Semantic Maze of Circular Logic

Semantic:  Of or relating to the meanings of words.

I'm afraid I'm in trapped way down deep in one of those semantic mazes of circular logic.  If I sit quietly, take a deep breath, and let my mind fill it's always the same thing right now.  I have nothing new to say so I'm condemned to repeating myself over and over and over . . . 

I want to help but I don't see the point in offering help to someone who doesn't want to be helped.  It's a waste of my time and it's an annoyance to the person I'm tormenting.  I don't like Brussels sprouts so quit telling me about the great new sauce you have for Brussels sprouts.  I can still taste the Brussels sprout flavor which I find objectionable.  Unless you have chocolate sauce dissolved in marshmallows and coated with melted Velveeta it's enough with the Brussels sprouts, already.

So much of my worldview is shaped by The Program.  If someone wants help we'll go to the wall trying to provide it - if they don't, we let them be.  There is nothing worse to an active alcoholic than having someone who isn't drinking telling you to stop except, of course, not being able to drink at all.  This is the 12th circle of hell.  This is infinitely worse.  A good drunk can parry the thrusts of the most dedicated proselytizer.  

So here's my father refusing to make use of any services, getting more and more miserable.  I'm buying into this bullshit a little but not too much, I'm proud to say.  Last night he stunned me by saying he wanted to go down to dinner.  There was a line to get into the dining room - maybe a five minute wait.  The muttering and bitching started.  "Where do you have to be?" I wanted to ask.  We were seated with a couple of very nice women who live on dad's floor.  The service, of course, was molasses that night.  It really was slow.  Dad got more and more agitated, finally getting up and leaving without a word to anyone.  I didn't go.  I ate my dinner with these very nice ladies.  The food is pretty good here.  I stuffed myself unabashedly.  The ladies insisted on having the dining room staff box up dad's dinner so I could deliver it to him.

"Fuck that," I almost said.  He was right down here - if he wanted the food he should have waited.  They were so nice I did take the food up, which he picked at and then fed down the disposal.

What can you do?

Remorseful Seaweed

Remorse:  A feeling of regret or sadness for having done wrong or sinning.

I want to help but I don't see the point in trying to help someone who doesn't want to be helped. It's a waste of my time and an irritation to the person on whom the unwanted helped is being foisted.  Last time I came in I spent hours and hours getting my parents financial records in order - sorting, discarding, setting up a system that would keep everything ship-shape as time marched on.  I came home to renewed chaos - I can't even find the old records let alone monitor what has happened in the interim.

I started to battle some guilt as the doctor was emphasizing the fact that dad should go down for breakfast and dinner, that one of the big pitfalls of the surviving spouse of a long-term marriage is isolation.  I haven't been encouraging dad to do this - it seems roughly equivalent to encouraging a rock to apply to grad school.  But then again I have the benefit (or the curse) of decades of routine with my father.  The doc wants dad to socialize and I could help but the doc isn't around when dad performs his daily rejection reading of the menu, and in high dramatic form.  If I could wheedle and cajole him into going down a time or two it wouldn't change the fact that he won't do it when I'm gone.  I loathe wasted motion.

You'd think that as you get older that you'd have seen everything at least once.  But then there was India and now there's this. 

Happy Hours

I'm pretty sure that when I leave here I'm going to feel bad about myself.  I think this is a no-win situation or maybe a lose-lose situation or maybe I'm screwed.

I don't think things have gone far enough yet.  I think they're going to improve, against all odds but probably not, or they need to get worse before they're bad enough to require urgent attention.  I don't see how I can change anything right now.  It's very frustrating.  My father is a competent adult doing what he wants without being a danger to others or himself and nobody else sees a need to panic and make big changes.  Maybe they're right - what do I know, anyhow? - but probably not.

When I get upset I get anxious.  I can't say that what I feel right now is depression or grief or fear - it all feels likes generalized, free-floating anxiety, like the sliding door is off the tracks.  If I just force the shit out of it then it'll start to work right.  (Ed. Note: I had a little issue with the sliding doors on my dad's shower tonight - can you tell how I resolved it?  Hint: forcing the shit out of something was involved.)

I took my dad to his doctor today.  I've known the guy for a long time and he's a good man and a good doctor.  I snuck out of the little examination room where the patient is inevitably sequestered for a long period of time - why don't they just leave you in the goddam waiting room with the magazines and comfortable chairs and nice TV where you can sit around and think: "I wonder what she has?  Plague?  Gonorrhea?") and spoke with the doc for a bit before he saw my dad.  I wanted to talk about the drinking but the medical profession is more or less clueless about alcoholism as far as I can tell.  Maybe the psych docs have a clue but the rest of them think it's some kind of treatable malady like a rash.

Control:  Influence or authority over.

He was very concerned that my father was isolating - a very good, very real concern, one that I share wholeheartedly  - and suggested Happy Hour as an anecdote.  He stressed the one, maybe two drink part of it but I could see my dad's eyes lit up - he heard "Go drink" and not "Go socialize."  Have GOT to be careful with your wording when you're discussing alcohol with the active alcoholic.  He triumphantly told my sister tonight that "the doctor wants me to go down to Happy Hour."  

I am not in control.

Are You Thinking About Me?

Patient:  Content to wait if necessary; not losing one's temper while waiting.

I can tell that my patience is shot as I go through this.  I'm not full of patience and tolerance on my best days and I find that I'm easily irritated at my family, my friends, The Old City, the weather, for chrissake.  All of these things are fine.  All of these things are rolling along.  I am not at the center of the anyone's world.  No one else is thinking about me.  I never thing about anyone else - why would I believe that they're thinking about me?  NO ONE is doing anything at me.

And my sister is doing a splendid job handling everything back here.  The problem once again is me and my expectations of what I should be doing to help, how my talents should be put to use, when mostly my sister wants me to simply stay with my father for two weeks so she doesn't have to worry about his day to day well-being.

I see.

Happy Hour

As god is my witness I have never experienced anything like this, and I'm pretty old.  I've been around alcoholism regularly for a long time, too, and I've never been a part of this.  This dude is drinking.  This dude does not care how flimsy his excuses are.  I remember setting a can of beer down at my feet as a cop car pulled up and telling the cop, with a straight face, that it wasn't my can of beer.  I believed myself and I figured I could get him to believe me, too.  It was ridiculous.  I remain convinced that I could beat the shit out of a lie detector.  I don't think that needle would budge.

George Costanza: "Remember - it's not a lie if YOU believe it."

The meeting topic last night was resentment and the solution to the problem ended up at Powerlessness as it so often does.  We all come to the conclusion - sometimes quickly, sometimes slowly - that we only get to control what's inside our own hula hoop.  Other people are fine.  The government is fine.  The whole fucking world is fine.  We are going to enjoy life a lot more if we stop trying to control other people.  That person that is driving you crazy is fine; in fact, that person is a gift.

My dad gets so aggravated at the other residents that he has been known to get up mid-meal, leaving his food right where it is, and storm back up to his room.  He also goes down to Happy Hour every day and seems to tolerate all of these incredibly irritating people for as long as Happy Hour lasts.

I see the contradiction.

One Day At A Something or The Other

And here I am in The Old City.  Maybe I'm supposed to sit quietly with my ailing, grieving father and that's it, that's all I'm supposed to do.  Just sit quietly.

It's so tempting to try to solve other people's problems especially for a guy like me who has made such a stunning success with his own life.  Hell, I'm lucky if I can find my car keys.

I have been getting a lot of very basic advice from my paisanos during the last week: Do what's in front of you.  One day at a time.  Take the next right step, do the next indicated thing.  My life is so often very easy and I sail along handling little niggling problems of prosperity.  I guess I'm in the minute when I do this stuff.  It makes me pull up sharply when things spiral out of control and I have to take the advice I so blithely dispense.  It's a lot easier when it's coming out of mouth and at you than the other way around.  I'm lucky someone bigger than me hasn't fucking clocked me over the years.

Facts Is Facts

An amazing fact about alcoholism - reinforced here the last few days - is that it is a relatively simple and straight-forward mechanism.  People drink essentially because they like the effect alcohol produces on their body; this effect is highly exaggerated in the alcoholic, compelling them to drink more and more; and there is no getting between an alcoholic and the alcohol when they want to drink.

The Program has admittedly shaped a lot of my worldview - one of the Great Truths in my life is that help is almost always abundantly available to those who ask for it and that those who don't want any help, even if it's badly needed, are best left alone.

If he wasn't my dad I wouldn't waste a NY minute on him.  That sounds harsh, clinical, formulaic, but I rarely buy into some other alcoholic's bullshit.