Perforation

Compulsion:  An irrational need to perform some action, often despite negative consequences.

Long ago Spandex told me a story of a visit he made to a mental health professional because he was worried about his tendency to what he imagined were unhealthy obsessive-compulsive thinking patterns.  Spandex is no more and no less OC than I am - sort of a normal worry-wart in my opinion.  My recollection is that the MHP told him pretty quickly that he wasn't obsessive compulsive.  My recollections are frequently wrong but I like this story so I'm going to present it as fact.

When I was talking with my dentist about a plan of action for my troublesome teeth I urged him to try to double up on the work.  If he was going to numb one side of my face I figured drill, baby, drill - get as much done in that general vicinity as possible.  In fact, I'm not adverse to a threesome which, in my experience, has never come to pass.  A twosome is hard enough to accomplish.

The dentist said that he had plenty of patients who were so consumed by anxiety at the prospect of a high speed drill burrowing dangerously close to highly sensitive nerve endings that he would never suggest more than one tooth at a time.  For me the real battle is worrying about what may happen, something that is almost always not as bad as what actually happens.  I'd rather think about two teeth being fixed once than one tooth at a time being fixed twice.  It's the anticipation, baby

My dentist calls on his drive home after an invasive procedure.  It's really cool.  I like the guy anyhow but knowing that I'm going to get that call is calming.  After one particularly invasive procedure I told him that my mouth hurt - I was mildly worried that this was a sign of mouth cancer!! or something worse!!! 

"Based on what we did today I'd expect that," he said.  "The important thing is that we see some steady improvement over the next few days.  You let me know if that doesn't happen."  KK always says it hurts because you're healing.  I figure: fuck that, it's some kind of invasive cancer.

I have been reflecting on the aftermath of the oral surgeon affair.  Don't get me wrong - this guy was great, he got me in to deal with my aching tooth on an hour's notice, and I'd recommend him to anyone unequivocally.  And after the procedure he mentioned something about the oral cavity to sinus perforation, that it was a possibility and that if something happened we'd have to do something about it.  It was a pretty brutal procedure and I was a little . . . not traumatized . . . more stunned is the word so I didn't ask any follow up questions and I was probably a little lacking in my post-op fact retention.

Now if this guy had taken two minutes to go over the symptoms and the solutions and the possibilities of a perforation he would have saved me a whole hell of a lot of mental anguish.  I knew the perf might happen and that it could be addressed but I didn't know how I would know  there was a puncture and how quickly it needed to be addressed and if I could fly on a plane, stuff like that.  Frankly, I would have gone through the procedure again rather than endure the anxiety of imagining something was horribly, horribly wrong.

Perforation would be an excellent name for a rock band.

Influenced and Controlled by Evil Spirits

Obsession:  A compulsive or irrational preoccupation; an unhealthy fixation; influence or control by evil spirits without possession.

So I'm hanging out this morning with my favorite and most popular obsession - the dire state of my body, and I'm not letting the fact that there isn't anything really dire going on stop me from obsessing.  God forbid I ever have anything truly serious happen to me.  Yet, if I live long enough something dire is surely going to happen.  I'm one of the few people alive who hopes that a large truck plows into me today so I don't have to face my mortality in a slow, thoughtful way.  My general synopsis of anything that has to do with my physical plant is that it's cancer, it's terminal, and it's going to take me out slowly and with great malice of forethought.  Makes the truck fantasy look pretty attractive, doesn't it.

I've been on about a week's run of sinus to oral cavity perforation.  This is a real thing, believe it or not, that is occasionally associated with the violent and forcible removal of an upper molar.  At least my obsession du jour has a damned cool name.  The fact that it's pretty rare isn't stopping me from obsessing about it; neither is the fact that when it does occur it usually resolves on its own.

Because I'm irritated that I'm once again focusing on my health I decided to pull out my old journals, all of which have thoughts logged into my ongoing Anxiety List, where I jot down whatever is troubling me during the course of a day.  Thankfully, the log is often empty and when there is an entry it's usually some topical problem that gets taken care of quickly, either by an obvious action or by a little patient waiting.  And unsurprisingly, health worries dominate the list.  Irritatingly to the Nth degree I see that most of the things I worry about do not come to pass and that they resolve of their own accord, after the passage of some time.  Waiting is called for and I wait for no man.

I'm the kind of guy who expects an injury to heal the next day.  I'm not thrilled with the tendency of my body to take its fucking time to get better and I'm incensed that the amount of time is increasing as I get older.

Old:  For a living being, having lived for most of the expected years; of a perishable item, having existed for most, or more than its shelf life.  (Ed Note: there are a ton of nuanced usages of the word "old."  I say checkitout).

"So how's the tooth?" my dentist asked at my last sitting.

I paused, delivered my well-rehearsed line: "I'm battling the reality of the tooth with my tendency to imagine the worst possible outcome of anything that has to do with my body."

He chuckled: "I think we all have a tendency to do that to a certain degree."

A few days later, tired of the anxiety, I called the oral surgeon to give him an update and solicit any emergency instructions.  The medical tech tried to reassure me with some facts and figures, said that the doctor was with a patient but that she would talk to him and call back if there was anything of concern."

"Oh, c'mon," I teased.  "You're not going to call me back irregardless of what he says?"  I figure even if he delivers a hammer blow of devastatingly bad news she still might forget to keep me in the loop, leaving me to interpret a non-call as confirmation of disaster.  Not being solicitous of my well-being is all part of the universal conspiracy.

I assured her that wasn't necessary, that I would see them in a few days unless something was going on that needed to accelerate the appointment, sharing my tendency to imagine cancer! terminal cancer!! terminal incurable cancer!!! to every ache and pain.

She tsked and clucked and giggled: "Yeah, I know, I'm like that, too."

I always imagine that all of my free-floating fears and anxieties are unique to me, that I'm some kind of obsessive-compulsive freak.

I Mentor People Alright

This morning I got up at 4:30 so that I could have my yoga/devotion time before heading over to the morning meeting - good even though I didn't speak - and came home for breakfast.  Then off to the pool where I attempted not to drown for about 35 minutes.  I stopped by my regular coffee shop afterwards where one of the young people that serves me my overpriced specialty coffee drink followed up my inquiry as to his well-being with this response:  "And how about you - are you just getting your day started?"  

It was almost noon.  I chuckled to myself before ticking off my activity line-up.  I always tell people when I've been to a meeting.  It's what I did and I don't really care what anyone thinks anymore.  Most people make some positive noises or treat the comment as if I said I'd been to the farmer's market.   Who knows?  Maybe it'll resonate with somebody at some point.

"Good for you," he said.  "You should be proud of yourself."  He looked to be about 22.

I stifled another chortle.  

"I've been doing it for almost 30 years," I said gently with what I hope was a total absence of condescension.  I didn't want him to think that I was just hanging on for dear life even though most of the time I'm just hanging on for dear life.

"So do you like mentor people?" he asked.

I laughed this time.

"Really, we're all kind of mentoring each other," I said.  "Although I'm somewhat more . . . ahem . . . mature than a lot of the other members and I've been at it for a while so hopefully I can share some of my experience to anyone who's getting started."

I liked the whole exchange.  I always wonder what your average Earth Person thinks when I say I've been to a meeting.  I like looking for the reaction. It's similar, I think, when I say that my favorite band is Black Sabbath.  I'm in my little suit jacket, kind of calm looking and pleasant in mien and expression, not an image of drunken, wasted, Sabbath-blasting ne'er do well.

The Sounds of Silence

Silence:  The lack of any sounds.

A couple of weeks back a friend of mine from The Program invited SuperK and me to accompany his wife and him on a day trip to a large botanical garden/art museum complex about an hour away from our house.  It really sounded great.  We like to do this kind of stuff and it's helpful to have someone with experience navigating the bizarre network of 10 lane freeways that strangle the Vacation City area.  It also, alas, sounded like a long day for an anti-social, introverted, malcontent like me.  These people are really nice.   Really nice.  Smart, well-read, well-traveled, people that we have lot in common with.  And as a general rule people in the great state of Vacation City have a well-earned reputation for being laid-back and really nice.

Meh with the really nice.  I'm not all that enamored with really nice.  I tend to get along better with mildly sullen, somewhat cynical, less-than-enthusiastic people.  If you're sort of pissed off about something that you can't put your finger on then I'm more likely to want to hang out with you.  Not so much  if you're one of those people who think everything is great! just great!!

I thought I did pretty well.  I enjoyed the hour drive to the gardens and I enjoyed the first couple of hours walking around the vegetation with three other very chatty people and I enjoyed about half the lunch, sitting on a patio overlooking a lake that divided the Chinese gardens from the Japanese gardens.  Again there was no dead air.  Talking, talking, talking, I was ready to scream if someone said one more thing about anything.  It didn't have anything to do with who was talking or what they were talking about - I was tired of the sound of other people's voices talking about anything.

With me it's like flipping a switch, this change.  I'm OK and then I'm right on the verge of killing the next person who opens their mouth to share some wonderful, quirky anecdote.  I don't want them asking me questions, either.  I want to wander off and sit quietly, looking at the lovely scene spread out in front of me, with no voices, zero voices, bouncing off my tympanic membranes.

I was adrift and bereft for a bit, then rallied over a late afternoon cup of coffee, with more non-stop chatting, before completely, utterly flaming out for the drive home.  I was considering opening the door and throwing myself into oncoming traffic just to stop the voices in my head.  I wanted to ask: "So . . . what do you think of the phrase 'companionable silence?' " but I was already in the shit with my wife.  Asking everyone to name a sum of money that would buy their silence was right out of the question.

That car ride home still gives me The Shivers when I think of it.

Toss In The Towel

I want to reach out and touch the sky.
I want to touch the sun but I don't need to fly.
I'm gonna climb up every mountain of the moon,
And find a distant man a-waving his spoon

I've crossed the ocean, turned every bend.
I found the crossing near a golden rainbow's end.
I've been through magic and through life's reality.
I've lived a thousand years and it never bothered me.

Got no religion, don't need no friends,
Got all I want and I don't need to pretend.
Don't try to reach me, 'cause I'd tear up your mind.
I've seen the future and I've left it behind.

Hey, what can I tell you?  Instead of thinking up something to write I decided to cut and paste some Sabbath lyrics.

More About Me, Or What Did You Expect?

I'm sorry to keep harping on this INTJ thing.  SuperK shrugs and walks away when I bring it up: "You've really got to stop thinking about yourself."  She has not been impressed by my insistence that the whole point of the blog is to write about myself.  Why would I write about someone else unless that person is annoying me in some way?  

I think the whole issue came to the forefront when I was listening to the Bookstore lady, the one who misinterpreted my listening look as deafness.  I am definitely not getting cooler as I age.  Believe it or not self-knowledge can serve a point if one uses the information to change oneself. It's not as helpful if it's used as a defense for bad behavior; as in, "well, that's just the way I am."

I keep going back to the idea that I'm part nature, part nurture, and part the result of conscious decisions that I make each and every day.  If I use this info to become better, that's got to be good.  For example, I now catch myself listening to someone I don't know well with furrowed brow and squinched eyes, leaning in, head cocked, and wonder if I'm coming across as a little too intense.

So I ran across this info . . . 

"The INTJ Stare - also affectionately known as the INTJ Death Stare - is often misinterpreted by others.  The INTJ may be seen glaring in someone’s direction, or off into a random space in the room.  Their expression may be rather intense and even like they are angry about something. They probably have people continuously asking them if they are okay when this stare occurs.  The INTJ is often perplexed when someone asks them this, since they are usually perfectly fine when they are giving this intense expression.  The INTJ often does not realize that their face appears angry or rather intense to others, since this is not from anger.  The INTJ often delivers a very piercing look with their eyes, which can make others feel very uncomfortable.  This is often an expression that feels intense to others, almost void of emotion.  For some INTJs it may appear like a deer in headlights look, while with others it is a rather intense piercing stare."

To Solve A Mystery

Solution: An act, plan, or other means, used or proposed, to solve a problem.  

One of the greatest characteristics of The Fellowship is our relentless pursuit of The Solution.  No matter what we're going through, no matter how bad it seems, we're always striving to look on the bright side, to admit that we don't know what's best for us in the long run, and that stuff that seems to be bad often ends up being good.  We are reminded that our total, single-minded focus on getting what we want and avoiding what we don't want hasn't worked out very well.

I was in my late 20s when I staggered, stumbled into The Rooms, still completely unwilling to cede any control of my life to anyone or anything else.  I was convinced that I was right on the verge of turning it all around.  That there was not a sliver of evidence that this was so deterred me not at all.

"How old are you, Seaweed?" someone asked.  "And how are things working out for you?"

Not very well, I had to concede.

"Maybe you should try something different then," was the response.  "Maybe you don't know what you're doing.  Maybe you should take some suggestions from people that have - you know - jobs and cars and shit."

At that juncture I was still a member of the Problem People clan.  I didn't do solution stuff.   I could find the dark cloud in anything.  Nothing was ever enough with me and today I still have a tendency to head right back to the Down escalator.

When I was lying in the chair at the Oral Surgeon's office, looking up at four people in scrubs, wearing face masks - it's never a good thing when there are more than two people getting ready to work on you and god forbid you see one of those elevated galleries ringing the room, filled with observers saying: "Did you hear what they're doing to Seaweed?  I gotta see this for myself" -  I was able to channel some inner gratitude that I had people who knew what they were doing ready to fix my tooth problem and I had the money to do it. 

That was no small accomplishment.

AFGO

Extract:  To draw out; to pull out; to remove forcibly from a fixed position.  (Ed Note:  That is the best definition I've used in a long time).

For some reason my blog - ostensibly about the here and the there of recovery issues - has turned into a screed on my dental problems.  Excuse me - my dental challenges.  An old friend likes the acronym AFGO: Another Doggone Growth Opportunity, roughly.  But I am getting older rather than younger and shit is starting to break.  What can I tell you.  Shit wears out.

My sore tooth - or whatever scraps of tooth material still survived the aborted Root Canal, lurking deep in my dark gums - did not improve overnight.  Deterioration would be a better word.  It hurt to eat, even when I chewed on the other side, and it hurt to drink coffee, which is a crime against humanity, seeing as a large cup of caffeine was just what I needed before a stressful dental appointment.  I've never felt like a lucky guy on the occasions when I had to go to the dentist to get two cavities filled but I was happy to be in the chair at 8AM on a Monday morning.  The decision was to get in to see the Oral Surgeon sooner rather than later.  Fine by me because my mouth hurt.

"What does your week look like?" my fine and excellent cavity-filling but apparently not tooth-pulling dentist said.

Wide open.

"If he can get you in today?  Like - this morning?"

I don't really know what an Oral Surgeon is.  A doctor?  A dentist?  An endodontist?  Periodontist?  A fucking orthodontist?  I heard the word apicoectomy tossed around with a far too casual air, similar to a car mechanic warning me that my Johnson Rod was in poor shape.

The Oral Surgeon was, for a while, my Worst Enemy, before becoming my Best Friend.  That troublesome tooth is in shards and no more for this world.  My mouth feels better with that dude gone than it did with that dude in.  

It was an interesting experience having a tooth pulled.  I was a little more anxious than normal because it was my first tooth extraction - I have a little history with the other stuff, cavities and crowns and root canals and the like, so I know what to expect.  The extraction wasn't painful, exactly, more an exhibition of pulling and wrenching while a nice woman held my head in a fixed position.  And the Oral Surgeon can call out the names of a lot of fancy sounding surgical instruments but it's really not much more than a guy with strong hands using a pliers to pull out a tooth.  A few times he had to kind of twist the tooth shards back and forth while I waited for the sharp Crack! that meant a piece of tooth had succumbed.  

And the blood.  Lots of blood.  I'm sucking on a piece of cotton as I type.

Working the InterWeb

I spent some time scrolling through various InterWeb posts that popped up as a result of my search: Pain After A Root Canal.  I think I should have searched for information on Having Brain Permanently Removed.  Is it possible to live without your brain?  I can see how my life would be less complicated if I didn't have one of those troublesome organs.  My understanding is that it's hard to get along without a brain stem which controls blood pressure and heart rate and internal temperature and other basic maintenance functions but do we really need the other stuff?  In my case it seems to be more of a burden than a blessing.

Yesterday my tooth felt fine.  Today, a little less fine as the day progressed.  This would seem to be as it should be seeing as I had my mouth brutalized not 48 hours ago.  Still, it's more fun to project disaster and the InterWeb didn't disappoint.  One of my favorite commentaries on medical web sites comes from - you guessed it - The Simpson's where one of the characters, fearful that she's having a stroke, finds that one of the surest indicators is a strong fear that you're having a stroke.  Self-fulfilling prophesy indeed.

As I left the swim club today I chatted for a while with a woman who has really been struggling with her teeth.  She showed up wearing braces a while back - at 53 years of age - so I've been inquiring after her health.  It turns out that she and her husband - a teacher - took out a $29,000 loan to pay for this work.  It surely made my problems shrink a bit.

More Thoughts on Prayer

I don't know about this praying thing.  It can be fraught with punji sticks and booby traps and weird, strange shifts of perspective.  I didn't do it for a long time in recovery and I think my spiritual growth suffered.  Then I sort of probed around the fringes of the practice, wary of nasty surprises.  Then I got sort of carried away and filled my Quiet Time with more and more prayers. That leaves me where I am today, wherever that is.

There's a tendency on my part to overthink the purpose of prayer.  There's a tendency on my part to overthink everything.  I overthink the concept of thinking, for chrissake.  Anyway, my perception is that a lot of people believe that if you pray then you can change god's mind about an issue or get him to do something that he wouldn't ordinarily do unless the specific prayer you're offering up reaches god's ears or whatever he uses to hear with.  That seems a little candy machine-esque to me.  Walk up to the god candy machine, make a selection, feed in some money, pull a lever, and out comes your treat.  If you don't put in your coins you don't get a treat but if you put in your coins then you get exactly what you want.

My god isn't short of cash, mister.

I was mixing in a selfless prayer with a selfish request for a specific result aka my Root Canal; namely, that I wanted to avoid a Root Canal.  You know the kind of prayer where you pray for whatever the fuck you want and justify it by tacking on an "if it be thy will" qualifying addendum.  Like god is going to look more favorably on a selfish, self-centered prayer if I pretend like I give a shit what he's thinking.   My mama convinced me it was OK to do this but it has always felt a little dicey, like it's a purchase or a contract or something.  On the other hand, how crappy is the thought that your prayers might just dissipate in the spiritual atmosphere, so much cosmic flotsam and jetsam?  Maybe the praying is for me and me only - maybe it changes me and that's all it does.  It's too weird to think that I can get god to go along with what I want done as long as I offer up a supplication.  Very transactional, don't you think?

So I get in to have my tooth fixed and the cavity is deep enough so that I have to have a Root Canal.  Apparently god decided to go with the "thy will be done" part instead of the "if it would be OK not to have to have a Root Canal that would be great with me" part.  I bet he saw through my naked self-interest in this prayer.  But now I feel like I wasted a lot of time praying.  If I'm not going to get what I want I don't see the point in putting in the effort.

Seriously, I was fine with the outcome.  It was the worst possible outcome but once I got my mind around the procedure it didn't seem that bad.  So I didn't do any praying about the Root Canal before my Root Canal appointment.  My thinking is that I got screwed with a Root Canal so what do I have to pray for?  It's the worst of all possible outcomes.  God can't really do anything for me at this point.  He's lowered the boom.  He's called in his chit.  He hath saith: "Root Canal!!"

Seriously, I left this part of my devotion off my prayer regimen because I wasn't upset about it.  I took my lumps and I didn't feel cursed.

The Root Canal procedure lent a great deal of credence to the power, the force, behind any phrase that ends with "it was like having a Root Canal," as in: "That play was so bad it was like having a etc etc etc."  I was in the chair for a long time.  The Novocaine eliminated the pain but it's still not great having all that drilling done in your mouth which is forced into an unnatural angle by all of the equipment and hands being stuck in there.  

Unfortunately for me the dentist started doing some mumbling under his breath about a crack in the tooth.  It's never good when your medical professional starts mumbling to himself.  Now I think: "Uh-Oh, maybe there's something worse than a Root Canal."  I can't imagine what that would be.  What's worse than a Root Canal?  That seemed to me to be the worst of all outcomes but it's beginning to look like there's something even worse than that.  It hardly seems fair.  I begin to regret the fact that I didn't make a specific supplication to my god concerning the Root Canal.  Remember now that I'm very conflicted about praying for specifics already yet I think that this may be some punishment for something I didn't do.

What a whimsical, cruel god I have today!

At one point I looked at my watch.  The dentist asked if I was good with time.  If I could have spoken I would have said: "Naw, I'm going to walk out of here right now with a mouth full of dental apparatus, you ass."  Actually, I felt like I had been sitting there for a year.

The point is that the tooth is irreparably damaged and has to come out.  One and one half hours of drilling and the dentist can't do a Root Canal.  There is something worse than a Root Canal.

Oral Surgeon:  

Esophageal Varices

Esophageal Varices:  Abnormal, enlarged veins in the tube that connects the throat and stomach (esophagus).  This condition occurs most often in people with serious liver diseases.  Esophageal varices develop when normal blood flow to the liver is blocked by a clot or scar tissue in the liver. To go around the blockages, blood flows into smaller blood vessels that aren't designed to carry large volumes of blood.  The vessels can leak blood or even rupture, causing life-threatening bleeding.

A few months back I had a couple of conversations with a man whose son lives in The Old City.  The son - amazingly enough - was attending a meeting I regularly visited and speaking with a couple of men that I know well.  In my conversations with the dad I was able to vouch for these excellent, excellent guys, easing his mind a bit.

The son was a hard case, having been hospitalized a few times for esophageal bleeding and other complications stemming from his drinking.  He had entered a treatment center but quickly left, objecting to one of their requirements: not working for a while to concentrate solely on recovery His excuse - admirable in intention - was that he owed child support and wanted to keep earning money to pay down his debt.

After another hospitalization his organs failed and he died.  Forty years old.  How important is that money now?  How important is anything that gets in the way of our recovery?

Being a writer I sent the dad the following note:

Writing has been my creative outlet over the years and I've especially enjoyed - or at least learned from - writing about my own recovery.  I think it's pretty hard to bullshit yourself when you're writing to yourself, you know?  What's the point?

So waxing philosophical . . . .

I've been struck by how often I read that pain is unavoidable and that pain is part of life and that pain is just about the only way I grow.  Pain is inevitable - suffering is optional.  I like the line: "Pain is the touchstone of all spiritual growth."  There's a lot of stuff in our Program literature about pain being part of the process.

I read a lot of spiritual stuff and my latest effort is another trip back through the New Testament.  I found this in Romans recently: "We can rejoice, too, when we run into problems and trials for we know that they are good for us - they help us learn to be patient.  And patience develops strength of character and helps us trust God more each time . . . "  I'm sure I would have found something similar if I had been reading in the text of another religion - you mentioned a priest giving the homily at your son's funeral so this passage might be apropos.

I'd also suggest finding a grief group to join.  In the last year I lost my mother and my father and Ken H, my sponsor of 25 years, a man who was more important in my life than my own dad.  I started going to a grief group loosely run by one of the pastors and a retired psychologist at this hippy-dippy non-denominational church that is the site of my 7AM morning meeting.  I've learned so much about loss.  That there is no right way or wrong way to grieve; that it takes whatever time it takes to get through the worst of it - there's no set time frame to adhere to; that grief can come from all kinds of places - there are people there who have lost parents and spouses and children, who are getting divorced or have recently retired, who have lost pets; that grief can express itself in depression or anxiety or guilt or anger, and sometimes in all of these and in no particular order.  With some of the folks I roll my eyes and think "you should be over this" and with some of them I don't know how they get out of bed in the morning and all stages in between.

And there's nothing worse than having someone not in the middle of a problem suggesting ways to get through a problem.  If there's something that resonates here - great.  If not, please take it in the spirit in which it was given.

Hey, I had two crowns done Monday and I have a 1PM root canal appt tomorrow.  That make you feel any better?

Humble-Brag

Humblebrag: Subtly letting others know about how fantastic your life is while undercutting it with a bit of self-effacing humor.  E.g., "Just ate about fifteen pieces of chocolate - gotta learn to control myself when flying first class or they'll cancel my modelling contract."

I don't mention the length of my sobriety very often in meetings.  I don't want to be part of that group of people who manage to work in what they see as impressive parts of their personal story every time they talk: how long they've been sober or how many people they supervise or how much money they made in their heyday.  Sometimes I think it serves a point because it can be an example of how our struggle to grow is never-ending.  We get better at things - we don't often get done with things.

I share this dentist-related update.

After the whole shitload of bad news I got during my first visit to my new dentist I immediately took the stance that this guy is a lying, thieving, conniving, money-grubbing piece of shit who is trying to screw me out of every dime that I have.  There is, of course, no factual evidence to support this.  It is, you see, a perfect example of blaming someone else for problems that are usually of my own making.  It's like complaining about the cop who gives you the speeding ticket. The problem is the speeding but it's a lot easier to bitch about the cop because it transfers the result of my lousy behavior onto someone else.  Very popular with alcoholics.

Because I believe I'm in a Solution-based Program - not a Problem-based Program - I go into my solution stance.  In this case I recite drone-like that I have a good dentist and that I have the money to do the work.  After about a day I no longer hate the dentist although I suspect his motives still.  And I'm upset, which seems fair as the work is going to involve a lot of needles being stuck into my gums, and not for free, let me tell you what.

I continue my mantra and after a few more days I'm at peace with the situation.  Still nervous but not on the offensive.  I'm encouraged that the first appointment doesn't lead to the worst-case scenario, and this helps calm my mind about future possibilities.  So I'm not as upset when the second appointment does show more extensive damage.  I was all worked up for appointment one, and for no good reason, and not at all worked up for appointment two, and bad shit happened, and I don't really care.

My opening gambit was not to do any of the work and to get a second opinion to booth just so I could show this guy how little trust I had in him.  Slowly I decided to fix the most egregious damage but not address a tooth more.  Then I'm going to do some more of the work, then I'm going to fix every fucking tooth that shows the slightest hint of decay.

It's why we go to the dentist, right?  To have damaged teeth repaired.  Why go if I'm going to refuse to do anything the dentist says to do?  It just makes no sense.

So the point is this: almost 30 years of sobriety and I still suffer unnecessarily.  I know intellectually what is what but the emotional reaction can still be guttural, forceful, unmoored to reality.  I still have to step through.

The Flaming Squirrel Cage

There's a story in our text about a man who stops by a restaurant for lunch and decides at some point that he could have a shot of whiskey as long as he put it in a glass of milk.  He tries this a few times during one luncheon with sterling results until he drinks a lot more and wakes up in Peoria, IL, unsure as to how he got there.  I know the question that's on everyone's mind: why the hell would anyone ruin a good glass of whiskey by mixing it with the vile fluid that comes from the teats of a mama cow?  I tried literally every drink known to man but I never mixed a perfectly good liquor with milk.  Bleech.

I used to do medicinal LSD so I'm not qualified to comment in depth on this story.

One of the most popular images of the morning meeting the last few weeks has been The Flaming Squirrel Cage.  It's pretty common to have someone talk about getting on the treadmill or into the hamster cage, but a guy adding the flaming part has really struck a cord.  I can just see myself, hung-over, beat to shit, still singed from a long day in The Flaming Squirrel Cage, getting up and walking dejectedly over to the smoldering contraption, ladling a goodly amount of gasoline all over it, lighting a match and then climbing in, one more time, one more time.

There was a woman attending her first meeting today.  She was overdressed.  I'm guessing she expected a different crowd than the one she got.  I still say the bravest thing I ever did, the hardest thing, was walking into my first meeting.

The Process

Process:  A series of events which produce a result.

More Grief Group stuff  . . . 

I'm glad I'm going to this group.  It has made me realize that grief takes all shapes and forms, and that grief doesn't have a set of procedures that take a certain amount of time and progress a standard way.  I see from my grief mates that there are all kinds of triggers and intensities and durations, and they're all good and normal and just really fine and OK, unless they're not, and that may take a while to figure out, or longer than that.  I see that there is a tendency for most of us to think: "I'm doing this wrong because I'm not where I should be at this point."

As in most areas of my life I'm incredibly glad that I have The Fellowship especially, in this grief arena, the fellowship part of The Fellowship.  I can't emphasize enough how often I think when someone is sharing in the Grief Group: "This poor woman doesn't have anyone to talk to about this stuff outside of a paid professional."  It makes me grateful that I have the Program part - the Steps - and that I also have the Fellowship part - the people.  I'm confident that I could get and stay sober on a remote atoll if I diligently worked The Steps but it sure enough is nice having people to bounce my weirdness off of.

I am reminded in so many areas of my life how effective the trudging part of anything can be.  I know I talk about The Process where I dutifully try to do all of the things that I know are good for me and then trust that, in the long run, everything is going to work out well.  It's frustrating when you're in the shit, though.  I get that, too.  There's nothing more frustrating than being in the shit and having some joker tell you that everything is going to be OK in the long run.

One of the women in the Grief Group is going through a divorce - after 25 years of marriage - that was initiated by her husband who, of course, has a new girlfriend already.  This woman is pissed.  I get that, too.  I'm also grateful for a program that constantly forces me back into the self-analytical, introspective part of things.  While I get to stand on my own two feet as a child of god, not groveling or sniveling in front of anyone, I'm still expected to do most of my sweeping on my side of the street.  You can have ten feet of rubble and detritus on your side of the street and it's none of my business, assuming of course it isn't blocking my driveway.  Then I need to speak up.

I am reminded of the suggestion that my best prayers are always ones that have others in mind and that they always include the crucial phrase "If it be thy will."  Or "If it be your will" if you want to stay away from Ye Olde English.  I think I can pray for specific things as long as I add that qualifier.  "I'd like my estranged husband to contract flesh-eating disease, if it be thy will." That kind of thing.

I'm glad to say that I think my most important contribution in the group is to be an ass in a seat so that some of these folks have an audience.