Hello Everyone,
Seems a strange name for a thread but then again, haven't we've seen stranger ones?
I'll get the reason as I go along. Please forgive me if I don't finish it all at once. Like Cosmos, Daniel and The Bushog Story, I seldom have the luxury of undivided attention to anything for very long. There is always something or someone that well... you know how it goes.
For those of you new to MWO, I am a 53 year old male, married (see my profile) and still a Newby and yes, that is me with the cowboy hat, the horseborne, Ray Ban toting alcoholic, in the picture, taken before I fell off !!
I have been drinking steadily from a young age and if you'd like to go back through some older threads(profile) you can see that booze has been my downfall for a number of years and came close to killing me for the third time 6 months ago.
Yes, I am a stubborn, middle-aged horse, ridden hard and been put away wet on countless occassions. Party hearty and never stop; that was me until I finally woke up with a drip in my arm, nostrils stuffed with tubes, a beeping v.s. monitor and no recollection of anything bar, sitting down after a particularly hard night's work in the pouring rain; up to my calves in mud down in Colombia- starting my drilling report at 4:30 in the morning.
As I mentioned this wasn't the first time. But it will certainly be the last and I will endevour in the next few days to cast my then fuddled mind back to events before and after that have changed my life for ever. MWO was one of the events which came after.
RN mentioned tell the kids. This was before; last year actually and after a horrendous thirty hour journey back from Qatar in the Middle East.
You can't bring in or buy alcohol in Doha, the capital, except in 5 star hotels patronized by one of the ruling sheiks. What to they have at the airport? A duty free shop with all the tempting goodies a chap like me has been yearning for! You receive your purchase, which in my case was always a large bottle of vodka (Can't smell it right? Wrong!!) stapled inside a large plastic bag so one could not open it until you arrived at your final destination. It's actually logged and labeled as such on your receipt. Who are they kidding! With 3 hours to wait for the flight to Paris this little jewel is just burning a hole in the cap. So, bearing in mind that you are in a Muslim country, head to the fruit juice parlour and order a large orange juice with no ice(you get more) and ask them to use two wax covered cups beacause as they well know, the cups soon become weak and flimsy. Alcoholics are always devious, so you can't very well just tear open the bag and take a slug right there in front of all the people milling around waiting for their flights. Like a drug addict, the best place for a fix are the toilets, which are crowded and stinky, with wet floors due to the Arab penchant for constantly washing their feet and backsides as part of their ablutions. If a Westerner really had to "go", well, let me tell you - don't think you're going to arrive looking like you just walked out of your closet!
Grab the first stall that becomes free; queuing is not in their culture either so I do mean grab, remembering you are holding the goody bag and your carry-on in one hand and the orange juice in the other. Make lots of coughing noises to cover the glass clinking, bag rustling and distinctive, crisp Zzplink! of the seal breaking on the neck of the bottle poking through the security staples. All kinds of things were going through my paranoic head like; did Abdul Hoomani in the next stall know what the cap on a bottle of Smirnoff Black sounds like? Will the bathroom janitor call the police when he hears the tell tale gurgle of a pint of spirits going into a Big Gulp cup? Bloody hell you can't carry two go cups and luggage, so put a dash of orange into it and chug it down; practically choking as the alcohol starts evaporating as it goes down your gullet and sqirts out of your nose, making your eyes water profusely.
Damn that felt good! O.K. Next step. Next drink of course but this one is for the smoking area and strolling around nonchalently outside. Slot empty cup number one under half full orange and top up with the real "juice". Cap bottle and pull security bag around same, coughing loudly for obvious(only to you) reasons. Flush and exit toilets with a satisfied look on your face having fooled everyone again, including yourself, for the umpteenth time. Time to go walkabout now you've got that familiar buzz going again and it sure passes the time until you have to dump the innocent Big Gulp in the trash and board your flight. You hold your breath at every checkpoint and speak to nobody. We all know it's not because you want to be unsociable or anything...
Jolly good! Made it to my seat without getting arrested or falling asleep in the airport and missing the flight completely. No! Don't act surprised. I've been logged into flights all over the world and passed out, only to find I'd missed them. People are so trusting the other end when you call and make up your lies as to the reason they have been waiting in vain for your arrival the other end. And this works both ways as you will see.
Off the ground now and there's always that intdeterminable delay before some time-worn flight attendant asks what you would like to drink with your meal. Of course you pretend that it will save a lot of effort on their part, if they go ahead and leave a couple to save them coming back and being bothered by the call button. I'm married to an ex-flight attendant and she likes this passenger trait.
A couple more with the meal plus liquors and cognac afterwards - I just love Air France, with their savoire and laissez faire. Now maybe it's time for a little nap accross the Mediterranean and Southern Europe, before suffering the rigours of Charles de Gaulle Airport, long security checks and the pounding hangover which comes with the territory. I drift off hoping that my two sons' reservations are in order for their trip down to Bogota from Pensacola, Florida the same night I arrive.
I hope these fonts are big enough for you Magic!
CDG airport is not for the faint hearted. Worse still ,if you have to change terminals with a bus load of recently landed and hopefully showered, Europeans; full of the joys of Spring ,speaking in tongues rather too loud for your delicate condition. You've got a mouth like the bottom of a parrot's cage and Nosmo King has really made you jittery, having posted his damned bumper sticker, seemingly, in every decent spot along the way. Having been through Paris so many times, let me assure you, there are numerous places to light up, once you get off the bus. It will calm your nerves as a nicotine addict but the shaking hands, have to wait until after you've gone through security and the monkey can quench his thirst, with a couple of swift Cote du Rhones, at 8 o'clock in the morning. Smirnoff Black, is innocently sloshing in the security bag but here it's O.K. to have a drink in public. Nobody gives you a second glance - probably cocktail hour in Hong Kong anyway!
The French really know how to stock a duty free shop, so, boarding pass in hand it's "Let's Stock Up Time"! Cognac, Armangnac, Green Chartreuse, Poire William, Glenmorangie, Glenlivet, four packs of Ballentines, Jack Daniels, Crown Royal, Royal Salute, Arak and Saki; they stock it all. A veritable Aladdin's Cave or a death trap, depending on which side of the fence you are sitting. Of course, there is a rationale behind the purchases. The whiskies are for my best friend and his wife (also alcoholics in denial). My wife, loves a good brandy and it goes without saying, that leaving the shores of France without some really, fine wines, at a great price, would be downright ignorant and stupid. Max out the plastic and head back to the watering hole, for a couple before boarding the flight to Bogota.
Isn't it great - Air France again!. Same South American crews as usual and they already have the 2/3 for one game, down to a tee. I'm in my element again and lunch is deliciously washed down, with copious amounts of Sauvigion and generous snifters of Armagnac from First Class. Amazing what a smile can do for sevice quality and, quantity, more importantly; when the flight attendant wears Gucci loafers, gold bracelets and minces up and down the aisle like he's sat in a jalapeno patch. I've used this technique on numerous occassions, as part of my devious repetoire to satisfy the monkey and it's ever firmer grip on my very soul. Time for another nap from the Outer Antilles to touchdown, in Bogota.
Quick stop in the bathroom, before immigration, to brush my teeth again and pop breath mints. I now know that all they do, is have the effect of making one smell as though one has rinsed with Creme de Menthe! No lost bags this time and my wife is cheerily waving from our car, in which, we both pop the tops on a couple of Heinekens, she has thoughtfully brought along with her. Having picked up my eight year old daughter from school, I finally cross the threshold of home, having logged some 30 jet and booze lagged hours, since leaving Arabia half the world away.
To say I'm tired would be an understatement and my boys have called my wife from Dallas, saying they have been diverted and will be landing at 11:00 pm. Instead of doing the sensible thing, of either letting my wife return to the airport alone, or going to bed - no - I decide to fight it and stay up; having given the girls some trinkets purchased in the gold souk in Doha plus the Remy Martin to my wife to sample. You can't let a person drink alone can you? So, you all know what happens next.
No it's worse,; far worse. I awake sitting in an armchair; my two sons are standing in front of me looking not only dumbfounded but angry as well. Quite rightly so, as I hadn't even made the effort to meet them at the airport and was reeking of alcohol, mumbling incoherently. I was too far gone to feel guilty and having nonchalently shown them their room, stumbled to our bed and passed out fully clothed, until the next morning.
With only vague recollections of the night before, my wife proceded to lay into me, like only she can. No defence, no words on my part. Guilty as charged. I'd even gone to the boys' room to make sure it hadn't been a dream. Jesus what a lowlife bastard!
Coffee was seriously needed and something to secretly put in it. But when I went for the stash from Paris, all I found were empty bottles, in the trash.It turned out that my sons had done a very brave deed in pouring the whole lot, down the kitchen sink. They now confronted me in the dining room and all I can say is that, it was thoroughly unpleasant, as years of frustration, doubt and dissolusionment came tumbling out, between heartwrenching sobs and tears from Father and Sons. For the first time in my life, I admitted openly, that I was an alcoholic but it wasn't enough for my youngest (17) and he booked himself straight back, on the first available flight home, leaving one and a half weeks later. If he could have left that morning, he certainly would have.
The next few days were pretty tense and I was going through serious withdrawals, having promised them I was on the wagon for good. Eventually, we all agreed to get along and bridges were built by doing things together as a family, for the first time, without the influence of alcohol. My wife and the boys had the odd beer, while I stayed well clear of the stuff, shaking so badly, that the simple acts of writing or drinking soup, were out of the question. I'd even get the bank teller, to fill out my cheques, because she was sorry for my serious turn for the worse, with my fight aginst Parkinson's Disease. Ever devious and a lying S.O.B. that I was!
The time came for my youngest to leave and at the airport he broke down saying he'd like to stay, as he'd forgiven me and really liked being together, as a family again. Sadly, he'd already checked in and it was last call, so, yet another in a long series of goodbyes, that seems to have been the story of my life, and theirs.
Bash Senior(no names please), stayed with us for 2 more weeks and we continued bonding and making up for all the lost time, since his mother and I divorced in 1994. You never get the time back; but we tried our best. He left happy, that Dad was on the straight and narrow, even to the point that he had removed the label of "Alcoholic", previously stuck, as an afterthought ,whenever thinking about me. He shouldn't have been so hasty, in his youthfull inexperience.
I had lunch at one of the excellent restaurants which abound in Bogota and one glass of wine; led to the whole bottle. They wouldn't be any the wiser, would they? Couldn't see or smell me from a thousand miles away.Sure, I felt guilty having the first glass but after the fifth.... the monkey was back!.
Intensive care, is just what the name implies. The care is round the clock and you can't smoke or do anything that the hospital staff haven't logged you in for. Pee in this measuring cup. This pill now, that one later. Blood checks every 4 hours. Student doctors viewing and discussing your problem like some rat in a tank. They hadn't seen many cases of alcoholic siezure before. I'd had my third in 6 months and was still around, to tell them how it felt. Nothing. Don't remember a thing. My tongue was nearly bitten in half and I was aching all over from the convulsions; the distressed onlookers and my young daughter said I'd had.
Alcoholic siezure - how could that be? I hadn't had a drink for 2 days because of my work. What could alcohol, possibly have to do with it? Typically, I was still rejecting all the diagnosies. Until I left the hospital and my wife took me straight to the Monserrate Drug & Alcohol Center, not far from our house. There was no arguement. You sign in or I sign out of the marriage and take your daughter away to live somewhere else. Hard to believe, but I was still refusing to believe what I had become; as I signed the waiver and was led, confused but rebellious, into a round, glass room with 8 beds and ordered to strip.
UCI (Unidad de Cuidado Intensivo) orderlies took everything I had on my person, including my watch and wedding ring and logged the items in their book, before making labels out of Steristrip and marking them with indelible pen. They did the same with the bag of toiletries, my wife had brought for me. Having been labeled, the items were locked into a drawer, in the single desk. They were only to made available to me on request and only one at a time.
In a backless hospital gown, I was led to one of the beds and thankfully not strapped down with restraints, like some of the other inmates. For the next week, they pumped me full of all manner of drugs and pills, to the point that I didn't care any more and the cries and contortions of the other drug addicts, ceased to bother me. Everything I did, including going to the bathroom and showering ,was closely monitored and duly logged into the book.
They must have reduced the dosages towards the end, because I did notice a slow feeling of coming back to reality. From the USI, I was taken for a drive in the country, which ended at a small, multi-roomed ranch house, set in a large field, surrounded by tall hedges and eucalyptus trees.
I won't go into the humdrum existence of Campo Alegre ,except to say that they too logged and labeled everything. There was a strict time table and discipline was paramount. They had experienced numerous cases of drug addicts either trying to commit suicide or somehow obtaining the drug of their choice, from outside. We all had our own rooms and a 10 minute hot shower at precisely 6:30 am. If you missed it; well the water was freezing, for the rest of the day. Drugs wre administered on a regular basis depending on the individual. In my case, 900 mg Thiamin, Xanax( tranquilizer) & Zolof (anti depressant).
We were allowed our basic toiletries like toothpaste, comb, toothbrush and shampoo but no products that had been culled at the login, as being inhalents or containing alcohol. After about 2 weeks, the doctor in charge, started to reduce my Xanax dosage, at my request. I didn't like the zombie feeling and going to sleep at 11:00 am. After a few days of this regime , I took more notice of my surroundings and something struck me not as odd, but as totally logical. The simple task of combing my hair (what's left of it!) and brushing my teeth was a constant reminder of who I was, and why I was there in the first place. Why? Because everything I used on a regular basis, had a label on it, with my name, staring me, right in the face.
The ritual of taking the vitamin and the anti-depressant, also became a constant reminder as to why, I was there. I had become totally diconnected from the outside world, without contact and could actually only think and reflect on what had brought me to this point. Pretty sobering thoughts, when memories started flooding back, of some of the terrible things I had done and my treatment of friends, family and aquaintances, when under the influence. We all had group therapy and 3 times a week private sessions, with the psychiatrist, a very renowned fellow in his field. Tough guy me, actually had his protective layers peeled away and could face living a life without alcohol,couldn't blame my parents-they seldom drank. It was a disease, which had slowly but surely crept up behind me and it was up to me, and me alone, to face down and hopefully vanquish.
The doctor swore that I wouldn't make it on my own, if I didn't complete the full 3 months in Campo Alegre but he doesn't know me as well as he thinks, from our little chats. It was almost like a challenge; so I threw the glove down and logged out,mostly for financial reasons. Anyone who has been in rehab, can attest to the fact that they put a serious burden on a family's finances; especially, if you are the only breadwinner.
Armed now with only my pride, thiamin, generic Zolof and all my labeled items, I have set out to continue the ritual of reminding myself every single day of what and who I am. I am a recovering alcoholic, otherwise why would I have my name labeled on my comb? To remind me of the darker days, back in June and way before that. The thiamin is another reminder of the damage I've done to my liver, through drink. The Zolof, is a very mild anti-depressant, which in time, will be phased out altogether, when I feel safe enough with myself.
My sons, know nothing of my broken promise, nor will they. I am spending lots more time getting to know my beautiful daughter and she, me, the Dad she really never knew because he was always somewhere else either physically or mentally. My wife has stopped talking of separation. We still keep drink in the house as I refuse to become a lecturing, dogmatic anti-alcaholist. Like intolerant, religious zealots, both can be a right pain in the proverbial backside.
I'm sure there are some folks in my past who have me labeled as an alcoholic; maybe they are right because I am certainly paying daily attention to my own personal ones on everyday items. Even my meds, as they are refered to here, are logged and labeled.
Early days for me. Might a good look at yourself and few labels with your name, remind you of why you're here, taking time to read some words written by a human being, who is in exactly the same predicament as we all are?
BFN and try, try, try again. You are truly worth it you know.
Bashley :byebye: :byebye:
Seems a strange name for a thread but then again, haven't we've seen stranger ones?
I'll get the reason as I go along. Please forgive me if I don't finish it all at once. Like Cosmos, Daniel and The Bushog Story, I seldom have the luxury of undivided attention to anything for very long. There is always something or someone that well... you know how it goes.
For those of you new to MWO, I am a 53 year old male, married (see my profile) and still a Newby and yes, that is me with the cowboy hat, the horseborne, Ray Ban toting alcoholic, in the picture, taken before I fell off !!
I have been drinking steadily from a young age and if you'd like to go back through some older threads(profile) you can see that booze has been my downfall for a number of years and came close to killing me for the third time 6 months ago.
Yes, I am a stubborn, middle-aged horse, ridden hard and been put away wet on countless occassions. Party hearty and never stop; that was me until I finally woke up with a drip in my arm, nostrils stuffed with tubes, a beeping v.s. monitor and no recollection of anything bar, sitting down after a particularly hard night's work in the pouring rain; up to my calves in mud down in Colombia- starting my drilling report at 4:30 in the morning.
As I mentioned this wasn't the first time. But it will certainly be the last and I will endevour in the next few days to cast my then fuddled mind back to events before and after that have changed my life for ever. MWO was one of the events which came after.
RN mentioned tell the kids. This was before; last year actually and after a horrendous thirty hour journey back from Qatar in the Middle East.
You can't bring in or buy alcohol in Doha, the capital, except in 5 star hotels patronized by one of the ruling sheiks. What to they have at the airport? A duty free shop with all the tempting goodies a chap like me has been yearning for! You receive your purchase, which in my case was always a large bottle of vodka (Can't smell it right? Wrong!!) stapled inside a large plastic bag so one could not open it until you arrived at your final destination. It's actually logged and labeled as such on your receipt. Who are they kidding! With 3 hours to wait for the flight to Paris this little jewel is just burning a hole in the cap. So, bearing in mind that you are in a Muslim country, head to the fruit juice parlour and order a large orange juice with no ice(you get more) and ask them to use two wax covered cups beacause as they well know, the cups soon become weak and flimsy. Alcoholics are always devious, so you can't very well just tear open the bag and take a slug right there in front of all the people milling around waiting for their flights. Like a drug addict, the best place for a fix are the toilets, which are crowded and stinky, with wet floors due to the Arab penchant for constantly washing their feet and backsides as part of their ablutions. If a Westerner really had to "go", well, let me tell you - don't think you're going to arrive looking like you just walked out of your closet!
Grab the first stall that becomes free; queuing is not in their culture either so I do mean grab, remembering you are holding the goody bag and your carry-on in one hand and the orange juice in the other. Make lots of coughing noises to cover the glass clinking, bag rustling and distinctive, crisp Zzplink! of the seal breaking on the neck of the bottle poking through the security staples. All kinds of things were going through my paranoic head like; did Abdul Hoomani in the next stall know what the cap on a bottle of Smirnoff Black sounds like? Will the bathroom janitor call the police when he hears the tell tale gurgle of a pint of spirits going into a Big Gulp cup? Bloody hell you can't carry two go cups and luggage, so put a dash of orange into it and chug it down; practically choking as the alcohol starts evaporating as it goes down your gullet and sqirts out of your nose, making your eyes water profusely.
Damn that felt good! O.K. Next step. Next drink of course but this one is for the smoking area and strolling around nonchalently outside. Slot empty cup number one under half full orange and top up with the real "juice". Cap bottle and pull security bag around same, coughing loudly for obvious(only to you) reasons. Flush and exit toilets with a satisfied look on your face having fooled everyone again, including yourself, for the umpteenth time. Time to go walkabout now you've got that familiar buzz going again and it sure passes the time until you have to dump the innocent Big Gulp in the trash and board your flight. You hold your breath at every checkpoint and speak to nobody. We all know it's not because you want to be unsociable or anything...
Jolly good! Made it to my seat without getting arrested or falling asleep in the airport and missing the flight completely. No! Don't act surprised. I've been logged into flights all over the world and passed out, only to find I'd missed them. People are so trusting the other end when you call and make up your lies as to the reason they have been waiting in vain for your arrival the other end. And this works both ways as you will see.
Off the ground now and there's always that intdeterminable delay before some time-worn flight attendant asks what you would like to drink with your meal. Of course you pretend that it will save a lot of effort on their part, if they go ahead and leave a couple to save them coming back and being bothered by the call button. I'm married to an ex-flight attendant and she likes this passenger trait.
A couple more with the meal plus liquors and cognac afterwards - I just love Air France, with their savoire and laissez faire. Now maybe it's time for a little nap accross the Mediterranean and Southern Europe, before suffering the rigours of Charles de Gaulle Airport, long security checks and the pounding hangover which comes with the territory. I drift off hoping that my two sons' reservations are in order for their trip down to Bogota from Pensacola, Florida the same night I arrive.
I hope these fonts are big enough for you Magic!
CDG airport is not for the faint hearted. Worse still ,if you have to change terminals with a bus load of recently landed and hopefully showered, Europeans; full of the joys of Spring ,speaking in tongues rather too loud for your delicate condition. You've got a mouth like the bottom of a parrot's cage and Nosmo King has really made you jittery, having posted his damned bumper sticker, seemingly, in every decent spot along the way. Having been through Paris so many times, let me assure you, there are numerous places to light up, once you get off the bus. It will calm your nerves as a nicotine addict but the shaking hands, have to wait until after you've gone through security and the monkey can quench his thirst, with a couple of swift Cote du Rhones, at 8 o'clock in the morning. Smirnoff Black, is innocently sloshing in the security bag but here it's O.K. to have a drink in public. Nobody gives you a second glance - probably cocktail hour in Hong Kong anyway!
The French really know how to stock a duty free shop, so, boarding pass in hand it's "Let's Stock Up Time"! Cognac, Armangnac, Green Chartreuse, Poire William, Glenmorangie, Glenlivet, four packs of Ballentines, Jack Daniels, Crown Royal, Royal Salute, Arak and Saki; they stock it all. A veritable Aladdin's Cave or a death trap, depending on which side of the fence you are sitting. Of course, there is a rationale behind the purchases. The whiskies are for my best friend and his wife (also alcoholics in denial). My wife, loves a good brandy and it goes without saying, that leaving the shores of France without some really, fine wines, at a great price, would be downright ignorant and stupid. Max out the plastic and head back to the watering hole, for a couple before boarding the flight to Bogota.
Isn't it great - Air France again!. Same South American crews as usual and they already have the 2/3 for one game, down to a tee. I'm in my element again and lunch is deliciously washed down, with copious amounts of Sauvigion and generous snifters of Armagnac from First Class. Amazing what a smile can do for sevice quality and, quantity, more importantly; when the flight attendant wears Gucci loafers, gold bracelets and minces up and down the aisle like he's sat in a jalapeno patch. I've used this technique on numerous occassions, as part of my devious repetoire to satisfy the monkey and it's ever firmer grip on my very soul. Time for another nap from the Outer Antilles to touchdown, in Bogota.
Quick stop in the bathroom, before immigration, to brush my teeth again and pop breath mints. I now know that all they do, is have the effect of making one smell as though one has rinsed with Creme de Menthe! No lost bags this time and my wife is cheerily waving from our car, in which, we both pop the tops on a couple of Heinekens, she has thoughtfully brought along with her. Having picked up my eight year old daughter from school, I finally cross the threshold of home, having logged some 30 jet and booze lagged hours, since leaving Arabia half the world away.
To say I'm tired would be an understatement and my boys have called my wife from Dallas, saying they have been diverted and will be landing at 11:00 pm. Instead of doing the sensible thing, of either letting my wife return to the airport alone, or going to bed - no - I decide to fight it and stay up; having given the girls some trinkets purchased in the gold souk in Doha plus the Remy Martin to my wife to sample. You can't let a person drink alone can you? So, you all know what happens next.
No it's worse,; far worse. I awake sitting in an armchair; my two sons are standing in front of me looking not only dumbfounded but angry as well. Quite rightly so, as I hadn't even made the effort to meet them at the airport and was reeking of alcohol, mumbling incoherently. I was too far gone to feel guilty and having nonchalently shown them their room, stumbled to our bed and passed out fully clothed, until the next morning.
With only vague recollections of the night before, my wife proceded to lay into me, like only she can. No defence, no words on my part. Guilty as charged. I'd even gone to the boys' room to make sure it hadn't been a dream. Jesus what a lowlife bastard!
Coffee was seriously needed and something to secretly put in it. But when I went for the stash from Paris, all I found were empty bottles, in the trash.It turned out that my sons had done a very brave deed in pouring the whole lot, down the kitchen sink. They now confronted me in the dining room and all I can say is that, it was thoroughly unpleasant, as years of frustration, doubt and dissolusionment came tumbling out, between heartwrenching sobs and tears from Father and Sons. For the first time in my life, I admitted openly, that I was an alcoholic but it wasn't enough for my youngest (17) and he booked himself straight back, on the first available flight home, leaving one and a half weeks later. If he could have left that morning, he certainly would have.
The next few days were pretty tense and I was going through serious withdrawals, having promised them I was on the wagon for good. Eventually, we all agreed to get along and bridges were built by doing things together as a family, for the first time, without the influence of alcohol. My wife and the boys had the odd beer, while I stayed well clear of the stuff, shaking so badly, that the simple acts of writing or drinking soup, were out of the question. I'd even get the bank teller, to fill out my cheques, because she was sorry for my serious turn for the worse, with my fight aginst Parkinson's Disease. Ever devious and a lying S.O.B. that I was!
The time came for my youngest to leave and at the airport he broke down saying he'd like to stay, as he'd forgiven me and really liked being together, as a family again. Sadly, he'd already checked in and it was last call, so, yet another in a long series of goodbyes, that seems to have been the story of my life, and theirs.
Bash Senior(no names please), stayed with us for 2 more weeks and we continued bonding and making up for all the lost time, since his mother and I divorced in 1994. You never get the time back; but we tried our best. He left happy, that Dad was on the straight and narrow, even to the point that he had removed the label of "Alcoholic", previously stuck, as an afterthought ,whenever thinking about me. He shouldn't have been so hasty, in his youthfull inexperience.
I had lunch at one of the excellent restaurants which abound in Bogota and one glass of wine; led to the whole bottle. They wouldn't be any the wiser, would they? Couldn't see or smell me from a thousand miles away.Sure, I felt guilty having the first glass but after the fifth.... the monkey was back!.
Intensive care, is just what the name implies. The care is round the clock and you can't smoke or do anything that the hospital staff haven't logged you in for. Pee in this measuring cup. This pill now, that one later. Blood checks every 4 hours. Student doctors viewing and discussing your problem like some rat in a tank. They hadn't seen many cases of alcoholic siezure before. I'd had my third in 6 months and was still around, to tell them how it felt. Nothing. Don't remember a thing. My tongue was nearly bitten in half and I was aching all over from the convulsions; the distressed onlookers and my young daughter said I'd had.
Alcoholic siezure - how could that be? I hadn't had a drink for 2 days because of my work. What could alcohol, possibly have to do with it? Typically, I was still rejecting all the diagnosies. Until I left the hospital and my wife took me straight to the Monserrate Drug & Alcohol Center, not far from our house. There was no arguement. You sign in or I sign out of the marriage and take your daughter away to live somewhere else. Hard to believe, but I was still refusing to believe what I had become; as I signed the waiver and was led, confused but rebellious, into a round, glass room with 8 beds and ordered to strip.
UCI (Unidad de Cuidado Intensivo) orderlies took everything I had on my person, including my watch and wedding ring and logged the items in their book, before making labels out of Steristrip and marking them with indelible pen. They did the same with the bag of toiletries, my wife had brought for me. Having been labeled, the items were locked into a drawer, in the single desk. They were only to made available to me on request and only one at a time.
In a backless hospital gown, I was led to one of the beds and thankfully not strapped down with restraints, like some of the other inmates. For the next week, they pumped me full of all manner of drugs and pills, to the point that I didn't care any more and the cries and contortions of the other drug addicts, ceased to bother me. Everything I did, including going to the bathroom and showering ,was closely monitored and duly logged into the book.
They must have reduced the dosages towards the end, because I did notice a slow feeling of coming back to reality. From the USI, I was taken for a drive in the country, which ended at a small, multi-roomed ranch house, set in a large field, surrounded by tall hedges and eucalyptus trees.
I won't go into the humdrum existence of Campo Alegre ,except to say that they too logged and labeled everything. There was a strict time table and discipline was paramount. They had experienced numerous cases of drug addicts either trying to commit suicide or somehow obtaining the drug of their choice, from outside. We all had our own rooms and a 10 minute hot shower at precisely 6:30 am. If you missed it; well the water was freezing, for the rest of the day. Drugs wre administered on a regular basis depending on the individual. In my case, 900 mg Thiamin, Xanax( tranquilizer) & Zolof (anti depressant).
We were allowed our basic toiletries like toothpaste, comb, toothbrush and shampoo but no products that had been culled at the login, as being inhalents or containing alcohol. After about 2 weeks, the doctor in charge, started to reduce my Xanax dosage, at my request. I didn't like the zombie feeling and going to sleep at 11:00 am. After a few days of this regime , I took more notice of my surroundings and something struck me not as odd, but as totally logical. The simple task of combing my hair (what's left of it!) and brushing my teeth was a constant reminder of who I was, and why I was there in the first place. Why? Because everything I used on a regular basis, had a label on it, with my name, staring me, right in the face.
The ritual of taking the vitamin and the anti-depressant, also became a constant reminder as to why, I was there. I had become totally diconnected from the outside world, without contact and could actually only think and reflect on what had brought me to this point. Pretty sobering thoughts, when memories started flooding back, of some of the terrible things I had done and my treatment of friends, family and aquaintances, when under the influence. We all had group therapy and 3 times a week private sessions, with the psychiatrist, a very renowned fellow in his field. Tough guy me, actually had his protective layers peeled away and could face living a life without alcohol,couldn't blame my parents-they seldom drank. It was a disease, which had slowly but surely crept up behind me and it was up to me, and me alone, to face down and hopefully vanquish.
The doctor swore that I wouldn't make it on my own, if I didn't complete the full 3 months in Campo Alegre but he doesn't know me as well as he thinks, from our little chats. It was almost like a challenge; so I threw the glove down and logged out,mostly for financial reasons. Anyone who has been in rehab, can attest to the fact that they put a serious burden on a family's finances; especially, if you are the only breadwinner.
Armed now with only my pride, thiamin, generic Zolof and all my labeled items, I have set out to continue the ritual of reminding myself every single day of what and who I am. I am a recovering alcoholic, otherwise why would I have my name labeled on my comb? To remind me of the darker days, back in June and way before that. The thiamin is another reminder of the damage I've done to my liver, through drink. The Zolof, is a very mild anti-depressant, which in time, will be phased out altogether, when I feel safe enough with myself.
My sons, know nothing of my broken promise, nor will they. I am spending lots more time getting to know my beautiful daughter and she, me, the Dad she really never knew because he was always somewhere else either physically or mentally. My wife has stopped talking of separation. We still keep drink in the house as I refuse to become a lecturing, dogmatic anti-alcaholist. Like intolerant, religious zealots, both can be a right pain in the proverbial backside.
I'm sure there are some folks in my past who have me labeled as an alcoholic; maybe they are right because I am certainly paying daily attention to my own personal ones on everyday items. Even my meds, as they are refered to here, are logged and labeled.
Early days for me. Might a good look at yourself and few labels with your name, remind you of why you're here, taking time to read some words written by a human being, who is in exactly the same predicament as we all are?
BFN and try, try, try again. You are truly worth it you know.
Bashley :byebye: :byebye:
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