. There was nothing quiet about him screaming obscenities at our pastor as we recited, at Riley’s request, the Lord’s Prayer.

Although his heart is beating and his lungs are working, there doesn’t seem to be anything behind his eyes. No brown eyes with twinklings of mischief or a tell-tale expression of some plot to be executed. His face is pale and yellowish, but not as a jaundiced person. It’s more like he hasn’t bathed or showered and the sweat has left a patina on his skin.

Everyone once in a while his muscles twitch in spasms. It looks like it would hurt, but he’s on so much morphine he probably couldn’t feel a jack hammer to his ribs if one were there. His arms and legs are cold to the touch. The hospice nurse tells me that it’s normal at this stage of his degeneration.

Everyone has left to go to their respective homes and beds. They’ll be back in the morning to help me get through another day. I’m alone waiting for Riley to die. When they are here there is nothing for me to do. I’m told to rest. But, I can’t. So I go to my FaceBook friends who have no idea what’s really going on at this house. I post little comments, stir up a little trouble, ask stupid questions, I occupy myself. The people closest to me in my life are not available. Carrot has lost her phone. Another friend is busy working and caring for her kids. A long-time friend isn’t speaking to me because of a very heated argument that took place a couple of days ago. None of them know and I won’t tell them or can’t tell them that I’m alone and listening to my husband die. I won’t tell them I need them because – I am a strong, confident, independent woman who doesn’t like wallowing. I have an image to uphold. I am my own worst enemy.

So let’s just talk a minute about Riley being my husband. If you are familiar with this blog you will know and understand that we have been estranged for a very long time. I am his wife, but not his lover. Yet, the memories of the good parts of our life together – and there really are some – come flashing back in full force. It could be because I’m in the middle of writing the sequel to the Immortal Alcoholic’s Wife. My writing self must channel Riley in order for me to write the book. I must also channel the Linda who was once a loving, faithful wife. It makes it difficult to sit here, drink a scotch, and listen to that slow, but steady, breathing.

Riley being on the edge of death is not a new experience. The family has sat vigil for him so many times that only a few pay attention when things go downhill. He is seemingly immortal. It’s like a big joke that he plays on anyone who cares about him. Like a boy who cries wolf. This time it’s different. This time we know he has developed sepsis. This time we can see that he is dying before our eyes. It’s unsettling.

There is nothing to be done. I will try to sleep in my bed, in my room, where I cannot hear what’s going on in Riley’s room. I have pills to help me sleep, but they probably shouldn’t be mixed with the scotch. The first thing I will do in the morning is check to see…

Outside the box

Since October 2010, I’ve been writing this blog offering support, explanation, resources and even a bit of humor. The blog has won awards and even led to participation in an HBO documentary. There has been heartbreak and heartache, frustration and accomplishment. From the e-mail I receive, it seems I have helped alcoholics as well as the people who love them. The journey has been satisfying and awakening. I’m happy with what this blog has accomplished.

My foundation has always been about creating positive change for the families and friends of alcoholics. I like to hear from readers that they love my blog but don’t “need” it anymore. Those are welcome words to my ears because it means that person was listening and learning. That person has come to a place where a life outside the chaos is a reality. It means I’ve been successful. Hallelujah!

Change is something I’ve written about many times. Everything changes. Nothing stays the same forever. That includes the Immortal Alcoholic Blog. Don’t panic! I’m not taking it down but I am going to be going in different directions. It won’t be going in just one direction; it may be many directions at one time. The entire scope has not been completely worked out in my head. But look for posts that are not alcohol related and you will see the change.

I have grown because of this blog. I have found my life outside the chaos and I like what I’ve found. It’s been good for me and the next seven years will be just as good. What can you expect?

Expect to see more guest posts. Expect to hear about current changes in my life. Expect to see information about books I’ve written and other books that I think are important for my followers. Continue to expect sharing of resources, support, and information.

Let’s get started…

Riley now has a full-time aide. Having her is awesome because he no longer calls for me every five minutes. When the aide is here, we behave as though I am not anywhere on the property. He becomes totally dependent on her and I’m free. This is the next best thing to having him in a nursing home.

Freedom – I am now leaving the house whenever I want. I go to the gym, library, historical society, and well… anywhere I want. I actually went to lunch with my daughter. Amazing! People are actually out and about during the day. I think I’d forgotten about that.

Outside my comfort zone is a wonderful world of new experiences. Like, writing a romance novel. I never in a million years thought I, a romance cynic, would write a book about love. But, I am and it’s working. It’s scary, but it’s working.

Speaking of being outside my comfort zone, I find that I’m starting to think of romance differently. Previously I never wanted another man in my life – ever. I was done with hearts and flowers, love letters and cards, and, anything else that would tie me to another man. Now, I’ve been presented with a new possibility that I had never dreamed would become anything worthwhile.

Let’s put it this way, I bought a razor to shave my legs… the hair on my legs hasn’t been in danger of termination for many years. Why bother? I usually wear long pants and who would care? Now that extra step in the shower of shaving my legs has become important to me again. Who knew that would ever happen? Not me! And guess what, I’m happy about not having hairy legs!

Change is inevitable. It’s going to happen no matter what, so why not sit back and enjoy what can be ahead. If the change is in a direction you don’t like, then change the direction. Detours are only detours and they usually are not permanent. So carve your own path and let the change begin!

Rock Bottom

The post below was written by a blogger who asked me to check out her blogsite. I found it to be exceptional. Please read the post below and then follow the link to her website.

The Bottom of the Bottle

Suggested pairing: Rock Bottom

2 ounces vodka

2 ounces tequila

2 ounces gin

⅓ ounce lemon juice

⅓ ounce lime juice

⅓ ounce pineapple juice

 Pour vodka, gin, lemon juice, lime juice and pineapple juice over ice.  Shake well until chilled and combined.  Strain into martini glass  Slowly pour in tequila.  Cheers, you’ve hit bottom.

Over the decade-plus that I’ve been, in one way or another, directly or inadvertently, coping with another’s alcoholism, I’ve heard the phrase “rock bottom” more times than I can count, and enough times to make me sick.  It’s come up in conversations with friends, disagreements with former family members, sessions with therapists, and sharings in Alanon meetings.  

Here’s what I’ve learned about rock bottom:

Rock bottom, as the Cambridge Dictionary defines it (and they seem to be a pretty credible source for words and shit) as an informal noun meaning the lowest possible level.  With regard specifically to alcoholism and addiction, the term rock bottom is often employed when an individual has devolved into a financial crisis, lost a job, destroyed a marriage, landed in jail, wrecked a vehicle, become violent, went cruisin’ for a bruisin’, rehabbed then relapsed, lost custody of a child or, in this case, all of the above.  Basically, it’s the type of place you’d never want to travel, the level of toxicity you wouldn’t wish on your enemy, and a sort of existence comparable to wearing a wool sweater over poison ivy while having to take a massive shit in an airplane bathroom surrounded by disgruntled flight attendants, wailing babies, passengers with significant body odor and, of course, snakes.

Rock bottom, as it is advertised in brochures and on television, is essentially a self-inflicted hell so deplorable that an individual vows never to return.  It’s brutal and pathetic and excruciating and shameful and lonely and bleak and endless. According to Google Maps, it lies at a proverbial fork at the end of a long road full of bumps and littered with denial and bullshit, where going left takes you to recovery and going right takes you to the mortuary.

Here’s what else I’ve learned about rock bottom:

Rock bottom is a myth.  

It’s a fantasy, a legend for alcoholics that is kept an arm’s length away, just close enough to intimidate and just far enough away to mediate.  It’s something that happens to dirtbags and losers and criminals, not high-functioning, upstanding, classy drunks who are “fine”.

Rock bottom is a unicorn, a false hope and a mirage for family members and loved ones.  It’s a broken promise that eventually things are going to get better, even after getting worse, and that someone they love will experience an imminent epiphany, miraculously turning their life around to be the walking ray of sober sunshine they were always destined to be.  It’s a futuristic event never present on the calendar, yet ever-present in the mind, that we wish for and pray for and cry for, but almost never arrives, because when it comes to a raging alcoholic, sometimes their bottle has a false bottom.

Rock bottom is bullshit.

Alcoholism, as I have come to understand it from my colorful experience in dealing with someone enveloped completely in its wrath, can become a perpetual cycle of destruction marked by big mistakes, bad behavior and bold-faced lies, all of which stem from a nearly impenetrable layer of denial, so thick that not friends nor family nor God himself are capable of breaking, because it is a one-sided mirror that people choose not to gaze into for fear of their own reflection, shatterproof from the outside-in but, from the inside-out, is able to cracked by choice and desperation and self-preservation, much like a fire extinguisher behind protective glass in the center of a massive blaze.  

Believe it or not, I have come to understand and somewhat sympathize with the plight of making a choice to surrender to this disorder, to accept responsibility and to begin the arduous process of recovery and rebuilding one’s life from the bottom up.  

When an existence has become so empty, so devoid of connection and meaning, it may seem too much and too late to change.  

But it isn’t.  Ever.

When bills have piled so high and expectations fallen so low, convictions become so frequent and meaningful relationships so rare, hope seems lost and only troubles can be found, it may seem like it isn’t even worth trying.

But it is.  Always.

To read the entire post go to: http://www.mehab.website/?p=281

Easier?

It’s been a very long road from the time I took Riley back in until today. He’s still alive. Hes still wants a drink or two or three or more. Things don’t change while they are changing. Nothing has gotten any easier along the way.

I thought I’d get used to all the drunken chaos, the household mess, the ridiculous rantings and demands. I thought I’d just ignore it and move along through my day. After all, he is my estranged husband and hadn’t really been a part of my life for more than 15 years. I can handle this, I thought. Everything would be OK.

As Riley became less “sick” and more drunk, things did not get better. I tried to ignore it. He was like that roommate that constantly drank all the milk or used up all the clean towels. He was like the child who refused to pick up after himself or clean his room. But, it was OK, I thought… he’d fall prey to his addiction soon and I’d have my house and life to myself again.

I kept my personal life personal and did not involve him in any decisions at all. I provided with him with what he needed and didn’t begrudge the money it cost. I maintained my previous friendships but seldom had them over to visit. I was starting to lose a grip on my social life.

Auto-pilot never kicked in gear. I got to a point when I realized I was simply “getting through” each day. Riley would get sick, go into hospice, and I’d think… “The end is near. I can have my life back.” I would make plans and reconnect with old friends.. and then… he would pull through to torment me another couple of years. Each near death encounter sent me deeper into the role of caregiver and less into the role of being myself. Finally, I had no idea who I really was. I had no identity of my own. I was just Riley’s caregiver.

Now, 9 years later, I still have times when I don’t know who I am. Thanks to the family and friends who have encouraged me to find my voice, I have managed to start this blog, write the books, collaborate with HBO on Risky Drinking, and tell it like it is. But, Linda is still someone I’m rediscovering outside the chaos. Linda is rediscovering who she is and what she wants. It’s a soul-searching task.

So, my anonymous friend, to answer your questions, I’m sorry to report that it never gets any easier. Your only saving grace is if you are able to hold on to who you really are so you don’t become lost through this process.

“Surviving the Chaos” was written with people like anonymous on my mind. It’s available on Amazon. Get it today for the low price of $10. Here’s the link:

https://www.amazon.com/s/ref=nb_sb_noss_2?url=search-alias%3Daps&field-keywords=Linda+Doyne%2C+Surviving+the+Chaos

COMING SOON! The sequel to “Immortal Alcoholic’s Wife.” In the sequel to my journey through the chaos, you will learn about Riley’s childhood and family dynamics. Discover his Navy adventure and how it played a big part in his inability to completely rehabilitate. This new book picks up where “Immortal Alcoholic’s Wife” left off. See how far we’ve come. Look for it on Amazon before Christmas.

In the meantime, refresh your memory by reading The Immortal Alcoholic’s Wife. Get your copy here:

https://www.amazon.com/Immortal-Alcoholics-Wife-1/dp/1502984083/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1502283459&sr=8-1&keywords=Linda+Doyne%2C+Immortal+Alcoholic%27s+Wife

A living hell...

I met Matt Paust way back in the 1980s when he was a reporter. Over the years, he has retired from the news biz and became an author of political satire novels. Matt has changed his direction to writing poetic rhetoric – poems of a sort. Sometimes when I read what he has written, his words strike a chord deep inside me. I feel he has found his words hidden away in some far corner of my heart or brain.

The poem I’m posting today is a man talking about a woman but it could easily go the opposite way. For me, it explains how I feel how my life has gone with Riley. I’m sure many of you will relate. However, it’s like anything else, you will either like it or not.

Seconds

By Matt Paust

You sit there, eyes on the floor where she just walked
hell, you think, that's what it is, hell
it's written on your face, you know, the hell
she's made your life a hell, a living hell
is what you're thinking

The charm you thought she meant for you alone
you found
more commonplace than you should know
her whimsy frightens you
you wrap your heart in wrath and hurl it back

Life with her has come to this
denied mistrust entwined with covert scorn
homicide at times worms through your thoughts, wriggles out fleeing
memories of fleeting seconds when true smiles
yours, hers, joined in fierce implacability

I'll be posting more from Matt in the days to come. Be sure to leave a comment and I will pass it on to him.

A Living Hell...

In my first book, The Immortal Alcoholic’s Wife, I strive to show the contrast between Riley, the loving husband and father, as opposed to Riley, the drunken bastard. Back in the day, I loved Riley. Maybe I still do, but I do not love what alcoholism has done to him, his attitudes, his morals, his and my life. Riley doesn’t make my life a living hell – alcoholism does. I don’t hate Riley. I hate alcoholism. I don’t hate my life. I hate how alcoholism has changed my life.

It’s sad that the end stages of Riley’s alcoholic life have destroyed so much in my life. It’s even sadder that I allowed it to happen. I did what most every wife does when faced with alcoholic chaos. I didn’t know any different and no one, or any group, really seemed to help me figure it all out. Now that I have it figured out, I wonder if it is too late. I’m praying that it is not.

Riley is back in hospice and, for about the tenth time, the family is waiting for the grim reaper to knock on his bedroom door – or maybe climb through the window – descend from the ceiling -- whatever. Actually, the only person waiting is me. No one believes he is really going to make an exit. After all, he IS the Immortal Alcoholic.

As I’m waiting, I’m having fantasies about how I will manage the new life that is just beyond my fingertips. I imagine a life that is not a living hell. I imagine being able to eat a whole meal without interruption or not being called when using the bathroom. My fantastical mind ramblings take me to France and a tasting tour through the countryside. And then I remember – he IS the Immortal Alcoholic.

I believe God is testing my patience. OK God! Even the SAT’s have a time limit!

Coming soon!!!

The Immortal Alcoholic's Wife -- Part 2, The Update

Stress is a killer

About ten years ago I had a heart attack brought on by stress. These are the steps I used to help myself heal:

1. I made a list of the things causing me stress.

2. Every time I got upset or angry over a specific situation, I wrote it down and included it in my list.

3. I examined each item on my list and categorized it as:

a) something that can be resolved via an action by me;

b) something over which I had no control;

c) something that time will resolve.

4. The items that were the things that could be resolved by taking action were categorized by the least stressing to the most stressing.

5.  I worked on resolving one issue at a time. I started with the one that required the littlest effort and went from there. This list is never-ending. There will always be something that gets added on with resolutions that require time, money or emotional expense.

6. The stresses over which I have no control, I pushed aside thinking I would come back to them after I had dealt with all the more pressing stuff.

7.  Resolutions which simply involved letting some time pass, were also pushed aside. Actually, I wrote them on a calendar as a reminder. When the calendar reminded me of the item, I would check to see if the issue had been resolved. If not, it went back on the calendar.

One of the biggest things I learned in my heart health recovery, is to take time for laughter. Find humor every chance you can. Laugh. No, I mean, LAUGH your butt off! Laugh at the backed-up traffic because it allows you some time to listen to great tunes while you’re waiting. Laugh at the price of a new car because you don’t really have to spend that much money. Laugh at political speeches because of the ridiculousness of statements being made Laugh at everything and anything. Every time you laugh, you physically release stress.

My basic personality is to fix things. People call on me to help them with their problems all the time, but really all I can do is listen, suggest and encourage. What I really want to do is take the responsibility from them and do what they should do themselves.

For example, a friend has a bestie with serious health problems. The bestie had some medical tests done and has received the results. The friend calls to check on her and wants to know the test results in order to provide the support the bestie needs. But, the bestie is dodging her calls and ignoring her texts. The friend is very concerned and desperately wants to help the bestie. She asks me what she should do. My response… get in your car, drive to her house and don’t stop knocking until she answers the door. You’ll have your answer when you see her face. That’s when you will know what to do.

What I really want to do is go to the bestie house myself and ask her what’s up. Tell her to get over herself and let others help. However… her illness is not my circus and her test results are not my monkeys. I cannot interfere with this relationship. They must figure it out on their own.

Figuring it out is the hardest part. Most of the time there are many optional answers to a situation. It’s difficult to discover which is the right one.

If you’re dealing with excess stress in your life, take control and resolve everything that you can. Stress will kill you as much as a speeding bullet. Cover your heart with a Superman cape and ricochet those bullets to oblivion. You’ll be happy you did.

Change is in the air

There’s a big change going on out here in Rileyville. Good changes are knocking at my front door. I was informed that I would have an aide for at least 30 hours a week and respite time. Evidently the Medicaid application was approved however I wasn’t notified until yesterday. Sounds like heaven to me! After eight years of taking care of Riley, I will finally turn him over to someone else and have some time to myself.

I have always said that in spite of what’s going on in my life, I am happy. Today I feel excited about having the opportunity to take my life back. I am happier today that I have been in a very long time.

This weekend I am moving my office upstairs where I will not be able to hear whatever is going on with Riley. I’ll get a baby monitor so I can talk to the aide but it will not be in Riley’s room. I’m anxious to see how this is all going to work out.

There’ve been a lot of changes in my life lately, but isn’t that how life is? Without change we cannot grow. I recently re-connected with a friend that I hadn’t talk to in nearly twenty years. She was surprised at certain things about me. I was once a sweet, quiet woman who always did as she was told. I was a follower. Now I’m a tell-it-like-it-is kinda gal. I’m open about my life, my needs, my outlook. I am certainly not quiet, in fact, sometimes people want me to shut up. I’m leading my pack and making things happen instead of waiting to see what’s going to happen.

Change is inevitable. We can count on it. Sometimes it’s good and other times it’s not so much. One thing is for sure, we must deal with it when it comes along.

Most of the time we won’t even know we are changing. One day we will just realize that something is different. Embrace it and know that even not-so-great changes can have their advantages. Seek out that advantage and make use of it.

If I had not had the major change in my life by taking Riley back in, I would not have started this blog, written my books, helped produce the HBO documentary. I would still be working in an office cubicle doing real estate title exams. Not that that would be a bad thing, but my life is more purposeful since starting this blog. Of course, I’ve had really awful experiences with Riley, but one of my changes is to not focus on those times. I need to let them go.

What I am saying to you is to stay positive in spite of chaos around you. How do you do that? You keep your own life in sight. The alcoholic is responsible for his/her life and you are responsible for yours. You only have enough room in your life for the things that are relevant to you personally. I love the line “Not my circus, not my monkeys.” Stick to your own circus and deal with keeping your own monkeys under control. Make this change in your life so that your life will change.

Fear Scale

Fear can be a good thing. It prevents us from putting our hands into an open flame. It makes us think twice before acting on something that may be dangerous. It’s that little voice in our head telling us to turn left or right or to not turn at all.

I believe there is a “fear scale”. At one end is the mild feeling of apprehension – like crossing a busy street. At the other end if full blown paranoia – like believing the boogey man is hiding in the closet. Too little fear can be just as dangerous as too much.

As the wife of an alcoholic, I can tell you that I have many fears that range all up and down the fear scale. Here is a sampling.

The fear that my husband will make a miraculous recovery and go back to drinking;

The fear that he will make the same recovery and not go back to drinking;

The fear that he will die a painful death;

The fear that he will never die;

The fear that I will die before him;

The fear that I will never have a sane, happy, loving man in my life;

The fear that I will have someone in my life that will become ill and I have to take care of him;

The fear that someone will come into my life and I will be the one who becomes sick;

The fear of living out the rest of my life alone;

The fear of trust;

The fear of not trusting;

The fear of losing myself by being what someone else wants;

The fear that I’m deceiving myself by thinking I really know who I am;

The fear of being unacceptable or not being accepted;

The fear that becoming accepted means I have to change;

The fear of not being heard;

The fear of being heard but misunderstood;

And the list can continue on and on…

What has worked for me is to take each fear as it rears its head and address it in the moment that it is happening. But, I’m a procrastinator so my timing is often way off which means I just plunge head first and worry about the consequences later.

I refuse to let all my fears rule my life. I have a fear of cutting myself when chopping vegetables, so should I never include vegetables in my recipes? No – I chop the damn vegetables and keep a box of bandages close at hand. I weigh my options. Is the fear of doing something greater than the fear of not doing something?

The point of this post is to suggest to you that you not let your fears stop you from fulfilling your dreams. Sort out your good fears from your bad fears, keep track of where they are on the fear scale and then live a full and complete life.

Life doesn't always mean living

For more than 20 years I longed to have my husband stop his alcohol abuse, but he never managed to find a way to love sobriety. Too many times the family gathered by his bedside and held a death watch expecting him to expire within minutes. He always survived.

In 2012 he had a major heart attack that would have stopped life for most normal people. But, then, he is not normal. After weeks of watching him go downhill, he finally started recovering. He made it through although his life would change greatly because he would not be able to obtain alcohol. Finally, I had my wish. I had a sober husband and I expected things to change for the better.

Be careful what you wish for. He was home and he was sober. He also had brain atrophy which left him with a form of dementia. He was able to walk, feed, dress and care for himself. He could not hold long conversations. Clearly, he was miserable with this new lifestyle. Still… I did not buy alcohol for him.

He has gone on a slow descent ever since his heart attack. Five years later, he is completely bedridden and dependent on me for every bit of care. I’m in control of everything in his life from what he eats to the changing of his underwear. The biggest decision he must make each day is what he is going to watch on TV. Although, he can no longer change the channels without assistance.

I have my husband. I have a person in my home who looks like my husband but there is no conversation, no laughter, no exchange of ideas, there’s just a fog of unhappiness. I got what I wanted – a sober husband – but this is not how I imagined it.

Riley’s life is empty. It is as though he is being held captive. I’m told he can live in this physical and mental state for many years. He longs to go to a bar and get wasted. He wants to drive even if he is drunk. He wants his old life back. The life that has him consuming a gallon of vodka a day and endangering others on the highway is the life he wants. He doesn’t long for a life with me or close family ties to his grandchildren. He doesn’t want to go on road trips or socializing with sober people. He wants to be drunk. He wants to die drunk.

The next time you are in the emergency room because your alcoholic is vomiting blood or some other such ailment, don’t be so quick to decline a DNR or hospice. Think about Riley and his self-imposed prison and my prison-term as his caregiver. Life at any cost is not always a life at all. 

How ya doin'

When I come upon someone I know, either by accident or design, the first thing I say after “hello” is “How are you?” I expect to hear back that the person is fine or that things have been rough. The conversation proceeds on from there. “How are you” feels like a natural segue into a deeper exchange.

Over the past eight years, I have been taking care of Riley and it has been a chore to say the least. My own physical and emotional health have gone downhill. There has been a host of people in and out of the house whose sole purpose was to help me with the care giving responsibilities and relieve some of the stress. Everyone who has helped has been awesome.

People who talk to me always start out the conversation with the phrase “How ya doin’?” I’m asked that question on the average of five times a day from well-meaning, concerned individuals. Riley asks the same question at least four times a day. It feels that everyone is always asking how I’m doing. It gets exhausting repeating the same answer over and over again. I try to keep it short – “I’m OK.”

How am I doing? Well, that fluctuates from hour to hour and even, sometimes, minute by minute. It depends on what and/or who I’m dealing with at the moment or what answer I’m waiting for each given day. There’s Medicaid, Veterans Administration, social workers, nurses, doctors, friends and family who are constantly asking questions and/or concerned for my well-being.

Decisions that need to be made bombard me daily. All the while, I must go to Riley when he calls me 4 or 5 times an hour. I must answer his questions on things that have no answers.

How am I doing? I’m frustrated, confused, tired, sick and I don’t want to explain the reasons behind the emotions every single day, over and over again. I’m not doing well. Can we just leave it at that?

Riley continues to s..l..o..w..l..y decline. His declining only creates more work for me.

I’m tired. I need a vacation where “how ya doin’” means “Can I get you a fresh ice tea?” Yes, a vacation would certainly help. Maybe a short cruise or a stay at a mountain resort. But, it will have to wait until Riley is gone and I won’t have to pay for a sitter for him.  Anyway… it doesn’t matter what I need… I’ll continue to be “doin’” the same way I’ve been doin’ for a long time now. It will get worse before it gets better.

Take two and if you live...

I recorded and saved the HBO documentary “Warning: This Drug May Kill You” which was directed by Perri Peltz who was one of the producers of Risky Drinking.  I wanted to watch it at a time when I would not encounter any interruptions by Riley or the telephone. I waited until after 10 p.m. when the house was quiet.

In the back of my mind I was thinking this film was just another warning not to do drugs. I’ve seen so many of these types of films on drugs and alcohol that I wasn’t really looking forward to seeing it. I thought… what can I learn from this film, probably nothing.  But, I couldn’t ignore a film directed by my friend, Perri Peltz. I was so very wrong to have doubted the film’s power. Within the first very scenes, I could feel my need for a box of tissues and a punching bag representing pharmaceutical companies.

Warning: This Drug May Kill You is a different approach to the drug epidemic our country currently faces. I didn’t understand that most people addicted to opioids became addicts through no fault of their own. It isn’t always someone using drugs for recreational purposes during parties or to be a part of the crowd. Instead it starts with a prescription from a doctor who wants to help the patient ease the pain after an accident or surgery. It was all so innocent in the beginning. The end is a completely different story.

The film contains four different story lines, with the same underlying theme:

A mother of three, Wynne was prescribed opioids after a painful C-section. Ex-husband Britt remembers that as she became addicted, “Doctors were just throwing pills at her [and] she became a totally different person.” In 2008, with Wynne in her tenth rehab facility, Britt filed for divorce. Though Wynne, who shared custody of her children, made an effort to be in their lives and appeared to be getting better, a bout with kidney stones found her leaving the hospital flush with pain meds. Her teen sons found her in bed the next morning, an overdose victim.

Teenager Brendan was prescribed opioids following surgery to remove a cyst; four years later, addiction claimed his life. His parents, Brian and Gail, had supported his efforts to get clean. Fresh out of rehab, however, Brendan overdosed, and was revived by Narcan – a drug that can reverse heroin overdose, but often leaves addicts more vulnerable. Unaware of the withdrawal symptoms he was facing, Brian and Gail were devastated to find their son collapsed in his bedroom, having overdosed again, this time fatally.

David and his wife, Judy, are still reeling a year after the loss of their daughter Georgia to an overdose. Her story is all too common: After suffering a back injury, Georgia was prescribed heavy painkillers, and soon graduated to heroin. On Thanksgiving, David found Georgia comatose in the living room, with a syringe nearby.

Suffering from kidney stones at age 16, Stephany was treated with Dilaudid, Oxycontin and Vicodin. She ended up sharing the pills with her older sister, Ashley, and when their supply was abruptly cut off, both turned to heroin. Stephany vowed to get clean after Ashley fatally overdosed, but the process has been difficult. With her mother’s support, Stephany enters “A Way Out,” a 30-day state-sponsored rehab program involving local police departments

I was proud to be a part of the production of Risky Drinking. Although there were some things I would have liked to have seen done differently. It was an excellent portrayal of the life of an alcoholic. In my opinion, Warning: This…, is a far superior film.

Warning: This Drug May Kill You is not about what life is like for an addict. It’s more about how the addict got to be an addict and what the family goes through trying to get help for the addict. It’s about the pharmaceutical companies feeding the pubic with false information – intentionally. It’s about the doctors who fail to monitor use of the drugs after they are no longer needed. It’s about US as a community who shake our heads in shame towards the one person who needs our support and understanding the most. It’s about the addict who lost the ability to say – “I’m not taking this prescription.” because they don’t understand how devastating it can be to them.

Thank You and Kudos to Perri Peltz, director, Sascha Weiss; producer, Larissa Bills; editor, Geof Bartz. For HBO; senior producer, Sara Bernstein; executive producer, Sheila Nevins for asking the hard questions. Thanks to all of you for being brave enough to take on this topic from the viewpoint expressed.

If I had been a part of Warning: This Drug May Kill You, I wouldn’t have wanted to change one thing.

The documentary will also be available on HBO ON DEMAND, HBO NOW, HBO GO and affiliate portals. Please watch with anyone you know who is taking pain medication so they may become informed.

http://www.hbo.com/documentaries/warning-this-drug-may-kill-you/synopsis/about.html