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Overview
Product Details
| ISBN-13: | 9781982216481 |
|---|---|
| Publisher: | Balboa Press |
| Publication date: | 12/11/2018 |
| Sold by: | Barnes & Noble |
| Format: | eBook |
| Pages: | 182 |
| File size: | 4 MB |
About the Author
Read an Excerpt
CHAPTER 1
IN THE BEGINNING
* * *
The older I get, the more vivid the events of my early childhood become as I contrast my life then with that of my grandchildren now. Travel with me for a moment back to 1944.
I'm four years old, sitting up in what Mommy calls "the day bed." It's green and bumpy with buttons. Mostly now I spend all day here close to Mommy instead of in my bedroom down the stairs. You see, I have a romantic fever, and it can hurt my heart forever and ever, so I have to be very good and stay in bed. My big brother, Barney, makes me cry, so Mommy says he has to stay away from me because he's a big tease.
I like when it's night the best because I get to go into the living room and listen to stories. Sometimes there's a story on the radio like the Lone Ranger and Tonto, but the best is when Mommy reads us the Peter Pan story. We have to cover all the windows tight at night with blankets to black out the light. That's so the Japanese can't know where we are and come kill us.
In the day, I get so alone that sometimes I travel in my 'magination to see where Daddy is over the seas. Maybe we can help him doctor the soldiers fighting the bad Germans. You see, I'm Titi and my closest friend is Titi the Great. He teaches me how to fly and keeps me safe when we go far from my bed. I get hot and achy in the afternoon, so Mommy brings me aspirin. Sometimes Titi the Great eats my pill for me because I don't like the way it tastes icky-pulley in my mouth. It makes my tummy hurt until dinner. I don't tell Mommy though because she' ll worry more that I won't get well.
As a young child growing up during World War II, I felt confused, vulnerable, and broken. My lengthy convalescence from rheumatic fever led me to believe something was irreparably wrong with me. I would need to be taken care of and protected for the rest of my life. I craved connection, safety, and robust health. Even when I was eventually allowed to start school, I had to go lie down in the nurse's office while my classmates went out to play. I kept my feelings and resulting emotions buried deep inside so I could win favor with those I depended upon for survival in the uncertain world of my birth.
By adolescence, I had recovered; the only aftereffects of my long illness were a functional "murmur" and enlarged heart. I went on to do all that was expected of me growing up as a teen in the Happy Days–era of postwar America: bobby socks, saddle shoes, and pageboy haircut; high school student body president; off to college by eighteen to get my "Mrs."; married at nineteen; two darling sons by age twenty-two; and a college degree and teaching career by twenty-five. My husband, Lee, and I bought a home, a car, a truck-camper, and eventually a summer cabin in Idaho. We were living the American Dream promised us by our GI fathers.
And so, my dear grandchildren, in the following pages I wish to share a transitional portion of my life with you and generations to follow. I know that, at some point on your journey through this schoolhouse we call life, you will be challenged by unforeseen events and have to make decisions that will change your intended destination forever like it did mine. Blessings, my millennial grandchildren, on your journey.
CHAPTER 2DENIAL
* * *
No matter how hard we strive, into each ordinary life come challenges. At age forty-five, I found myself in the waiting room of a doctor's office staring at a battered copy of Sports Illustrated — the only magazine left on the table beside me. The waiting room was filled to capacity with anxious and weary-looking patients, and I joined their ranks. I had been called for a return visit so my new physician could discuss the results of a diagnostic she had conducted to determine the activity of my heart for twenty-four hours. I had been having episodes of violent heart arrhythmias for a number of weeks. These palpitations could happen at any time, even awakening me in the middle of the night from a sound sleep. I would lie awake for minutes, and sometimes even hours, as the bed shook with the pounding inside my chest. Reluctantly, I finally took myself in to see my new doctor.
After about twenty minutes I was ushered into my physician's office to discuss her findings.
"Carolyn, the activity of your heart for the twenty-four hours you wore the monitor indicate that, even though you didn't feel the violent episodes that brought you into my office, your heart is going in and out of rhythm constantly. Are you using stimulants of any kind like excessive amounts of coffee or tea, over-the-counter or recreational drugs?"
I shook my head, no. Much like my mother, I had never done well with any kind of stimulant, so I followed her example and never got hooked.
My doctor continued her probing. "What are you doing for exercise? How much sleep are you getting? What is your diet like?"
Satisfied with all my responses, she paused, then looked up at me and asked the question that would forever change my life.
"Then, what is the stress in your life?"
I don't recall exactly how I responded. In the mid-eighties, the mind/ body connection had not yet reached the mainstream, so it made no sense to me that your thoughts had anything to do with the functioning of your heart. My firm belief was that, when something went wrong in the body, there would be a drug or operation that would cure the problem. I had told this doctor about my childhood rheumatic heart disease. Surely that was the cause. I believe I responded to her last question by mentioning the stress of trying to meet the needs of thirty-four fifth graders. I declined her offer of drugs to relieve what she referred to as an anxiety disorder, wheeled out of her office, and hurried across the parking lot to my car with my head held high.
* * *
The next errand on my list for this rare leave day from my duties in the classroom was a visit to my twenty-five-year-old son, Michael, who was currently residing at a facility for drug and alcohol recovery. My hope was that this three-month program would result in lasting recovery. Four years earlier, his first program at a nearby psychiatric clinic had educated him on drug and alcohol addiction. Mike enjoyed sobriety for a few years, but suffered a severe relapse that had endangered his life.
Stress indeed! As I drove the considerable miles to Mike's location, I began to review the events of the past year. I had been through this kind of stress before, and my heart had withstood the anxiety that comes with having an addicted son. It couldn't be that. My non-steering hand rested on my beleaguered heart as I searched for answers. Was there anything else I might be stressed about?
My thoughts drifted back to the role alcohol had played in my life. When World War II was over and the soldiers returned from overseas, there was a lot of forgetting that went on. Alcohol became my parents' anesthesia of choice, so frequent alcohol consumption was familiar behavior to me.
When I met Lee, I didn't think much about his use of alcohol, which was constant. He could drink pretty much throughout the day with little effect. Was this a problem? He had always been highly functional, maintaining his dependency on alcohol to quiet the demons of a terrible childhood.
Later I learned that for some people, a high tolerance to the effects of spirits was the first of three stages in the disease of alcoholism. The second stage is increased consumption of intoxicants in an attempt on the part of the addictive-prone individual to get the same effect. During the third stage, the person's behavior becomes unpredictable and a serious danger to themselves and others. Once they started drinking for the day, it would be next to impossible to stop until unconscious. According to experts, there are only two ways out of stage-three alcoholism — abstinence or death.
Because of my oldest son's challenge with substance abuse, I joined a family support program for relatives and loved ones of alcoholics. Loren, the facilitator, was a no-nonsense individual with lots of experience in educating co-dependent enablers like me. Her working phrase for those of us in the group was: You didn't cause it, you can't cure it, but you can contribute to it. I wanted to know what I needed to do to change my behavior when dealing with my loved ones. I was determined to stop contributing to the problem.
When Mike completed his first program, he came away with an amazing amount of information about alcohol addiction. Both of my sons were concerned about their father's constant imbibing and kept imploring me to do something. I think the exact words were, "You're blowing it, Mom. Make him stop drinking." I had been telling myself for years that Lee was simply a maintenance drinker, not an alcoholic. After all, weren't alcoholics derelict in their duties, unable to keep a job, and constantly drunk? That was certainly not Lee — or was it?
Things had changed for the two of us in the past year. Lee was currently on disability leave from his teaching duties because of "high blood pressure," reportedly caused by stress in the classroom. He was home every day and going to the bar more frequently and for longer periods of time. There were even a few occasions when I had found him passed out in his car. He got home, but was unable to make it into the house. If I dared speak to him about how dangerous this was, he would get terribly upset with me and sink into a dark mood. Being the doormat in the family, my "peace at any cost" mentality caused me to bury my worry and fear and overcompensate for my husband's erratic behavior. Floating around at the frayed edges of my mind was the vision of him passing out behind the wheel of his car and maiming or even killing not just himself, but others. Everything we had worked so hard to build to keep us happy and secure was being terribly threatened, and I felt powerless to do anything about it.
The boys were more determined than I was to take action. Mike recommended we stage an intervention. When I asked what that was, he explained it as setting up a meeting with those close and important to the alcoholic and describing to him the effect his drinking was having on them. It was important that there be some sort of consequence or consequences if he did not stop drinking. The most effective consequence would be loss of employment if you could get the employer to help participate in the intervention. Loss of a tenured teaching position could be a strong incentive to sobriety.
So, with Michael and Richard urging me on, I made an appointment with Al Zamola, director of personnel at the district office. I dreaded that appointment. My job since I was young had been to cover for the alcoholics in my life — to keep our "looking good," looking good. I over-functioned and covered for their dysfunction. My part in this family dynamic was referred to as co-alcoholic or co-dependent. My loved ones could continue to abuse alcohol if their super-efficient daughter, wife, or mother would come to their rescue, cover for them, or bail them out when their drinking got them into trouble.
Lee and I had been teachers with the district for over twenty years, so I was on a first-name basis with the district personnel director. When I entered his office, Al gave me a warm greeting and a big hug, which made me feel a little better about the request I was about to make. When I asked if he would help with the intervention, Al looked very uncomfortable and initially I was afraid I had revealed my shameful family secret to someone who would be unwilling to betray "one of the guys." Instead he told me kindly that he had already had a one-on-one intervention with Lee in his office. Al then revealed that Lee was on leave from his duties in the classroom, not because of high blood pressure, but because parents had reported him numerous times for smelling of alcohol. He had been warned each time, and the situation had finally escalated to the point where Al had ordered Lee to use his accumulated sick leave and get help. Lee was told he would not be reinstated unless he entered a program and had verification of attending daily meetings and a minimum of one month of sobriety.
I remember how stunned I was at this deception and betrayal by the man I loved. Lee was eight years my senior, and I had always thought of him as the strong one who would take care of me and keep the boys safe. In my eyes, he had always been highly functional. There were so many good things about this man — inspirational and enthusiastic teacher and athletic coach, loving and attentive father, gentle and considerate lover. His mantra to me for years, recited especially in times of passion, had been, "I love you, I need you, I can't live without you." In fact lately he had been pressing me to agree to having a big celebration to renew our marriage vows to celebrate our twenty-fifth wedding anniversary.
After my visit to the district office, the boys and I decided that since loss of employment was not enough motivation to get their father to stop drinking, I would have to tell Lee I would leave him if he didn't stop drinking.
Nothing in my previous life had prepared me to confront the man I loved with this kind of ultimatum. What if he said no? I couldn't bear the thought of leaving my beautiful home, giving up my summers at our cabin in Idaho, and walking away from the life we had built together. All our friends were his colleagues and acquaintances. What would happen to my social contacts if I left him? I would be completely on my own. On the other hand, hadn't he declared how much he needed me, how he couldn't live without me? So, I made a calculated decision. My husband loves me so much, surely he will stop drinking to keep me.
During the intervention, Mike told his father about good Alcoholics Anonymous (AA) meetings he could attend in the area and how having a support group could help him get and stay sober. Lee promised us he would stop drinking, but he flat-out refused to have anything to do with AA or any other type of program. He was determined he could do this on his own.
And stop he did, but it was not easy. I remember the night he came to get me in the kitchen. Lee said he needed me to come into the hall bathroom right away. I followed him into the tiny space and he pointed up to the heater vent near the ceiling.
Lee took hold of my arm and whispered, "Can you hear them?"
"Hear who?"
"Listen to the voices coming from the vent. They're telling us what they're going to do to the United States."
I looked at him carefully. He appeared perfectly normal, although slightly agitated. What were the voices saying? I strained to hear, but no matter how hard I tried, I heard nothing but the sound of the fan.
"Just keep the light off," I said gently, "and the voices will stop."
"But it's important to hear what they're saying. I need to report it to the authorities."
It was at this point that I finally understood the toll years of heavy drinking could exact. My insanity was that I tried with all my might to hear those voices. I simply couldn't admit to myself how sick the man with whom I had shared so many happy years actually was. This dynamic is called denial, which is not a river in Egypt. It is something we all do when the truth is too painful to confront. Denial is a constant companion when you are struggling with alcoholism, whether you are the alcoholic or the co-dependent. We are powerless, however, to change anything in our life if we are unwilling to confront it and get brutally honest with ourselves.
Lee, bless his heart, detoxed cold turkey and stayed sober for a couple of months. Much of his agitation subsided, but he was very obviously depressed. Warm weather arrived, and I noticed he was spending an inordinate amount of time out in our tiny backyard watering. His mood lifted, and I began to get suspicious. Upon examining the storage shed out back, I found a stash of empty wine bottles. Shortly after this discovery, the news came that one of his longtime drinking buddies, who had moved to Utah the year before, was coming to visit. He and his wife wanted to take us to dinner.
It was at this point Lee sat me down and said, "I'm going to drink tonight, and you are not to say anything about it in front of Joe and Margaret."
The gauntlet had been thrown down, and I simply was not up to the challenge. I lacked the courage to say no — to pack up and leave. Unfortunately, we continued our life very much as it had been before the intervention. Lee resumed his daily drinking. They say that alcoholism is a progressive disease. This means that even if you go for years without touching a drop of alcohol, if you start again you resume at exactly the same stage where you were when you stopped. Lee was no exception.
(Continues…)
Excerpted from "Messages from My Heart"
by .
Copyright © 2019 Carolyn Bourns.
Excerpted by permission of Balboa Press.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
Excerpts are provided by Dial-A-Book Inc. solely for the personal use of visitors to this web site.
Table of Contents
Foreword, xi,
Chapter 1 In the Beginning, xiii,
Part I SPRING 1985 TO SPRING 1986,
Chapter 2 Denial, 1,
Chapter 3 Speaking Truth, 9,
Chapter 4 Loneliness, 15,
Chapter 5 Reentry, 25,
Chapter 6 Peace of Mind, 32,
Part II CHRISTMAS 1986 TO FALL 1987,
Chapter 7 Quest, 47,
Chapter 8 Dark Night, 58,
Chapter 9 Letting Go, 71,
Chapter 10 Moving On, 75,
Chapter 11 Harmonic Convergence, 89,
Part III LATE WINTER 1988 TO WINTER 1989,
Chapter 12 Touching the Hem, 103,
Chapter 13 Down Under, 113,
Chapter 14 Adventure in Paradise, 119,
Chapter 15 A-Ha Moment, 134,
Chapter 16 Vagabond, 140,
Chapter 17 Final Words to Future Generations, 152,
Appendix A, 155,
Appendix B, 157,
Acknowledgments, 159,
About the Author, 163,