The Important Things In Life

It's been a little over two months since I've posted and the only excuse that I can really give is that I've let other things get in the way of taking care of my blog. Despite this, there have been several who have been coming here and I do appreciate that. That has been an encouragement to start writing again.

It's been six months today since Daddy died and I thought this would be a good time to start posting again. It just doesn't seem like it's been that long. Six months ago was also a Friday and it's almost like I'm reliving it all over again.

I can still remember very vividly talking to Daddy several times that day on the phone. At least two or three of the conversations were about the bank accidentally putting his check into my account and me telling him I was on the way to straighten it out. I was surprised, but glad, he didn't get upset about it. His attitude then was like "Oh well, things like that happen".

This August 17th will be seven years since Mother passed away and it doesn't seem like it's been that long either.

I'm so glad that I still have my family: My sister & brother-in-law, my niece & her family and my nephew. I'm so glad that I still have my AA family and friends.

I'm glad that we had our mother and daddy as long as we did. I'm glad that we still have their memories to cherish.

I'm also glad that I still have my sobriety. Without that, I wouldn't be able to enjoy all that life has to offer.

For me, there's nothing more important than that.

The Turning Points Of Life

“We stood at the turning point.”

The above quote is taken from the “Big Book” of Alcoholics Anonymous chapter 5 called “How It Works. The first part of this chapter is read at the beginning of every AA meeting.

I’ve been thinking about that phrase a lot the past few days and how it applies to my life. In the Big Book, the phrase refers to the fact that alcoholics come to a point in their life where they have to choose whether they’re going to continue drinking or choose recovery.

Before I had my slip and drank again last October 3rd, I stood at a turning point. I had the choice of giving into my cravings or doing something like calling a friend or my therapist for support. I chose to drink.

Whether a person is an alcoholic or not, everyone stands at some kind of turning point every day. We all are faced with numerous decisions to make. When my dad died, I stood at a turning point. My entire world as I knew it changed in an instant. This change was completely out of my control, but yet there were decisions for me to make. How would I choose to handle his death so I could move on with my life?

It Takes More Than Time To Heal A Wound

Some of my readers may have noticed that I like to include quotes in some of my posts. I also have some of my favorite quotes listed toward the bottom of my blog. In addition to collecting quotes, I also like to collect old sayings and when I can, find the original meaning behind them.

For instance:

In Shakespeare's time, mattresses were secured on bed frames by ropes. When on the ropes the mattress tightened, making the bed firmer to sleep on, hence the phrase "Goodnight, sleep tight."

In English pubs, ale is ordered by pints and quarts. So in old England, when customers got unruly, the bartender would yell at them to mind their own pints and quarts and settle down. It's where we get the phrase "Mind your P's and Q's."

When I was a child, one of my mother’s brothers asked me once if I had been “minding my P’s and Q’s.” I had no idea what he meant!

There’s another saying that I hear a lot. “Time heals all wounds.” Those sound like comforting words, especially in times of grief, but just think about that saying for a moment. Does time really heal all wounds?

Facing The New Year With Apprehension... And Reason To Be More Grateful

I always approach the New Year with apprehension. The reason for this fear comes from wondering about the future and what it holds. For me, thinking about the unknown can be scary.

Without much doubt, I'm not the only one who feels this way. Just think about the millions of dollars of anti-anxiety medicine that's sold each year and the untold number of hours that people spend with their therapists. Not to mention all the alcohol and illegal and prescription drugs that are abused by people trying to escape their fear.

The problem with trying to escape the fears of the unknown future with drugs and alcohol is that it does nothing to help you deal with any of it. When you sober up, those problems are still there and are probably much worse because of the self-medication. In fact, for the addict/alcoholic the reason for fearing the future in the first place is made more real.

The movie "It's A Wonderful Life" comes to mind while I think about this. In that movie, George Baily got to see what life would've been like if he had never been born. I like to play what if a lot. One "what if" is: What if I had been drunk the day my dad had died? What if I had been unable to talk to him several times on the phone that day? What if I had been drunk when the nurse told me he had no vital signs? In fact, if I had been drunk, I never would've answered my phone to begin with. If it bothers me now that I didn't have the chance to be with him when he died, how much more would it be bothering me if I had been unable to be at the hospital with my sister when the doctor pronounced him dead?

I could play this out further. What if I didn't have the memories of talking to him on the phone? Or worse yet, what if I had answered the phone one of those times when he called and I was drunk? That happened several years ago when Mother was still living and I remember how upset my dad got and how it broke my mother's heart.

If I had been drunk that day, not only would I really have had a reason to regret the past, I would fear the future more than I already do. Every time someone close to me dies, I realize how short my own life is. I would have more reason to fear the consequences of continuing in my addiction.

This pretending what if can sometimes be the cause of unnecessary fear and anxiety. On the other hand, it can sometimes be the cause of looking at life a little differently and being more grateful.

Still Struggling With Worry Over Daddy's Death

In my December 12th post "The Consequences Of Not Properly Coping With My Anger", I mentioned that my therapist Kara had pointed out that my dad didn't have control over his death and I had begun to realize that I had no reason to be mad at him.

While I was writing that, another thought occurred to me and I've still been thinking about it. I've heard about people dying just because they give up on living for one reason or another. Daddy had suffered from chronic back pain for years and it seemed, especially closer to the end of his life, not much was helping it. Did Daddy die because he was tired of living with his pain?

According to one website "Depression may play a part in premature death due to other causes, such as heart disease." Certainly Daddy's back pain caused him to be depressed a lot. That, coupled with his diagnosis of Bipolar Disorder would really aggravate his problems.

Daddy definitely worried a lot about other things. He continually worried about having enough money despite the fact the nursing home was taking care of all his needs. I keep thinking about what I said earlier about getting mad at him. I did give him a lot of grief. Maybe he never really got over that. Another log added to the fire of worry.

Does it really make sense that Daddy died because he just gave up? The coroner said he had hardening of the arteries around his intestines that caused his death. How could he have control over that? Could depression have played some part in that?

Now that I've thought of this, the O.C.D is going to gnaw at me. Yeah, I know someone would tell me " Try not to worry - there's nothing you can do to change the situation." Hearing that never helps. It just makes me angry and adds more worry.

Different Relationships; Different Emotions And Thoughts

I have cried an untold of amount of tears over the loss of my mother. Just the other day I was downloading some of her favorite Southern Gospel music and a flood of emotions washed over me. I haven’t cried like that for her in quite some time.

As I was experiencing these strong feelings for her, I noticed something else. It seemed like I was grieving more for Mother than I was for Daddy. It just felt different. Last night, I began thinking again about the differences in the relationships that I had with each one.

Mother was passive, tender, sensitive and a worrier. Daddy was aggressive, domineering and sensitive in a way that was different from Mother. What I mean is, is if someone done or said something he didn’t like, he would want to get back at them. At least he was like this earlier in life when Mother was still living. Actually, Daddy would go through phases. Sometimes he was like this and sometimes not. Even living in the nursing home he would have these spells.

As I’ve mentioned before, Daddy suffered from Bipolar Disorder. But does that give a person an excuse to physically and verbally abuse people? Well, maybe an excuse but not a right. Should I look at it like there were times in his life when he couldn’t help it? Such as when we were children?

My sister and I looked at this differently. At least for a while. I seen it as something that I deserved, but later I began to think about it in a different way.

Apparently, later in life, Daddy didn’t think we deserved it either. He cried a lot over it and asked our forgiveness. I said I forgave him, but deep down I don’t think I did. I know at least one time I just spoke the words without any meaning. They just seemed the right thing to say given the frame of mind he was in. Now that he’s gone, sometimes it seems like it’s easier to forgive him. It would be better if I could forgive him now. It would help me cope with and heal from the grief.

To me, that seems selfish. Just wanting to forgive Daddy for my benefit. As I write this, I’m struggling with my emotions and thoughts.

I don’t even know if I truly loved my parents. At the end of every visit to their house, I would hug Mother bye and kiss her. She would always say, “I love you.” I would just turn away and walk out the door. I know this sounds like I was cold and perhaps I was, but telling Mother that I loved her would feel like a lie.

I believe “love” is more than an emotion. It’s more than just a “warm, fuzzy feeling” you have toward someone. As the country singer Clint Black says, “Love isn’t something that we are, it’s something that we do”. I believe when you love someone, you give part of yourself to that person. I’m not talking just about romantic love. I’m also talking about giving yourself to or doing things for your parents, siblings, friends or even complete strangers.
When I done things for my parents, it wasn’t out of love. It was more out of duty or because I felt I had to do it. A large part of the time when Mother would ask me to do something, I would raise h*ll about it. What grief I gave her!

Later, I did start tell Mother that I loved her. Once again, this was more out of duty. I began asking myself, “What if something happened to one of us and I didn’t tell Mother that I loved her?”

After Mother died, Daddy’s personality seemed to change somewhat. Especially after he went in the nursing home, there were times when he became passive and more dependent. More like Mother was. I would lose my temper with him. The only good thing that I can think of now is that somehow I learned to be more patient with him.

Right now, my heart cries out in opposition to what I done back then.

I know there are people, such as my mother, who would disagree with what I’ve said about not loving my parents. But this is just the way I personally see it.

Entangled In The Web Of Addiction

In an earlier post, I wrote about addictions being like a spider’s web. I want to add more along this line of thinking.

Spiders have more than one way to trap their prey, but the best method is their web. One of the functions of a web is to trap the prey by entangling it or sticking to it.

A few years ago I was bicycling down a country road when I noticed a spider’s web like the one pictured. As I rode, I thought about two things: The beauty and intricacy of it’s design & what I would’ve felt like if I had rode into it. I’ve gotten spider’s webs on me before and I know that time would’ve aggravated me, to say the least. I would’ve been swiping my face and every where else trying to get that sticky mess off me.

I can only imagine what a fly feels like to be trapped in a web and to see the spider approaching. Struggling frantically, to no avail, to free itself. For the fly, death is literally knocking at the door.

This is exactly what happens with addiction. An addict becomes entangled in its sticky web. Except in the early stages of addiction, the addict doesn’t struggle. He doesn’t want out of his addiction. As far as he is concerned, the addiction has too much to offer him. It gives him too much pleasure. In fact, because of denial, he doesn’t even realize that addiction has spun its sticky web. By the time the addiction has caused him enough pain to want out, it’s too late. The addict is trapped and the more he struggles, the harder it is to get out. For the addict death is literally knocking at the door.

Family and friends can try to persuade him to seek help, but until the addict makes the decision himself, he will continue being trapped.

I recall the first time that a nurse told me I was a binge drinker. I was infuriated at the thought! Binge drinking is what college students do and I was 40 years old. Besides, I didn’t have a drinking problem. Nope! Not me! What I was doing was completely normal.

Deep down inside though, I knew something wasn’t right. Why did I feel so guilty about going to the store to buy a bottle? Why was I worried about what the saleslady was thinking? But to hear someone openly tell me that I had a drinking problem was a whole different matter. I didn’t want to hear it. I didn’t accept it. I was in denial. Alcoholism already had me entangled in its sticky web and I certainly didn’t want any help getting out. Death was knocking at my door and I didn’t want any help escaping it.

During part of this time I was attending a mental health program for individual and group therapy. Part of this therapy was seeing an addiction counselor. Part of treatment included going to A.A. meetings.

I’ve heard it said in a lot of A.A. meetings that an alcoholic or addict has to hit rock bottom before they are willing to stop drinking or drugging and begin the climb up. For each person, the “bottom” is different. For some it can be when their family threatens to leave them. It could come when the doctor tells them they have a serious medical condition brought on by their drinking. Some lose their jobs before deciding to stop. Some may decide to stop when they are arrested for driving under the influence. And yet, for some, it takes a harder bottom than these for them to stop. Some people can lose everything and are still entangled in the web of addiction.

For me, my bottom came due to the intense guilt I was experiencing brought on by my drinking. Oh yes, it felt so good to be under the influence of alcohol, but the guilt was eating me alive. Finally and reluctantly, I gradually stopped drinking.

Eventually, I started going to meetings on my own, outside the treatment program. In particular, I started going to meetings that Calvin and Sherri have at their house. I begin to realize that the people there really cared about me. If I was willing to help myself, they would do what they could to help me. They eagerly gave me their phone numbers; telling me to call them any time day or night when I felt like drinking. Or if I had any other problem for that matter.

Little by little as I listened to these people talk and thinking about my own drinking habits, I began to accept that I just might have a problem. Notice that I said “might”. Denial still had me partially trapped in the web, although I wasn’t drinking. My O.C.D also added to my questioning my problem.

I continued going to meetings and I didn’t drink for over a year before I allowed the web of alcoholism to trap me again. But compared to my past drinking, it was short lived.

Notice that I said “allowed”. We drink and use drugs for one simple reason. We choose to. We can also choose to stop. The spider’s web can only hold us if we are willing to stay trapped. When we admit that we need help, then we are ready to take certain step to become untangled.

The Consequences Of Not Properly Coping With My Anger

I continue to have the feelings of anger that are related to my dad’s death that I mention in the December 4 post, but they don’t seem to be as strong as they have been. I haven’t thought about trashing my apartment lately. I realize that I’m continuing to avoid dealing with them properly, but I’m afraid of the intensity of my emotions that I fear will be released. I also realize that I can’t properly grieve and eventually begin to heal by avoiding it. Also, if this anger isn’t dealt with appropriately, it’s likely that I could really take it out on my sister or someone else close to me.

Yesterday, I talked to my therapist, Kara, about my feelings. She asked why I was mad at Daddy. I told her because he died without giving me a chance to say good-bye. Kara pointed out the fact that it wasn’t Daddy’s choice to die when he did; he had no control over it. I began to look at it in a different light. If only a little bit. My anger toward him lessened.

If it’s not Daddy’s fault, then whose is it? God’s? Should I blame God for allowing my daddy to die? Is it right or fair to blame Him? A synonym of blame is to “hold responsible”. God is, after all, responsible for giving us life and He can take it away. Still, in a way, it doesn’t seem right blaming God. Does He make mistakes? Is God cruel and unjust? Sometimes it seems like it, but yet I feel guilty about blaming him. As I consider this, there’s a hollow feeling in the pit of my stomach and I feel physically sick.

It has also occurred to me that some of the anger and blame could be directed toward the nursing home where Daddy lived for over four years. I believe some of the nurses there really cared about Daddy, but others I don’t know about. I kind of wonder about the nurses who were on duty that night, but it’s just my mind questioning things.

If there is one person at the nursing home that I would like to hold responsible for my dad’s death, that would be the administrator Mrs. R. I believe there is only one person she cares about and looks out for and that’s herself. Do I have hard feelings for this woman? You better believe it!

Daddy had bipolar disorder and as a result he had a lot of manic episodes while at the nursing home. During one particular period , I was having a very difficult time dealing with it. He was constantly paranoid, believing that many people were out to get them. He was constantly accusing the staff of stealing from him and plotting against him. He was also very grandiose; “I’m the king of the mountain. I’m absolutely right and everyone else is absolutely wrong!”

Yes, Daddy was extremely hard to be around during these times, but I expected someone like Mrs. R. to be a professional and try to help the family. But did she? H*ll no! She raised as much h*ll as Daddy did. She wanted him put out, threatened to have him arrested. She angrily told me that he couldn’t get along with anyone. She emphasized “anyone!” I discovered later that Mrs. R. didn’t know her staff very well. There was more than one nurse who told me they didn’t have any problem with Daddy. Undoubtedly, they had a more professional and caring heart about them than their administrator did.

After Daddy got better, but still sometimes accused the staff of stealing something, Mrs. R. would say “There he goes again!” According to her, there wasn’t anyone else in her nursing home that was as bad as Daddy.

Whenever I would go see her about something where the nursing home was at fault, she would always do one of two things. She would either just sit there and look at me or she would say “You’re free to take him somewhere else if you’re not happy with him being here.” Not one time did she every say the words “I’m sorry”. It was different with the assistant-administrator and the social worker. They seemed to at least have some compassion.

During the time that Daddy was experiencing his manic highs, I really wanted to go off on Mrs. R. and tell her exactly what I thought of her. Probably the only reason that I didn’t was because a close friend cautioned me about trying to get along with her for Daddy’s sake. Now that he’s gone, what’s stopping me? If that woman had went through the motions of expressing her so-called sympathy, that might have been my breaking point. I really would love to ask her why she would start showing concern now.

While sharing this post with you, I’ve begun to realize that I have more anger than I thought. While writing this, I wondered what good does all this anger do for me? Once again I need to remind myself that anger is a part of the grieving process and needs to be worked through in order to heal properly. Even without the grieving part, anger is still part of being human and needs to be properly dealt with.

When I begun writing this, the anger was like a spark within me. Now, it feels more like a fire beginning to blaze.

The Fragility Of Life

Whereas ye know not what shall be on the morrow. For what is your life? It is even a vapour, that appeareth for a little time, and then vanisheth away. James 4:14 (KJV)

[Following John Ritter’s death in 2003] It’s a huge shock. It just makes me realize how fragile life is. ~ Sylvester Stallone

Whenever I think of the word "fragile", I think of something delicate like a ceramic cup or maybe one of those porcelain angels a lot of women like to collect. You have to be extremely careful with them. If they are knocked off, they will shatter into a million pieces.

The dictionary defines fragile as something "easily broken or destroyed" and in "need for careful handling".

Lately, I've been thinking about just how much this describes life. We go about our lives engaging in our daily activities living like we have no concerns and never stopping to think that we’re one breath, one heartbeat away from death.

We never stop to think just how fragile life is. Just like a porcelain angel our lives can be shattered into millions of pieces, never to be put together again.

We act like our lives are in our own hands, never stopping to realize it’s God who ultimately holds us in His hand and at any moment that He chooses He can end it.

The Day My Life Changed

This entry was origianly written on 10/27/09:


The last few days have seemed so unreal. It's like I'm in a bad dream and waiting to wake up and find that everything is alright. But I know it's no dream and things are a long way from being alright. Last Friday afternoon (Oct. 23, 2009) , my dad passed away very suddenly and unexpected.

I had talked to him several times that day. Friday morning he sounded rather up beat. That afternoon, I could tell that he wasn't feeling good. (The night before he had fallen and they took him to the ER. CAT Scan and X-Rays showed he was OK. The only thing was that the fall hurt his back.) He was in a lot of back pain and he complained of being very constipated. If we had only known the constipation was a symptom of a much greater problem.

The last time that I talked to Daddy was 4:05 PM. I had talked to his nurse a little earlier. She had given him a pain pill around 1:00PM and the next one wasn't due until another 12 hours. The nurses were in the middle of a shift change and they would give him some laxative as soon as they could.

About 5:50, his nurse called me. She said they had found Daddy a few minutes earlier. He was unresponsive and had no vital signs. The ambulance was taking him to the ER. To make a long story short, by the time my sister and I got to the hospital, our Daddy was already gone. I'm rather sure he was dead before he left the nursing home.

The coroner decided to perform an autopsy. They found that Daddy had hardening of the arteries around his intestines that had blocked his bowels. He had complained of constipation the day before, but not as bad as Friday. I don't fully understand how that ended his life, but one of our cousins who is a nurse, told us if it had been caught in time he could've had emergency surgery that might have saved his life.

To being with, my only regret was that I wasn't there with him when he died. If I had only known... Then yesterday I started wondering how much pain he was in when he took his last breath. I wondered what it was like for him when he died. I'm afraid that it wasn't a painless death.

The funeral was yesterday afternoon. When I got back home, it just didn't seem real. I thought that really wasn't my dad in that casket and if I called his phone he would answer. I'm sure that when the full effect hits me I will have a lot more regrets.

It's just my sister and me now.... And I feel alone...

Thankfully, there are people who have been here for me to lean on. My sister and I have pulled together for each other. My friend Calvin has been by my side ever since Friday night at the hospital. He says that's part of the program of AA. He says he considers me like a brother. I'm reminded of that verse, "A friend sticks closer than a brother". Perhaps Calvin is not only my best friend, but the brother I never had. I am so thankful for him. Of course my therapist has been very supportive.

They are not the only ones... The people from Daddy’s church, our relatives, even those we're not really close to.

All of these people help, but I suppose when it comes right down to it, each of us is left all alone with our own grief.

Even though my Dad is no longer with us, I will never think of it as our relationship is over. He will forever be in my heart and in my mind.