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.
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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.
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