Agrico SuperPhosphate

Hang: To be or remain suspended.

Hanging on, hanging in there, hanging tough.  The whole concept of hanging onto or releasing one's self from The Big Picture makes me re-ponder the lesser hanging onto that revolves around Stuff.  I stay amazed, a year plus after my mother's death, at the ability she had to ascribe great worth to the strangest, most sentimental, seemingly worthless things.  And this from a woman who had a great certainty as to what was Coming Next.  She just kept things, all manner of things, almost everything. 

I'm sure I've told the story about asking for some of my grandmother's old furniture, stored in mom's basement, moldering, deteriorating, increasingly buried in thicker, more impenetrable layers of dust.  SuperK and I had bought our first small house and needed some things to fill out the space.  We were, you see, in the midst of our own headlong pursuit of possessing more things. The answer was invariably no.  I asked for a while, my annoyance growing with leaps and bounds, until I finally figured out that I wasn't going to be able to pry this stuff from her surprisingly tough hands.  She always had a place for the furniture sometime and someplace in the future, undeterred by the fact she had been in the same house for almost 60 years.  We moved on, bought stuff to fill the spaces that didn't have any stuff in them, bought a bigger house that required more stuff, then a bigger house yet with still more stuff required.  Eventually we got tired of being responsible for all of the stuff and moved into smaller and smaller places, shedding stuff as we descended.

After we had moved 2618 miles away my mother, finally downsizing herself, started offering up these large pieces of furniture.  I honestly didn't know what to say.  I pointed out the great expense in shipping something to Vacation City, an expense transcending the value of the shipped thing.  I reminded her that we had already gotten rid of most of our stuff.  She remained undeterred until I finally said: "OK, mom, we'll take that piece of stuff.  Go ahead and ship it out."  Needless to say no stuff made the trek.

After she died I helped sort through the much diminished pile of stuff in my folks' apartment. Lots of junky stuff survived the downsizing transition.  Being a writerly type I was pleased to find stacks and stacks of little notepads and notebooks in a drawer.  While a lot of them were the standard give-aways found in hotel rooms there were also a lot of odd, ancient items.  Currently, I'm using a tiny book from Agrico, a company advertising something called "18% Normal Superphospate."  I flipped to the back cover today which had a calendar from 1949.  I discovered that the advertised product, after some research, dated to 1944.  The company itself is based in South Africa.

So my mother had possessed this notepad for 57 years.  I should point out that I'm using it.  I wonder what she had planned to do with it?  I wish I had asked her.

Feedback

I had a nice chat yesterday with an Earth Person who has known me for - I hate to say it - 45 years.  The subject was my father, a man he's qualified to critique.  I am terrifically blessed with a spouse that listens when I need to talk; I am similarly blessed with a lot of men in The Program who do the same; and I have this great writing outlet which makes me look at stuff logically and dispassionately.  That being said it was a relief to be able to bounce my behavior off yet another sympathetic ear.  I got helpful, thoughtful feedback but mostly the benefit is hearing myself talk out loud because I usually do what I want to do whatever the advice.  But from time to time all of us need to be able to say: "This is what I'm doing," hoping for a positive response but willing to learn from a negative one.

His dad - a longtime member of The Fellowship - died not long ago.  I wanted to hear how his dad felt about dying.  It has been a trip watching people close to me pass away, some peacefully, a few kicking and screaming, others inhabiting spaces all levels in between.  I think that the jist of it was that his father was prepared globally, spiritually, strategically to die but that the end snuck up on him a little too quickly, that he wanted to stick around for just a bit longer, to say some final goodbyes.  I felt really good about that.  I expected nothing less from him.

And here I am juggling my dad's decline.  I don't know.  I just don't know.

FUN Seaweed

Fun:  Enjoyable; amusing; whimsical; flamboyant.  (Ed. Note: WTF?  I wouldn't put those four adjectives together to describe anything).
Pleasure: Gladness; satisfaction; gratification; happiness.

Here's what alcoholism does: It robs the afflicted of every last speck and mite of pleasure in life. That awful fact sucks big time but to make it worse it convinces the afflicted that it's the only sure source of enjoyment left.  Causes misery, promises pleasure.  That's quite the party trick.  That's quite the magic act.

How often have we said: "It's the only thing I have left."

As I struggle with the belief that I do indeed know what's best for everyone and everything in the universe, I justify the nagging wish that my dad would throw in the proverbial towel by my estimation that he is navigating from one miserable moment to the next.  I think alcohol, the rapacious creditor, has placed a margin call on my father's psyche.  The Book says we eventually reach a point where we can't imagine a life with alcohol and we can't imagine a life without it.  That's quite a point to reach.  The "jumping off point."  The point of no return - can't get there from here but can't make it back home, either.

I know that I had personally traded the pleasure of living for the fun of drinking, or what I imagined with fun.  I told someone at a meeting once that I was just a guy who liked to party. "You're not partying, Seaweed," he said.  "You're just drinking."  That's quite a distinction.  It made me sit up right straight and in a hurry, too.

I take a lot of satisfaction in my life today.  I wouldn't call it a fun life.  I would call it a satisfying, calm, centered life.  I'm not sure everyone gets that.  I have a cousin who always asks me: "So what are you doing for FUN?!"  Well, I meditate and read and listen to people when they talk to me?  That doesn't sound as good as taking a hit of acid and then riding roller coasters.  That sounds FUN!  I'm happy-ish because I maneuver through life with a minimum of fuss, with an ability to take it as it comes, to not fight everything and everyone.

For those of you not in The Program I do have to admit that I plagiarized half of what I wrote today.  It's good stuff.  It's hard to improve on it.

Death Metal

Death:  The cessation of life and all associated processes.

I caught up with my sister yesterday for her boots-on-the-ground report on my father.  It's grim as most reports of aging, active alcoholics tend to be: not eating, not getting out of bed, fluid around the lungs, shortness of breath requiring oxygen, GI infection common among the old and infirm who have spent a lot of time in the hospital or rehab units.  She is under the impression that the hospital may not be spending a huge amount of time trying to extend things with him.  I don't mean that to sound uncharitable or to accuse the hospital of being unethical, either, but rather to suggest that maybe it's not a bad thing for our health care system let someone go who has clearly, deliberately, willfully thrown in the towel.  If it would be better for him to get out of bed and move around and he was making an effort to accomplish this, that would be one thing.  If he doesn't want to get out of bed then I can hardly fault the hospital staff for not wanting to take time away from patients who are trying to get better to wheedle and cajole his stubborn ass.

She spent a few uncomfortable-for-her minutes talking about the nagging voice in her head that keeps suggesting the best thing would be for him to let go and catch up with mom in the Great Rehab In The Sky.  I was able to ease her mind a bit, I hope, by telling her that my feelings were the same and that I had to address them every single morning during my Quiet Time.  I don't wish death upon anyone no matter how strongly I feel that a release from a clearly unpleasant existence would be the best for that person.  That is DEFINITELY not my call.  I do ask that I be the best son that I can be and that my father has peace of mind and spiritual contentment. Whether or not he's ready to let go is between him and his Higher Power.  Some of us are ready and some of us are not.

I believe that our experience in The Program helps a lot in these cases.  All of us know the helpless feelings that arise when we watch someone making lousy, life-threatening choices.  We wish we could ease the pain while knowing that we cannot, and that it isn't our burden to deprive people of experiences that they may have to go through to get to a better place, especially when we know that they may not make it back to us alive.  I truly believe that I had to go through everything I went through to make it here.

More will be revealed.

I'm Not A Cheater

Consistent:  Of a regularly occurring, dependable nature.

Mulling over the stuff on our anniversary (or birthday, depending on where you live) coins.  I get one every year and then promptly lose it.  My 27 year anniversary coin is currently in Bergen, Norway, to the great amusement of the young couple that rented us a couple of rooms for a couple of nights.  One side states: "Recovery - Unity - Service," and god, I hope that's what it really says because I'm not going to Bergen to get my coin back just so I can verify something that no one is going to bother to check, anyway.  The other side suggests: "To Thine Own Self Be True," which I really like despite the fact that we use language that would be more appropriate in Victorian England.  I live in Vacation City, for god's sake.  How about: "Be True to Yourself?" 

Anyway, my sister is back in The Old City and I am firmly out of the loop in what's going on with my father.  For a guy who almost never makes a mistake I do spend some time each day reviewing my day to make sure I correct any mistakes I may have made - as rare as this may be -  and I've done this regarding my behavior with my father.  I feel like a jerk some of the time when I mull over how I behave, sort of cold and calculating and clinical.  I feel like I'm forced into a position where I have to deal with errant children or insane people. I feel like the bad guy when I tell someone: "No, you can't have candy for dinner" and, believe me, I'm a guy who can totally get behind the candy-for-dinner movement.  I have the cavities and crowns to prove it.

The point is - if there's a point in here somewhere - that I don't think my behavior surprises people any more.  I think I'm consistent.  People don't say: "Wow.  I didn't see that coming" when they're discussing my behavior.  I'm not saying that everyone likes my behavior or that my behavior is unfailingly, unflinchingly exemplary but rather that it's consistent.  I have an internal code of ethics that I adhere to

I listened to an interview with a college basketball coach yesterday who had been temporarily suspended for breaking some rule or other.  In a national press conference that was being recorded by thousands of digital recording devices he spent some time explaining that his suspension wasn't for cheating - it was for breaking the rules.   He did this with a straight face.  I bet the needle on a lie detector wouldn't have budged when he was saying this ridiculous crap. 

I didn't cheat - I broke the rules.  That is priceless.  I'm going to try to convince my dad that he should maybe not drink vodka in the morning if he doesn't want to be in the position of waiting for a test report?  I don't think so.

Terrible, Terrible Things

Terrible: Dreadful; causing alarm and fear

The conversations with my father are getting shorter and shorter.

"How are you today, pop?" I asked this morning.

"Terrible," he said.

"Pretty sore?" I said.  I keep my sentence structures short and sweet.  He doesn't want me to talk to him as a general rule and he has no interest in talking to me.  I'm not there directly solving what he considers problems primarily because I consider these alleged problems solutions to problems.  I'm frankly happy he's in a hospital bed.  He's not drinking and he's not falling down.  Hate to say it but that's about as good as it gets right now.

"That and it just takes forever to get anything done," he replied.  "I spend all my time waiting around."

I do not comment directly to this kind of bitching.  I do not reason with people who are basing their position on specious and illogical reasoning.  It reminds me of the anecdote in The Book that talks about a guy hitting himself in the head with a hammer and then complaining about the headache.  It reminds me of my vociferous objections whenever I got a speeding ticket: illegal speed trap; I always drive that fast on that road; everyone else was driving that fast; the radar actually got the guy in front of/next to/behind me; and so on and so forth, conveniently ignoring the fact that I was . . . you know . . . speeding.

What an awful, slow spiral down.  When I get off the phone I take a minute to think of Kenner and his last days in hospice.  I need that juxtaposition.  I need to remember how my choices can lead to different results.

Boom, Boom, Down Goes the Dad

I've heard estimates about the percentage of the population that is affected by the behavior of an alcoholic - either a family member, close friend, or work associate.  The number escapes me but I know it was unbelievably high.  I think the statistics in the US suggest that 8% of us have a serious alcohol problem.  That's like 30 million people.  That's a lot of people.  I'm not even going to get into how much time the cops spend on alcohol-related crimes or how many auto accidents are the result of alcohol impairment.  There is no way that any other disease is so costly to the country than alcohol.

I think often of the end days of SuperK's father.  Although he died of emphysema and not alcoholism he was definitely one of us, and he was sober at the end only because he couldn't get his hands on anything to drink.  What I remember is hearing about the mental and spiritual anguish suffered by someone who had spent his entire life doing exactly what he wanted to do and then was confronted with his own mortality.  He wanted to turn the battleship around, to feel connected to people and to a god, but it was a big boat that had been steaming ahead under full throttle for years and years, with lots and lots of momentum.  It's tough to expect people who have been subjected to selfishness to rally around at the end.

I spoke to dad today.  He's still in the hospital where he's getting physical therapy because he's so unsteady on his feet.  What a waste of time that is - there are professional athletes with magnificently toned bodies who are unsteady on their feet after a bottle of vodka.  He'll be released soon into a rehab unit where they'll give him more therapy and feed him some real food so he'll improve slightly, get to a place where he can go home and drink some more and fall down and go to the hospital and so on and so forth.  He even brought up leaving his apartment and moving into an assisted living facility.  I can't believe he hasn't broken a hip or conked his head on the corner of a table yet.

We drunks are resourceful in our ability to deny, deny, deny.  I know my drinking caused problem after problem which I dutifully, rigorously, implausibly blamed on people, places, and things, anything but my drinking.  I wanted to drink.  Damned be the consequences.  I felt remorseful about my drinking and the resulting problems but some more alcohol helped me deal with that.

Sigh.