It doesn't seem possible, but half a year has passed since Robin died, and I nearly joined her in the great beyond. The group rehab at Inova is a distant memory, and I suppose that process deserves at least some credit for my continuing sobriety. I can still honestly say (and honesty is not something that comes naturally to a drunk) that I can still walk past a liquor store -- as I must in order to refill my prescriptions at the pharmacy next door -- or the beer aisle at the supermarket without a pang of temptation. But then I remember the alcoholics in rehab who went years, a decade or more, before relapsing. Six months then doesn't seem so long at all.
No, I never did go back to AA, or Smart. As I've probably said already, the former was too much, the latter was not enough. As long as I have a neuropsych, Dr. Lebedun, whom I see at least once a week, I feel my bases are covered, so to speak. Besides, I'm not likely to forget the horror of the emergency room, not in six months, six years, or ever.
This is the biggest problem with writing a blog about yourself. Writing about, or talking about, myself has never been my favorite thing to do. Not as a little kid, not as a teenager, not as an adult. Some folks never tire of it, though they're usually the only ones listening after a while. There are exceptions, of course. But unless you've led a very exciting life are your self-involved tales likely to be worth hearing. And even then, the teller of the tale must have a talent for it. I do have a talent for writing, not talking, and not about myself, even though I have had some interesting experiences. Maybe I will share a few of them. But not tonight, as it is late.
Wednesday, October 31, 2012
Friday, September 14, 2012
It's Official -- I suck at blogging.
I don't know exactly what I set out to do with this blog. Whether it was to be read, or to be a journal purely for my own use, I can't even recall now. But suffice it to say, it didn't work out. The post count alone should attest to my utter failure as a blogger.
I really did set out to keep regular, if not daily, appointments here, with the commencement of my rehab at Inova CATS. And that, I'm happy to report, has been successful, inasmuch as I haven't had a drink, or even been tempted to drink, in over five months now. I have occasionally dipped into my morphine supply, but Peggy tells me that was not the reason I went into renal failure: it was the combination of alcohol and naproxen; my morphine levels were within therapeutic levels upon my admission to the ER, and the fact that I still had an unfilled prescription in my backpack was a sign that I wasn't abusing the drug.
My last day at IOP was the first week of June. Pat, the facilitator handed me my chip -- a tradition borrowed from AA -- and credited me for my "honesty" (I wasn't shy about calling out perceived contradictions in the program, which I have commented on before). Afterwards, she said I wasn't a good candidate for the followup "relapse awareness" program, which I wasn't interested in anyway, since I hadn't fulfilled the requisite AA portion of the IOP program. But because I continue to see a neuropsychologist and attend a TBI support group, we agreed that I have a good plan in place. I do wonder if they'll keep the lights on.
Back to this blogging business. My first few posts were very long, which I suppose reflected my desire to get my thoughts and feelings out of my system. Once I started attending the rehab group, I had another outlet, thus the need to commit my thoughts here was superfluous. I haven't gone back to read those early posts in a long time, and doubt I will again. I know many people keep journals for this reason; I never have, and find it somewhat unnatural to do so now, so late in life. It seems forced. It's not as though I expect, or even want, anyone else to read my ramblings, nor do I expect to in the future. Even now, typing this, seems like an exercise in self-coaching, trying to psych myself up to do something I'd otherwise be disinclined to do, but that I should do, for some reason.
It's not as though I have anything better to do, is it?
I really did set out to keep regular, if not daily, appointments here, with the commencement of my rehab at Inova CATS. And that, I'm happy to report, has been successful, inasmuch as I haven't had a drink, or even been tempted to drink, in over five months now. I have occasionally dipped into my morphine supply, but Peggy tells me that was not the reason I went into renal failure: it was the combination of alcohol and naproxen; my morphine levels were within therapeutic levels upon my admission to the ER, and the fact that I still had an unfilled prescription in my backpack was a sign that I wasn't abusing the drug.
My last day at IOP was the first week of June. Pat, the facilitator handed me my chip -- a tradition borrowed from AA -- and credited me for my "honesty" (I wasn't shy about calling out perceived contradictions in the program, which I have commented on before). Afterwards, she said I wasn't a good candidate for the followup "relapse awareness" program, which I wasn't interested in anyway, since I hadn't fulfilled the requisite AA portion of the IOP program. But because I continue to see a neuropsychologist and attend a TBI support group, we agreed that I have a good plan in place. I do wonder if they'll keep the lights on.
Back to this blogging business. My first few posts were very long, which I suppose reflected my desire to get my thoughts and feelings out of my system. Once I started attending the rehab group, I had another outlet, thus the need to commit my thoughts here was superfluous. I haven't gone back to read those early posts in a long time, and doubt I will again. I know many people keep journals for this reason; I never have, and find it somewhat unnatural to do so now, so late in life. It seems forced. It's not as though I expect, or even want, anyone else to read my ramblings, nor do I expect to in the future. Even now, typing this, seems like an exercise in self-coaching, trying to psych myself up to do something I'd otherwise be disinclined to do, but that I should do, for some reason.
It's not as though I have anything better to do, is it?
Thursday, July 12, 2012
Graduation night (not quite mine)
This evening I attended one of CATS' periodic graduation ceremonies, honoring a couple dozen people who've completed the program. Each group coordinator took the podium to proudly call the name of each graduate, with a few (or more than a few) choice words of encouragement; the graduate was given a certificate of some kind, then spoke some words of thanks to the coordinator and the CATS program. There was also a lengthy but spirited speech from a woman who'd been through the program a few years ago and, not surprisingly, attributed her very existence to CATS.
As these affairs are wont to do, the ceremony went on a bit too long, especially since a buffet of lasagna and cake (supplied by CATS alumni) beckoned. And in fact I decided to forego the repast since it promised to be a loud and chaotic affair, with people I mostly didn't know. It did get me to thinking though. This was my penultimate meeting with the intensive outpatient group -- Friday will be my last day -- and I suppose I'll be asked to come back to participate in this ceremony myself soon.
Will I attend? If I do, what will I say? Do I give the entire spiel about the brain injury, the sleeping problems, Robin's funeral? I can just see the people glancing at their watches, waiting for this guy to finish so they can get at their lasagna dinners.
---------------------------------
POSTSCRIPT: 1-15-14
I was never invited. I am not particularly surprised since, as Pat told me upon my departure later that week, I was not exactly the model patient. I didn't attend but one AA meeting my entire time there, and was pretty skeptical of the spiritual approach toward drug and alcohol recovery she took. And, frankly, I doubt I would've attended even if I had been invited. It was a pretty dull affair, I hate speaking in public, and the lasagna didn't look that great anyway.
As these affairs are wont to do, the ceremony went on a bit too long, especially since a buffet of lasagna and cake (supplied by CATS alumni) beckoned. And in fact I decided to forego the repast since it promised to be a loud and chaotic affair, with people I mostly didn't know. It did get me to thinking though. This was my penultimate meeting with the intensive outpatient group -- Friday will be my last day -- and I suppose I'll be asked to come back to participate in this ceremony myself soon.
Will I attend? If I do, what will I say? Do I give the entire spiel about the brain injury, the sleeping problems, Robin's funeral? I can just see the people glancing at their watches, waiting for this guy to finish so they can get at their lasagna dinners.
---------------------------------
POSTSCRIPT: 1-15-14
I was never invited. I am not particularly surprised since, as Pat told me upon my departure later that week, I was not exactly the model patient. I didn't attend but one AA meeting my entire time there, and was pretty skeptical of the spiritual approach toward drug and alcohol recovery she took. And, frankly, I doubt I would've attended even if I had been invited. It was a pretty dull affair, I hate speaking in public, and the lasagna didn't look that great anyway.
Saturday, July 7, 2012
Papo Rapozo
The other night I had another dream, this time of an opera I was watching. The title, or the main character, or both, seems to have been "Papo Rapozo," as this phrase was sung repeatedly in the dream. To thunderous applause, mine included, although I can't recall a single thing about the dream aside from this.
I checked, and there does not exist any opera, or song title, or anything of significance, named "Papo Rapozo." Nor do I know, or ever known, anybody with either name. Dreams are funny that way, especially for me since I hardly ever have them.
I checked, and there does not exist any opera, or song title, or anything of significance, named "Papo Rapozo." Nor do I know, or ever known, anybody with either name. Dreams are funny that way, especially for me since I hardly ever have them.
Monday, June 4, 2012
Battery drain
I am typing on a Toshiba laptop, given to me by my father, who didn't like the keyboard. Frankly, I think he just wanted me to email him more often, which I don't do as much as I should.
At first, the lappie kept its charge for a good long while, at least an hour or longer. Now, however, I'm lucky if I get half that before I notice the battery icon reaching the critical level. It's hard not to draw the parallel with my own condition. Before my accident, my battery was one robust bastard. I could work a full day, come home, play with my kids, put them to bed, and still have plenty of energy for the few hours till bedtime.
Now, my battery is on low almost all the time. Due to my disrupted sleep pattern, my brain doesn't get the required time to "recharge", so I move through the day in a sort of daze. At one point, almost a decade ago now, when I was high doses of narcotics, I would fall asleep at socially inappropriate moments, such as holiday gatherings, to the immense embarrassment of myself and others. Although this no longer happens, I am still prone to doze off for short periods; these do not result in any kind of rejuvenation, unfortunately.
I am hoping that my upcoming sleep study (scheduled for July) will result in some sort of solution to this longstanding problem.
At first, the lappie kept its charge for a good long while, at least an hour or longer. Now, however, I'm lucky if I get half that before I notice the battery icon reaching the critical level. It's hard not to draw the parallel with my own condition. Before my accident, my battery was one robust bastard. I could work a full day, come home, play with my kids, put them to bed, and still have plenty of energy for the few hours till bedtime.
Now, my battery is on low almost all the time. Due to my disrupted sleep pattern, my brain doesn't get the required time to "recharge", so I move through the day in a sort of daze. At one point, almost a decade ago now, when I was high doses of narcotics, I would fall asleep at socially inappropriate moments, such as holiday gatherings, to the immense embarrassment of myself and others. Although this no longer happens, I am still prone to doze off for short periods; these do not result in any kind of rejuvenation, unfortunately.
I am hoping that my upcoming sleep study (scheduled for July) will result in some sort of solution to this longstanding problem.
Wednesday, May 23, 2012
Halfway to what
Friday, two days from now, I will reach the halfway point of IOP. Five weeks down, five to go. Part of me can't wait for it to be over -- driving to Merrifield at rush hour is no fun at all, and certain aspects of Pat's method aren't exactly suited to me. Last night, for example, the topic was "Spirituality" (always in caps), how we define it, and Higher Power, and what it means to us and our recovery, etc. I had to be honest and say it meant very little to me, and that I was fine with that. Science, I said, is my Higher Power, and when a doctor tells me that if I go down this road again I won't come back, that means more to me than any sermon. Pat seems to appreciate my honesty on topics like this; still, it's a bit tiresome.
On the other hand, going to these meetings gives me something to do, and I must admit I have come to look forward to seeing people, regardless of the setting. I imagine I will eventually make it to the Monday-night SMART group, and even hit the Unity Club again for AA once IOP ends, just for something to do.
Tonight we were engaged in the de rigeur "awareness exercise" when a lightning storm struck. Whatever beneficial effects I may have gotten from it were instantly obliterated by the headache that lasted the rest of the night. I have mentioned my brain injury only sparingly in the group, since that's incidental to my presence there. Besides, I really don't like discussing it very much.
On the other hand, going to these meetings gives me something to do, and I must admit I have come to look forward to seeing people, regardless of the setting. I imagine I will eventually make it to the Monday-night SMART group, and even hit the Unity Club again for AA once IOP ends, just for something to do.
Tonight we were engaged in the de rigeur "awareness exercise" when a lightning storm struck. Whatever beneficial effects I may have gotten from it were instantly obliterated by the headache that lasted the rest of the night. I have mentioned my brain injury only sparingly in the group, since that's incidental to my presence there. Besides, I really don't like discussing it very much.
Sunday, May 20, 2012
Rehab group so far
Yesterday marked the end of my 4th week of Intensive Outpatient rehab, meaning I'm a week from the midway point. This consists of attending a group counseling session three times weekly for three hours, during which we may be given Breathalyzer and/or drug screens (urine tests). By the end of Week 2, I was already fourth in seniority; two guys successfully completed the 10-week program while several others, whom I never met, left for reasons which Patricia, the "facilitator," did not specify. Every week a new person, almost always male, joins the group, which now numbers 10 or 11.
When I began only one other guy, Brad, was there for opiates -- the rest were alcoholics. Now the balance is roughly 50-50. I am a "switch hitter" in that I was both drinking and drugging, and a couple others say they probably fall into that category as well. One guy, Brian, is a former heroin user who lately began snorting Ritalin to such a degree that he is now living in a home for recovering addicts. He has a wife and four small children. Another, Greg, became hooked on Oxycontin (also Brad's drug of choice), although unlike Brad he evidently came upon the pills legally. Last week came Tommy, a life-long junkie, and just this week the first girl, whose name escapes me at the moment, joined us. She too is there for opiates.
A few new alcoholics have joined too, both on their second attempt at sobriety. The first, whose name I also forget, had seven years' good behavior, was "working the steps" in AA, and was even sponsoring a few people. But he hurt himself while training for a marathon, and rather than get the injury treated decided to "let nature take its course" by letting the body heal itself. Unfortunately, nature in his case also included drinking. And only yesterday did we meet Doug -- like most first-timers he didn't share much of his story, other than to say this was his second time around.
Relapse is never far from the surface at these meetings. Toward the end of one session, during which the AA guy told about his fall from grace, Brian was noticeably agitated. "I really didn't like today," he said, "hearing stories about people relapsing scares me." It didn't exactly help that he had downed about four caffiene-laden energy drinks that afternoon. Still, he wasn't the only one in the room wondering if the same fate awaited us: confident former hopheads heading blithely into a minefield of our own making, doomed to reconvene in a room like this, a few years from now.
When I began only one other guy, Brad, was there for opiates -- the rest were alcoholics. Now the balance is roughly 50-50. I am a "switch hitter" in that I was both drinking and drugging, and a couple others say they probably fall into that category as well. One guy, Brian, is a former heroin user who lately began snorting Ritalin to such a degree that he is now living in a home for recovering addicts. He has a wife and four small children. Another, Greg, became hooked on Oxycontin (also Brad's drug of choice), although unlike Brad he evidently came upon the pills legally. Last week came Tommy, a life-long junkie, and just this week the first girl, whose name escapes me at the moment, joined us. She too is there for opiates.
A few new alcoholics have joined too, both on their second attempt at sobriety. The first, whose name I also forget, had seven years' good behavior, was "working the steps" in AA, and was even sponsoring a few people. But he hurt himself while training for a marathon, and rather than get the injury treated decided to "let nature take its course" by letting the body heal itself. Unfortunately, nature in his case also included drinking. And only yesterday did we meet Doug -- like most first-timers he didn't share much of his story, other than to say this was his second time around.
Relapse is never far from the surface at these meetings. Toward the end of one session, during which the AA guy told about his fall from grace, Brian was noticeably agitated. "I really didn't like today," he said, "hearing stories about people relapsing scares me." It didn't exactly help that he had downed about four caffiene-laden energy drinks that afternoon. Still, he wasn't the only one in the room wondering if the same fate awaited us: confident former hopheads heading blithely into a minefield of our own making, doomed to reconvene in a room like this, a few years from now.
Tuesday, May 15, 2012
The Addict Mind
Been awhile since I wrote anything here. I have not attended another AA meeting, not that I was particularly turned off by the one I attended, I just don't have much time and between brain injury group and rehab group I am kinda grouped out. I do want to attend a SMART meeting (a sort of secular form of AA), but the only meet on Monday night, and the past two Mondays I've been too tired to go. It will happen, maybe next week.
Some good news and some bad news on the whole rehab thing. The good news: While cleaning out my endtable this weekend I happened upon an old bottle of morphine. I was really hurting, as I have been ever since leaving the hospital, so a brief bit of pain relief would have been welcome. But the consequences would have been substantial: not only the guilt associated with failure, but the prospect of being kicked out of the rehab program at Fairfax Hospital. I shared the incident with the IOP group tonight; the substitute facilitator (Patricia was out sick) said a failed urine test would probably have resulted in me being sent to the 4-day program, meaning inpatient care, screwing up my schedule with Marielle, not to mention higher cost, etc. All for a pill that probably wouldn't have done much for my pain anyway.
The bad news: I yielded to temptation and bought a pack of cigarettes yesterday, rationalizing that smoking helps with my headaches. They do to some extent, but the real reason, I suspect, is that smoking is substituting for more immediately harmful addictive behaviors. I really don't know. I didn't really have the kind of craving for opiates that the addicts in my rehab group describe. Nor for that matter did it even occur to me to stop by the liquor store, which is right next to the pharmacy where I picked up a prescription (and the pack of smokes).
I have smoked on and off for about 30 years, mostly off. The first time I was 20, and it was almost divine intervention. I was working construction one summer in Richmond, Va., an environment where the "smoke break" is practically mandated. Plus, my roommate at the time, and Indian named Pradeep, had a friend working at Phillip Morris, then as now one of the largest tobacco companies in the world. As a weekly perq, PM gave every employee a carton of cigarettes whether they smoked or not. Pradeep's friend did not, so he gave the carton to us. Soon we were drowning in Merit 100s! Whether by force of will, or by lack of free cigs, I gradually quit the habit after leaving Richmond, although looking back I don't think I quit altogether for several years. In any case, I was not a pack-a-day type.
Most recently, around 2006, I found a pack of Marlboro Lights in my daughter Krista's room. For some stupid reason, I thought it would be interesting to see what it felt like to have a cigarette again, even though by that time I hadn't smoked a cigarette for at least a decade. Stupid decision. Still, it did seem to make my headaches more bearable. I began to smoke maybe 8 to 10 cigarettes a day within a few months, and continued until about 6 months ago. That's when I began to notice a burning sensation in my throat, which I feared was cancer ... or something. I quit cold turkey and went to my doctor who told me it was probably acid reflux (I didn't tell him I had smoked, like the genius I am), and he told me to take Previcid. The problem went gradually went away. As I had done a number of times by that point, I stopped smoking, on the assumption that this would be it.
For now I will focus on the positive. I haven't had any interest in drinking since crashing and burning last month, and I'm pretty sure I never was truly addicted to pain killers in the first place. But hearing the alcoholics in my rehab group talk about relapsing after many years of sobriety, I know better than to get cocky about this kind of thing. One month is nothing. I went five years without drinking after my accident, and look what happened.
Some good news and some bad news on the whole rehab thing. The good news: While cleaning out my endtable this weekend I happened upon an old bottle of morphine. I was really hurting, as I have been ever since leaving the hospital, so a brief bit of pain relief would have been welcome. But the consequences would have been substantial: not only the guilt associated with failure, but the prospect of being kicked out of the rehab program at Fairfax Hospital. I shared the incident with the IOP group tonight; the substitute facilitator (Patricia was out sick) said a failed urine test would probably have resulted in me being sent to the 4-day program, meaning inpatient care, screwing up my schedule with Marielle, not to mention higher cost, etc. All for a pill that probably wouldn't have done much for my pain anyway.
The bad news: I yielded to temptation and bought a pack of cigarettes yesterday, rationalizing that smoking helps with my headaches. They do to some extent, but the real reason, I suspect, is that smoking is substituting for more immediately harmful addictive behaviors. I really don't know. I didn't really have the kind of craving for opiates that the addicts in my rehab group describe. Nor for that matter did it even occur to me to stop by the liquor store, which is right next to the pharmacy where I picked up a prescription (and the pack of smokes).
I have smoked on and off for about 30 years, mostly off. The first time I was 20, and it was almost divine intervention. I was working construction one summer in Richmond, Va., an environment where the "smoke break" is practically mandated. Plus, my roommate at the time, and Indian named Pradeep, had a friend working at Phillip Morris, then as now one of the largest tobacco companies in the world. As a weekly perq, PM gave every employee a carton of cigarettes whether they smoked or not. Pradeep's friend did not, so he gave the carton to us. Soon we were drowning in Merit 100s! Whether by force of will, or by lack of free cigs, I gradually quit the habit after leaving Richmond, although looking back I don't think I quit altogether for several years. In any case, I was not a pack-a-day type.
Most recently, around 2006, I found a pack of Marlboro Lights in my daughter Krista's room. For some stupid reason, I thought it would be interesting to see what it felt like to have a cigarette again, even though by that time I hadn't smoked a cigarette for at least a decade. Stupid decision. Still, it did seem to make my headaches more bearable. I began to smoke maybe 8 to 10 cigarettes a day within a few months, and continued until about 6 months ago. That's when I began to notice a burning sensation in my throat, which I feared was cancer ... or something. I quit cold turkey and went to my doctor who told me it was probably acid reflux (I didn't tell him I had smoked, like the genius I am), and he told me to take Previcid. The problem went gradually went away. As I had done a number of times by that point, I stopped smoking, on the assumption that this would be it.
For now I will focus on the positive. I haven't had any interest in drinking since crashing and burning last month, and I'm pretty sure I never was truly addicted to pain killers in the first place. But hearing the alcoholics in my rehab group talk about relapsing after many years of sobriety, I know better than to get cocky about this kind of thing. One month is nothing. I went five years without drinking after my accident, and look what happened.
Thursday, May 3, 2012
So many groups ...
In addition to the TBI group I've attended for the past dozen years or so, I am now obliged to attend Intensive Outpatient (IOP) group therapy meetings, which are held 3 times a week, 3 hours per meeting, over 10 weeks. As if that weren't enough, in response to some not-so-subtle prompting from the IOP group "facilitator," Pat, I sucked it up a few days ago and went to an Alcoholics Anonymous meeting.
I've been resisting this, not because I don't think it helps alcoholics (it certainly does), or that I'm not an alcoholic (I probably am), but because of the evangelical nature of the literature I've seen. I spent most of my childhood getting God shoved down my throat; I no desire for any further administrations of a deity I don't believe in. Nevertheless, I can't really knock something I haven't actually tried, so it's off to the Unity Club, a sort of multipurpose rehab facility in Falls Church, for the AA Beginners' Group.
I get there a few minutes before 7 pm. The small booklet Pat gave me doesn't say which room the Beginners' Group is to be held, so I consult a bulletin board at the top of the stairs. The group is in R1 ... wherever that is. So I walk into a large banquet hall and ask a lady if this is R1, and she nods her head. I take a seat near the back and wait for the meeting to begin, whatever that entails. At a large square table in the middle of the room a 60-ish man clears his throat. "Hi, I'm Mike and I'm an alcoholic." "Hi Mike," reply the 20 or so people seated in metal chairs on either side of the table, with one row against the back wall. Mike speaks in an Irish brogue that is instantly compelling and disarming -- he grew up in County Claire and took to drink there before coming to the United States as a young man -- but his story is pretty horrifying. Lost his job, lost his friends, lost his family, all to booze. Finally, after many years of trying to straighten out his act, Mike came across a former lush who recommended AA. That was over 20 years ago, he says, and he still can't say he won't go back to drinking, which is why he keeps coming to these meetings.
After Mike is finished, everyone in the room says something, but I don't catch what it is. Then it's time for Jim, a smaller man about the same age, begins to speak. His tale is, if anything, even more lurid than Mike's. Practically any mind-altering chemical known to mankind Jim has ingested, injected, snorted, inhaled or swallowed since he was a teenager. Numerous relapses, incarcerations and marriages later, Jim is another AA success story. Clean and sober for a decade, he, like Mike, keeps coming back to remind himself that no alcoholic or junkie is ever truly cured.
"Thank you for sharing." That's what the people are saying after Jim's tale of woe, just as they said after Mike's. One mystery solved. Now here's another: right after one alcoholic finishes his/her spiel, the next pipes up, as if the whole thing were choreographed. Did they decide on the speakers ahead of time? Do AA members share a Hive Mind? In any case, the stories are growing familiar (job, friends, family), with variations in drink of choice and number of relapses. I can see how these stories provide what psychologist term "validation" for the other members, but they don't really apply to me. I didn't lose my job over alcohol (I was already on disability). I was never drunk in front of my family; my wife didn't even know I drank. As for friends, they gradually fell away in the years following my auto accident, so I can't blame that on drugs or alcohol either.
Chips are a big deal with AA it seems. A 30-something woman whose name I failed to note rises from her seat at the center table with Mike and Jim and asks who in the room has completed a month of sobriety. A guy in the front row in front of me raises his hand, and the woman produces a chip from a large Tupperware container and presents it to him, with a hug thrown in. Applause. On to the two-month achievers, and so on. After this portion of the program, a basket is passed around, and I'm kicking myself because Pat (who leads my intensive outpatient group) told me that AA asks for a $1 donation. I, naturally, have left my wallet in the car.
Finally the Hive arises as one and joins hands (I was apprised of this too), and I manage to skirt the folding chair in front of me while taking the hand of a woman to my left and a man to my right. Mike says some words I can't remember, then leads the circle in the Lord's Prayer. It's been years since I've said it, and even longer since I've meant it; I just stand there, mute and awkward, holding hands with two perfect strangers, dying for it to be over. The prayer ends, then both my hands are jerked up and down while the Hive declares "Keep coming back! It works if you work it!"
It is 8 pm. I head for my car and fish out a buck for the till, but when I return for the room the woman keeping the money is gone. Jim tells me I just saved a buck. "Make it two next time," he says. We talk a little about the Fairfax Hospital rehab program, where I am at present. He has good things to say, even though it didn't quite work for him. Pretty much what I'd say about AA, although you can't really tell based on one meeting.
I've been resisting this, not because I don't think it helps alcoholics (it certainly does), or that I'm not an alcoholic (I probably am), but because of the evangelical nature of the literature I've seen. I spent most of my childhood getting God shoved down my throat; I no desire for any further administrations of a deity I don't believe in. Nevertheless, I can't really knock something I haven't actually tried, so it's off to the Unity Club, a sort of multipurpose rehab facility in Falls Church, for the AA Beginners' Group.
I get there a few minutes before 7 pm. The small booklet Pat gave me doesn't say which room the Beginners' Group is to be held, so I consult a bulletin board at the top of the stairs. The group is in R1 ... wherever that is. So I walk into a large banquet hall and ask a lady if this is R1, and she nods her head. I take a seat near the back and wait for the meeting to begin, whatever that entails. At a large square table in the middle of the room a 60-ish man clears his throat. "Hi, I'm Mike and I'm an alcoholic." "Hi Mike," reply the 20 or so people seated in metal chairs on either side of the table, with one row against the back wall. Mike speaks in an Irish brogue that is instantly compelling and disarming -- he grew up in County Claire and took to drink there before coming to the United States as a young man -- but his story is pretty horrifying. Lost his job, lost his friends, lost his family, all to booze. Finally, after many years of trying to straighten out his act, Mike came across a former lush who recommended AA. That was over 20 years ago, he says, and he still can't say he won't go back to drinking, which is why he keeps coming to these meetings.
After Mike is finished, everyone in the room says something, but I don't catch what it is. Then it's time for Jim, a smaller man about the same age, begins to speak. His tale is, if anything, even more lurid than Mike's. Practically any mind-altering chemical known to mankind Jim has ingested, injected, snorted, inhaled or swallowed since he was a teenager. Numerous relapses, incarcerations and marriages later, Jim is another AA success story. Clean and sober for a decade, he, like Mike, keeps coming back to remind himself that no alcoholic or junkie is ever truly cured.
"Thank you for sharing." That's what the people are saying after Jim's tale of woe, just as they said after Mike's. One mystery solved. Now here's another: right after one alcoholic finishes his/her spiel, the next pipes up, as if the whole thing were choreographed. Did they decide on the speakers ahead of time? Do AA members share a Hive Mind? In any case, the stories are growing familiar (job, friends, family), with variations in drink of choice and number of relapses. I can see how these stories provide what psychologist term "validation" for the other members, but they don't really apply to me. I didn't lose my job over alcohol (I was already on disability). I was never drunk in front of my family; my wife didn't even know I drank. As for friends, they gradually fell away in the years following my auto accident, so I can't blame that on drugs or alcohol either.
Chips are a big deal with AA it seems. A 30-something woman whose name I failed to note rises from her seat at the center table with Mike and Jim and asks who in the room has completed a month of sobriety. A guy in the front row in front of me raises his hand, and the woman produces a chip from a large Tupperware container and presents it to him, with a hug thrown in. Applause. On to the two-month achievers, and so on. After this portion of the program, a basket is passed around, and I'm kicking myself because Pat (who leads my intensive outpatient group) told me that AA asks for a $1 donation. I, naturally, have left my wallet in the car.
Finally the Hive arises as one and joins hands (I was apprised of this too), and I manage to skirt the folding chair in front of me while taking the hand of a woman to my left and a man to my right. Mike says some words I can't remember, then leads the circle in the Lord's Prayer. It's been years since I've said it, and even longer since I've meant it; I just stand there, mute and awkward, holding hands with two perfect strangers, dying for it to be over. The prayer ends, then both my hands are jerked up and down while the Hive declares "Keep coming back! It works if you work it!"
It is 8 pm. I head for my car and fish out a buck for the till, but when I return for the room the woman keeping the money is gone. Jim tells me I just saved a buck. "Make it two next time," he says. We talk a little about the Fairfax Hospital rehab program, where I am at present. He has good things to say, even though it didn't quite work for him. Pretty much what I'd say about AA, although you can't really tell based on one meeting.
Thursday, April 26, 2012
Another day, another group
There are few things I like less than talking about myself. I don't know why. That's just the way I've always been. I suppose it's very selfish of me, because I generally enjoy asking people about their own lives; there just doesn't seem to be much about me that I find interesting enough to share I guess.
Imagine then, if you can, a person such as myself spending 10 hours a week in one group therapy session or another. This is what I face for the next 9 weeks, not counting tomorrow. In addition to the brain-injury group I've been in for over a dozen years (1 hour a week), I am now committed to three more substance/alcohol rehab groups, at 3 hours a pop.
I have already been to two sessions of the new group. The people seem very nice, welcoming, supportive. The woman running the group, a matronly woman named Patricia, is likewise quite nice, but her method (and I was told of this ahead of time) is quite a change from what I'm used to. The brain-injury group is a pretty informal deal. Group members assemble in a neuropsychiatrist's office, which has a large sofa, a couple of soft leather chairs, and a few other fairly large chairs. One person strikes up a conversation -- it could be about brain injury or baseball or cars -- and after a while the neuropsych, Alec, picks up on a relevant point raised in the conversation.
In this new group, Patricia decides on the topic. For the two sessions I've attended, the topic has been "boundaries." Whenever the discussion has taken a detour (i.e. something we actually want to talk about) Patricia eventually brings it back to the main topic. I find it all a bit stilted. Maybe it's the fairly vague nature of this particular topic. Hopefully next week's topic will be more interesting.
Imagine then, if you can, a person such as myself spending 10 hours a week in one group therapy session or another. This is what I face for the next 9 weeks, not counting tomorrow. In addition to the brain-injury group I've been in for over a dozen years (1 hour a week), I am now committed to three more substance/alcohol rehab groups, at 3 hours a pop.
I have already been to two sessions of the new group. The people seem very nice, welcoming, supportive. The woman running the group, a matronly woman named Patricia, is likewise quite nice, but her method (and I was told of this ahead of time) is quite a change from what I'm used to. The brain-injury group is a pretty informal deal. Group members assemble in a neuropsychiatrist's office, which has a large sofa, a couple of soft leather chairs, and a few other fairly large chairs. One person strikes up a conversation -- it could be about brain injury or baseball or cars -- and after a while the neuropsych, Alec, picks up on a relevant point raised in the conversation.
In this new group, Patricia decides on the topic. For the two sessions I've attended, the topic has been "boundaries." Whenever the discussion has taken a detour (i.e. something we actually want to talk about) Patricia eventually brings it back to the main topic. I find it all a bit stilted. Maybe it's the fairly vague nature of this particular topic. Hopefully next week's topic will be more interesting.
Wednesday, April 25, 2012
Strange dream song
In the dream, this mysterious fellow also sang along with this tune, an Indian raga or maybe Hebrew deal. I don't remember. I'm lucky to have remembered this much.
Rehab Day 1: The Interview (cont.)
So Jennifer and I head to a small office more or less behind the receptionist area, where a copy machine is making an eerie wheezing sound each time it is used. I take one seat, Jennifer takes the other and proceeds to explain the purpose of the program and, wait for it, asks me another hundred questions I've already answered in part or in full somewhere else. She is pleasant about it, and even offers to turn out the brutal overhead lights in favor of a table lamp. But the questions are so tedious -- and frankly pointless -- that I feel myself on the verge of either bolting out the door or putting a nearby pencil through my eyeball. Do I own a gun? What if I did? Is there any family history of substance abuse? My mother had six brothers and two sisters; I have a dozen or more first cousins, many of whom I've never met, hardly any of whom I know well enough to answer such a question. Finally I tell her I've had it with the Q and A.
"Let's take a break," she says, sensing my discomfiture. I gratefully accept the invitation. Five minutes and a couple cups of water from the front cooler later we resume. I confront Jennifer about the state prescription database document that the receptionist told me I just had to sign in order to participate in the program. "Well," she says, haltingly, "it means that if you're seen by our doctor and he needs to see your records, he has permission to do so." The tone of Jennifer's voice tells me even she isn't sold herself. "I don't think that will apply in your case." I tell her that the thing is so badly written that there's no way a poor schlub like me would interpret the verbiage in that manner. Jennifer nods her head. "You're right. It's very poorly worded. If you're really uncomfortable with it, would you like me to shred it?" The thought had never occurred to me; but now I'm really curious. Why would she just fold like that? "How can I know if I want to shred it if I don't know, and you don't even know, what it is I'm signing?" I get up and walk over to her as she holds the now-discredited document and even try to suggest alternate language. In the end, we agree to leave the thing in. I've made my point.
Jennifer is finally done querying me at about 10:45. She hands me a packet of stuff about the program and her card, which has several hand-printed corrections. The phone system is being serviced somehow, she tells me, which is why she doesn't care how long this interview lasts, because as soon as I leave she will have to attend to her own voicemail or something. This is fine with me -- I have nowhere to be for several hours, and I have questions for her too.
First, I ask what the recidivism rate, or dropout rate, or failure rate, whatever they call it, is of the CATS program. Jennifer doesn't pussyfoot around: about 50 percent don't complete the 10-week program for one reason or another (relapse, successful legal appeal, insurance trouble, etc.) Do those who relapse get kicked out? Not necessarily, she says. The program has a more intensive one-month inpatient option, one I was presented with and rejected, and those who fall off the wagon may end up there. I ask about the groups, which last for 10 weeks and are held 3 times per week. They last 3 hours (!), but Jennifer quickly adds that there's always a half-hour break in the middle. Still, compared to the weekly brain-injury group I've attended for the last dozen years, which lasts just an hour, this seems like boot camp. On the other hand, I once had to ride a small bus with no suspension an hour each way to an outpatient brain-injury rehab program, and that was all day, 4 days a week. So everything is relative, I suppose.
Jennifer and I have talked ourselves out. It is 11:45. Nearly 3 hours I've spent, about as long as the group sessions. I'm hungry, tired and my head hurts, more than usual but less that I was expecting. I leave Jennifer to her voice-mail duties and agree to appear for the first group session tomorrow evening at 5:45.
"Let's take a break," she says, sensing my discomfiture. I gratefully accept the invitation. Five minutes and a couple cups of water from the front cooler later we resume. I confront Jennifer about the state prescription database document that the receptionist told me I just had to sign in order to participate in the program. "Well," she says, haltingly, "it means that if you're seen by our doctor and he needs to see your records, he has permission to do so." The tone of Jennifer's voice tells me even she isn't sold herself. "I don't think that will apply in your case." I tell her that the thing is so badly written that there's no way a poor schlub like me would interpret the verbiage in that manner. Jennifer nods her head. "You're right. It's very poorly worded. If you're really uncomfortable with it, would you like me to shred it?" The thought had never occurred to me; but now I'm really curious. Why would she just fold like that? "How can I know if I want to shred it if I don't know, and you don't even know, what it is I'm signing?" I get up and walk over to her as she holds the now-discredited document and even try to suggest alternate language. In the end, we agree to leave the thing in. I've made my point.
Jennifer is finally done querying me at about 10:45. She hands me a packet of stuff about the program and her card, which has several hand-printed corrections. The phone system is being serviced somehow, she tells me, which is why she doesn't care how long this interview lasts, because as soon as I leave she will have to attend to her own voicemail or something. This is fine with me -- I have nowhere to be for several hours, and I have questions for her too.
First, I ask what the recidivism rate, or dropout rate, or failure rate, whatever they call it, is of the CATS program. Jennifer doesn't pussyfoot around: about 50 percent don't complete the 10-week program for one reason or another (relapse, successful legal appeal, insurance trouble, etc.) Do those who relapse get kicked out? Not necessarily, she says. The program has a more intensive one-month inpatient option, one I was presented with and rejected, and those who fall off the wagon may end up there. I ask about the groups, which last for 10 weeks and are held 3 times per week. They last 3 hours (!), but Jennifer quickly adds that there's always a half-hour break in the middle. Still, compared to the weekly brain-injury group I've attended for the last dozen years, which lasts just an hour, this seems like boot camp. On the other hand, I once had to ride a small bus with no suspension an hour each way to an outpatient brain-injury rehab program, and that was all day, 4 days a week. So everything is relative, I suppose.
Jennifer and I have talked ourselves out. It is 11:45. Nearly 3 hours I've spent, about as long as the group sessions. I'm hungry, tired and my head hurts, more than usual but less that I was expecting. I leave Jennifer to her voice-mail duties and agree to appear for the first group session tomorrow evening at 5:45.
Tuesday, April 24, 2012
Rehab Day 1: The Interview
It's cold and raining and Monday, and I have to get up early for my admittance interview at a local hospital "intensive outpatient program" for people with drug and/or alcohol issues. The hospital is only a few miles away, but it's rush hour and traffic on and around the DC Beltway is never pleasant. I have a 9 a.m. appointment, but have been told to arrive 20 minutes in advance to do the inevitable paperwork.
As usual, I can't sleep, so I wind up leaving home around 7:45, figuring I can stop at a McDonald's on the way for coffee and a biscuit, and read the paper for a while, because I know this upcoming appointment is going to be a bitch. "Paperwork" always means filling out forms that ask questions you've already answered and given to somebody else, but their own system is too inefficient or their own personnel are too lazy or stupid to find the data, so it's just easier to make me provide it all over again. My labor is free after all.
So I get my coffee and biscuit and dawdle over the paper as long as I can stand the light and noise (I am sensitive to both due to my brain injury -- long story, another time) and head back to the car. Jesus, for late April it is downright chilly: my car dash reads 39 degrees. Traffic, however, is more forgiving, and I am nearing the hospital with time to burn. Which is good, because it just then hits me that the appointment is not at the hospital, but at an adjacent building. (Another common trait among TBI's.) Anticipating this brain fart, I entered the address in my phone, along with the time, so at the nearest opportunity I pull into an office building parking lot. I check the address, then the street sign, then the address again, because this never happens to me ... I have quite by chance found my destination!
The euphoria was not to last. CATS, a cute euphemism for something rehab related, turns out to be located in a generic office suite, such as any dentist, lawyer or architect might lease, complete with oppressively bright fluorescent lights and six-month-old copies of People in the waiting area. I complete the paperwork with what I consider admirable dispatch, considering the conditions and circumstances. There is one piece of paper concerning a state database of drug prescriptions that requires my signature for some reason, but the verbiage is so inscrutable that I'm compelled to query the receptionist. Her only suggestion is to take it up with the social worker I'm about to see.
I finish the paperwork and wait. 9 am comes and goes. Meantime a stream of people enter, chatting amongst themselves. This would be one of the groups run by CATS, which I'll be added to once this obligatory process finally ends. About 9:40 a 30-ish brunette woman named Jennifer opens the door and calls my name.
to be continued...
As usual, I can't sleep, so I wind up leaving home around 7:45, figuring I can stop at a McDonald's on the way for coffee and a biscuit, and read the paper for a while, because I know this upcoming appointment is going to be a bitch. "Paperwork" always means filling out forms that ask questions you've already answered and given to somebody else, but their own system is too inefficient or their own personnel are too lazy or stupid to find the data, so it's just easier to make me provide it all over again. My labor is free after all.
So I get my coffee and biscuit and dawdle over the paper as long as I can stand the light and noise (I am sensitive to both due to my brain injury -- long story, another time) and head back to the car. Jesus, for late April it is downright chilly: my car dash reads 39 degrees. Traffic, however, is more forgiving, and I am nearing the hospital with time to burn. Which is good, because it just then hits me that the appointment is not at the hospital, but at an adjacent building. (Another common trait among TBI's.) Anticipating this brain fart, I entered the address in my phone, along with the time, so at the nearest opportunity I pull into an office building parking lot. I check the address, then the street sign, then the address again, because this never happens to me ... I have quite by chance found my destination!
The euphoria was not to last. CATS, a cute euphemism for something rehab related, turns out to be located in a generic office suite, such as any dentist, lawyer or architect might lease, complete with oppressively bright fluorescent lights and six-month-old copies of People in the waiting area. I complete the paperwork with what I consider admirable dispatch, considering the conditions and circumstances. There is one piece of paper concerning a state database of drug prescriptions that requires my signature for some reason, but the verbiage is so inscrutable that I'm compelled to query the receptionist. Her only suggestion is to take it up with the social worker I'm about to see.
I finish the paperwork and wait. 9 am comes and goes. Meantime a stream of people enter, chatting amongst themselves. This would be one of the groups run by CATS, which I'll be added to once this obligatory process finally ends. About 9:40 a 30-ish brunette woman named Jennifer opens the door and calls my name.
to be continued...
Saturday, April 21, 2012
Near Death Experience
I suppose I've come close to dying several times, mostly in auto accidents; the most recent of which is the source of the pain which in turn inspired this blog. But without a doubt, my closest encounter with the Reaper came just a couple of weeks ago. As I mentioned in a previous missive, I had over a number of years acquired a very unhealthy habit of mixing alcohol and prescription medications in order to sleep. (The list of medications is long, and has varied greatly over the years. I'll go into detail at some point.) I had to drive a long ways to a funeral, and my back was screaming the whole way. Evidently the combination and/or quantity of medications I was taking in the days leading up to the trip caused my kidneys to shut down.
I had passed out in a hotel bathroom. My wife and daughters found me and called for an ambulance. I remember none of this -- one minute I am at a post-funeral reception, the next I am in an emergency room, surrounded by doctors. I am asked the date. I don't know. I'm asked the month. I don't know. I'm asked what holiday we just celebrated. I don't know. (The answer was Easter, which I probably would have remembered if my kids were 15 years younger.) I'm asked who the president is. I'm not sure about this one so I guess, I don't remember who. Wrong. "He's out of it," one of the docs says, helpfully.
It should be noted that I am a lousy ER patient. I do not cotton to having tubes inserted into or wires affixed onto my person by total strangers, particularly when their purpose is not explained to me (or if I am incapable of understanding said purpose). So I will gleefully rip out any tubes and wires I find attached to me. Most likely the ER docs knock me out just to keep me from doing this, and I don't blame them. It's also worth pointing out that I'm of the red-headed variety which studies have shown is more resistant to emergency-room sedation. So I'm just a pain in the ass to doctors, nuff said.
Since I'm out of my mind at this point, what follows now is my own highly subjective account of events, interspersed with occasional facts as I subsequently learned them from sane human beings (e.g. doctors, family members). The latter will be indicated in italics to avoid unnecessary verbosity. Finally, I don't know in what order the following events occurred.
At some point I became aware of the TV in the room, which at first was just noise but gradually took on ominous overtones, as if the TV was some sort of portal into my subconscious. I tried redirecting the TV/portal toward something benign, like sports, but having no idea how to operate the remote in my hand it was futile.
It is some time after the 20-questions period. The docs are around me. I am saying something, answering a question perhaps, and time just slows down, then stops. Oh fuck, I think, I am "locked in," and will be like this the rest of my life! The docs scurry about, but I'm as helpless as a newborn. This was probably the effect of medication and/or withdrawal.
I awaken to the sight of a familiar nurse, who is feeding me ice chips. "Where am I?" I say. She laughs. "That's better than 'Whaa guh huh?" I feel like half my brain is thawing out. "Those were some good drugs," I say. "Yep," she says, paging one of the docs. "Where are you?" "Hospital?" "What month is it?" "April?" "Good," and I get more ice chips. My brain is almost thawed out. I am certain that they have synthesized a brand-new drug to bring locked-in people like me out of their locked-inness. Actually it was probably just a jolt of Narcan.
I again wake up. It's night. My bed inflates, and the cover of the mattress is red. I worry that I am bleeding. A doc, or maybe a male nurse, comes in. I can't recall what he says, but the message is that because I have combined drugs and alcohol, I will be in this bed the rest of my life. Obviously this is untrue, but the doctors did not know about my drinking early on. I went through alcohol withdrawal (DTs and all) which could account for any of the hallucinatory experiences.
There's more, but I'm tired. It happens a lot.
I had passed out in a hotel bathroom. My wife and daughters found me and called for an ambulance. I remember none of this -- one minute I am at a post-funeral reception, the next I am in an emergency room, surrounded by doctors. I am asked the date. I don't know. I'm asked the month. I don't know. I'm asked what holiday we just celebrated. I don't know. (The answer was Easter, which I probably would have remembered if my kids were 15 years younger.) I'm asked who the president is. I'm not sure about this one so I guess, I don't remember who. Wrong. "He's out of it," one of the docs says, helpfully.
It should be noted that I am a lousy ER patient. I do not cotton to having tubes inserted into or wires affixed onto my person by total strangers, particularly when their purpose is not explained to me (or if I am incapable of understanding said purpose). So I will gleefully rip out any tubes and wires I find attached to me. Most likely the ER docs knock me out just to keep me from doing this, and I don't blame them. It's also worth pointing out that I'm of the red-headed variety which studies have shown is more resistant to emergency-room sedation. So I'm just a pain in the ass to doctors, nuff said.
Since I'm out of my mind at this point, what follows now is my own highly subjective account of events, interspersed with occasional facts as I subsequently learned them from sane human beings (e.g. doctors, family members). The latter will be indicated in italics to avoid unnecessary verbosity. Finally, I don't know in what order the following events occurred.
At some point I became aware of the TV in the room, which at first was just noise but gradually took on ominous overtones, as if the TV was some sort of portal into my subconscious. I tried redirecting the TV/portal toward something benign, like sports, but having no idea how to operate the remote in my hand it was futile.
It is some time after the 20-questions period. The docs are around me. I am saying something, answering a question perhaps, and time just slows down, then stops. Oh fuck, I think, I am "locked in," and will be like this the rest of my life! The docs scurry about, but I'm as helpless as a newborn. This was probably the effect of medication and/or withdrawal.
I awaken to the sight of a familiar nurse, who is feeding me ice chips. "Where am I?" I say. She laughs. "That's better than 'Whaa guh huh?" I feel like half my brain is thawing out. "Those were some good drugs," I say. "Yep," she says, paging one of the docs. "Where are you?" "Hospital?" "What month is it?" "April?" "Good," and I get more ice chips. My brain is almost thawed out. I am certain that they have synthesized a brand-new drug to bring locked-in people like me out of their locked-inness. Actually it was probably just a jolt of Narcan.
I again wake up. It's night. My bed inflates, and the cover of the mattress is red. I worry that I am bleeding. A doc, or maybe a male nurse, comes in. I can't recall what he says, but the message is that because I have combined drugs and alcohol, I will be in this bed the rest of my life. Obviously this is untrue, but the doctors did not know about my drinking early on. I went through alcohol withdrawal (DTs and all) which could account for any of the hallucinatory experiences.
There's more, but I'm tired. It happens a lot.
Crash and Burn
Everyone has a limit to how much pain he or she can tolerate. I always considered mine higher than most, but when I was in an auto accident a decade ago I was left in a state of chronic, at times debilitating, pain. To combat this pain I have taken a whole smorgasbord of medications, including narcotics; some have worked better than others, but none have actually offered the kind of relief I would consider adequate to return to a "normal life."
Another very annoying problem resulting from the accident was insomnia. I get very little sleep at night, and what I do get is of such a poor nature it's like I haven't slept at all. At one point I went from Tuesday night to Friday morning without so much as a nod-off. Take my word for it, going three days without sleep is its own form of pain.
So after a few years I decided to ignore the warnings on the prescriptions and have a drink at night to help me sleep, since nothing else was helping. And in fact it did -- at first anyway -- but predictably there came a time when one drink sufficed no more. You know where this is going surely: crash and burn. In my case, kidney failure and near death experience. But I'll save that for next time.
Another very annoying problem resulting from the accident was insomnia. I get very little sleep at night, and what I do get is of such a poor nature it's like I haven't slept at all. At one point I went from Tuesday night to Friday morning without so much as a nod-off. Take my word for it, going three days without sleep is its own form of pain.
So after a few years I decided to ignore the warnings on the prescriptions and have a drink at night to help me sleep, since nothing else was helping. And in fact it did -- at first anyway -- but predictably there came a time when one drink sufficed no more. You know where this is going surely: crash and burn. In my case, kidney failure and near death experience. But I'll save that for next time.
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