may be homely, and perhaps even a little stunted, but at least I don't have to worry about the cops bringing them home at 3 am.
Monday, May 19, 2008
My Kids...
may be homely, and perhaps even a little stunted, but at least I don't have to worry about the cops bringing them home at 3 am.
Thursday, May 15, 2008
Bummer About Your Stroke
So I’m standing under the fluorescent lights in the “greeting card” aisle at the drugstore, and I know I’m not going to find anything even remotely close to what I need: “Sorry to Hear About Your Alcoholism-Induced Stroke.” I find myself humming along to John Denver on the Muzak™ as I scan the standard categories for ideas, trying to imagine creative ways to shoehorn my grief and frustration between the Hallmark sentiments:
Miss You. Well, not really. When I see your name on my caller ID at 3 am, I know you’ve miscalculated the time-zone difference. Again.
Get Well. Not likely.
Cope. Getting warmer, though these cards usually imply the death of a family member, a friend, or a pet.
Encouragement. This will have to do. I choose a card with an earnest Maya Angelou inscription suggesting there may be hope in your future yet.
Nearly 30 years have passed since I met R. at a keg party. He was my college soul-mate, a port in the storm, a non-judgmental rock I could lean on. At least that’s what I thought back then; in fact, R. was the only person I’ve ever known who could match me drink for drink. Consuming large quantities of beer and Jack Daniels (or vodka, scotch, or whatever was available) wasn’t a diversion, it was our vocation, and something we practiced every single day with gusto. Naturally we became friends despite having few common interests outside of intoxication.
After graduation, years passed and we lost track of each other. My drinking got exponentially worse. When I was 29, I dreamt that God was sitting on my chest, trying to suffocate me since I seemed determined to kill myself anyway. I quit drinking soon after that. Years passed and I stayed sober, got divorced, came out of the closet, and left high tech. I met a nice girl and settled down to a comfortable, middle-class life.
Two years ago at Christmas, I decided to contact R., figuring he had to either be sober or dead, his skinny frame surely incapable of withstanding two decades of unremitting alcoholism. To my surprise, he was neither sober nor dead. I told him about Lori, my landscape design business, and the book I was writing. R. told me he had no family or friends left, despite living in the city where we attended college and where he’d lived his entire life. He couldn’t exactly remember, but he’d been in and out of rehab at least seven times. After we hung up the phone, I knew in my gut that R. was describing the life I might have had. We were no different in our alcoholism with the exception of that “moment of clarity” when God tried to kill me.
Two months ago, the phone rings with an unfamiliar area code on the caller ID. My friend R. says hello and makes chitchat before blurting out, “I had a major stroke.” His roommate found him unconscious on the couch and called an ambulance. After the hospital, R. was placed in a nursing home for long-term care and physical therapy, where he’s now a ward of the state and living in a wheelchair. He is 47 years old, the same age as me.
Don’t ask me to explain why one alcoholic gets sober and another doesn’t. “Sobriety” feels so random and unpredictable and has absolutely nothing to do with merit or potential. I do think it helps if an alcoholic can imagine himself in better place without the alcohol. Maybe R. calls me because I represent a different way of life, or maybe I’m just someone who still gives a damn. Before our phone call ended, I gently asked R. if he thought his drinking had anything to do with his stroke. He replied, “Actually, no! It was the weirdest thing: after the ambulance came, they discovered a bottle of vodka in the freezer. I hadn’t even opened it yet.”
I waited a few days before I mailed the card. I wanted to send an inspirational and funny message; instead, I wrote, “You’re a schmuck. Get help. I love you.” I’m not sure Maya Angelou would approve, but until Hallmark comes out with a Bummer About Your Alcoholism line of cards, this will have to do.
Miss You. Well, not really. When I see your name on my caller ID at 3 am, I know you’ve miscalculated the time-zone difference. Again.
Get Well. Not likely.
Cope. Getting warmer, though these cards usually imply the death of a family member, a friend, or a pet.
Encouragement. This will have to do. I choose a card with an earnest Maya Angelou inscription suggesting there may be hope in your future yet.
Nearly 30 years have passed since I met R. at a keg party. He was my college soul-mate, a port in the storm, a non-judgmental rock I could lean on. At least that’s what I thought back then; in fact, R. was the only person I’ve ever known who could match me drink for drink. Consuming large quantities of beer and Jack Daniels (or vodka, scotch, or whatever was available) wasn’t a diversion, it was our vocation, and something we practiced every single day with gusto. Naturally we became friends despite having few common interests outside of intoxication.
After graduation, years passed and we lost track of each other. My drinking got exponentially worse. When I was 29, I dreamt that God was sitting on my chest, trying to suffocate me since I seemed determined to kill myself anyway. I quit drinking soon after that. Years passed and I stayed sober, got divorced, came out of the closet, and left high tech. I met a nice girl and settled down to a comfortable, middle-class life.
Two years ago at Christmas, I decided to contact R., figuring he had to either be sober or dead, his skinny frame surely incapable of withstanding two decades of unremitting alcoholism. To my surprise, he was neither sober nor dead. I told him about Lori, my landscape design business, and the book I was writing. R. told me he had no family or friends left, despite living in the city where we attended college and where he’d lived his entire life. He couldn’t exactly remember, but he’d been in and out of rehab at least seven times. After we hung up the phone, I knew in my gut that R. was describing the life I might have had. We were no different in our alcoholism with the exception of that “moment of clarity” when God tried to kill me.
Two months ago, the phone rings with an unfamiliar area code on the caller ID. My friend R. says hello and makes chitchat before blurting out, “I had a major stroke.” His roommate found him unconscious on the couch and called an ambulance. After the hospital, R. was placed in a nursing home for long-term care and physical therapy, where he’s now a ward of the state and living in a wheelchair. He is 47 years old, the same age as me.
Don’t ask me to explain why one alcoholic gets sober and another doesn’t. “Sobriety” feels so random and unpredictable and has absolutely nothing to do with merit or potential. I do think it helps if an alcoholic can imagine himself in better place without the alcohol. Maybe R. calls me because I represent a different way of life, or maybe I’m just someone who still gives a damn. Before our phone call ended, I gently asked R. if he thought his drinking had anything to do with his stroke. He replied, “Actually, no! It was the weirdest thing: after the ambulance came, they discovered a bottle of vodka in the freezer. I hadn’t even opened it yet.”
I waited a few days before I mailed the card. I wanted to send an inspirational and funny message; instead, I wrote, “You’re a schmuck. Get help. I love you.” I’m not sure Maya Angelou would approve, but until Hallmark comes out with a Bummer About Your Alcoholism line of cards, this will have to do.
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