28 Days

What I remember about the rehab hospital was how plain vanilla and unremarkable it seemed. There was no hint of the madness and desperation behind its walls and certainly no indication that it might be capable of making miracles. I'd driven by the place twice a day, five days a week, for better than three years and had never really noticed it.

Worcester was not a pretty city in the '80's. Urban renewal and gentrification were running wild just an hour away in Boston but Worcester with it's grimy, stale air and dirty streets was as blue collar as it got. The hospital, squarely in the heart of downtown, was an unimposing and easily overlooked three story structure of garden variety brick. It didn't look like the forbidding lunatic asylum I sometimes had nightmares about - Olivia deHavilland's “Snakepit” had made an indelible impression on me and back then there were times when I called my own fragile sanity into question - but it was also clearly not the tennis courts and manicured lawns of Cascade, the convalescent hospital where Bette Davis got well in “Now Voyager”. Sitting in the pot holed parking lot while I killed time waiting for my appointment with my counselor and trying to work up my courage, I saw the sun reflecting off the small third floor windows. Windows with bars, I couldn't help but notice.

“Dextox ward,” my nervewrackingly cheerful and decidedly un-Claude Raines aftercare counselor had casually told me, “As long as they're not violent, the average stay is 72 hours. No visitors, of course.”

Of course, I'd thought and nodded as if I were an old hand at this. I didn't want him to know that I thought at any moment my knees were going to buckle and I'd start screaming.

“Here,” he said kindly and steered me to a chair, “Sit down before you fall.”

I sat. I thought if he kept being kind to me, I might breakdown entirely but I couldn't figure out how to say so.

“Take a deep breath,” he suggested, “Talk if you want to.”

His name was Calvin. He was young, barely into his 40's, I thought, and had been sober for the last 18 years. He wore corduroy jackets, blue jeans and tennis shoes and sometimes smoked a pipe.

I”t gives me something to do with my hands,” he'd told me in an early counseling session, “and my patients seem to be reassured by the image. Image is so important to us, I'm sure you know. Do you smoke?”

“Like a chimney,” I'd admitted.

He'd smiled, brushed aside a stack of papers on his desk and slid a plastic ashtray toward me.

It's not really allowed but I think we'll make an exception this one time,” he'd told me.

More kindness, I'd thought bitterly but had managed to mumble a thank you.

Back in the now, several weeks later, we sat in his small cluttered office with its overflowing bookcases and water colored walls and a streak of sunshine coming from the one unbarred window. Two floors up, my husband was in his second day of detox and I was obsessed with the fear that he wouldn't make it to his third. Truth to tell, I was more than a little stunned that he'd made it to his second.

“Funny, isn't it,” Calvin said quietly, nodding toward a carton of Marboro Menthols in my lap, “cigarettes are allowed but coffee isn't. It's the caffeine, you see, almost as bad as nicotine. He'll get used to it.”

Having lived with the man for a decade, I didn't think so. He'd staged a massive retreat at the news that there'd be no Luzianne Chicory Coffee for 28 days and I'd have bet money he was going to tell them all to shove it and walk out but the nurses just shrugged and reminded him that it was all voluntary and that he could leave anytime. He'd cussed a vicious blue streak, slammed his duffel bag against a wall and torn up the antiseptically made bed but he'd agreed to stay.

Calvin, I realized dimly, would know all about that little scene. As determined as I was not to, I began to cry. Well, it wasn't so much as crying as it was hysteria. I felt as if something had broken clean in two within me, snapped like a branch in a hurricane wind and come crashing to the ground. I wailed. I didn't think I'd ever be able to stop. Ten years of living with a drunk, ten years of lying about it, ten years of protecting him and the image of a happy marriage, ten years of desperation, despair and loathing poured fourth like an open fire hydrant.

Calvin crossed one ankle over one knee and patiently waited me out.

“I'll see that he gets the cigarettes,” he said after several minutes when the waterworks finally receded, “and you can see him day after tomorrow. If you want to, of course. Now, “he paused and handed me a box of Kleenex, “Let's talk about you.”

I was, in a funny and perverse kind of way, relieved he hadn't tried to comfort me. The part of me that was busily, guiltily imagining the horrors on the third floor - restraints and dt's and God only knew what else - didn't need any encouragement. The martyred and resentful part begging for recognition and sympathy after all my self-sacrifice was looking for a medal. And the part that was so deathly afraid of the whole thing being a miserable, public failure wanted only for someone to wave a magic wand and make it all go away. It could be, I was beginning to see, although reluctantly, that comfort would only prolong my illusions. It wouldn't have been a kindness.

“You need a plan,” Calvin was saying, “May I make a suggestion?”

I nodded.

“There's an AlAnon meeting downstairs in a half hour. Start there. Then go home. Eat something. Get some sleep. Just for tonight, let it go and worry about tomorrow when tomorrow gets here. One day at a time. One night at a time. One hour at a time if you have to.”

“Pretty short term plan,” I said shakily and he laughed.

“Pretty short term problem,” he said gently, “Just for tonight.”

Nonetheless, I decided, it was a good plan. I stopped at the visitors washroom to soak some paper towels in cold water and hold them to my eyes until the swelling eased, repaired my makeup as best I could, and then slipped outside to the small patio to smoke a cigarette and, as my grandmother used to say, collect myself. When I felt calmer and cooler and a little more in control, I walked back inside to the meeting. The minute the door swung silently shut behind me, I felt a shadow of sanity wake up, rouse itself, and begin to make its way back to me. I joined the mostly all women circle - some, no doubt, with husbands in the very same predicament as mine on the third floor - and tried to clear my mind. The women I knew smiled at me, peaceful smiles, survival smiles, despite what I knew from their stories were obscene personal tragedies. Sitting across from me was my friend and sponsor, Dottie. “Let go and let God,” she mouthed at me, gave me a wink and then threw open her flowered jacket to show off her bright blue t shirt emblazoned in oversized white letters that read “Surrender, Dorothy!” It was the first time in the lifetime that been the last two days that I laughed, genuinely and out loud, and the other women joined in almost at once. How could you not? “Bless you, Dottie,” someone said and she blushed.

It was still light as I drove the twenty miles to the now empty apartment at the top of Dead Horse Hill. It was pretty country, a little on the rural side, and there was practically no traffic. It gave me a chance to breathe and think and wonder what I was supposed to do now. The cats were suitably glad to see me and the silence of the small apartment didn't bother me nearly as much as I expected. It occurred suddenly to me that in my whole life I'd never lived alone. Now I found myself wondering if I'd like it.

“Well,” I told my small black cat who had been with me the longest, “we've got 28 days to find out, don't we.”

It only took four.

With the accuracy of heat seeking missile, I searched, found, and demolished every despised beer can, full or empty, until I'd filled three lawn and leaf bags. I washed floors and walls, fixtures and furniture, put fresh sheets on the bed, defrosted the refrigerator, Easy Off'd the oven and still made an AlAnon meeting every night. I went to work each day with a renewed sense of purpose and spent my evenings reading, stitching, playing with the cats. I ate exactly what I liked when I was hungry and slept like the dead. I felt free.

Calvin, in a final act of kindness, called at the end of the third week to tell me my husband had pronounced himself cured and checked himself out, a week early and very much against medical advice. There was nothing he could do but warn me.

“He's sober,” my aftercare counselor said neutrally, “But he's not well or much changed. Promise me you'll be careful and remember to take care of yourself. Don't skip your meetings and don't get sucked back in.”

I promised. I thanked him. I assured him I'd see him soon. And then I vomited until my throat was raw.

The homecoming was awkward. He was, as Calvin had said, sober. But he was also defiant, angry, sullen and silent. I knew at once that the minor battle had been won but the great war was hopelessly lost. Then it slowly began to dawn on me that I wasn't - lost, that is - the kindness of my aftercare counselor and my AlAnon group, my sponsor and all the friends who had started out as strangers had been a gift. It had, albeit painfully, brought me to my senses and to strength and reality, all without a single word or gesture of actual sympathy or well intentioned advice. These precious people had comforted me with kindness just as someone had once comforted them. I have done my best to do the same for others ever since.

To The Manor Born

The line to the pharmacy counter was six deep and it took me a minute to recognize the older woman in front of me. The years hadn't been kind to Miz Adelaide – she'd gained a considerable amount of weight, her skin had turned to crepe paper and her once lustrous bleached blonde hair was wispy and balding in places. What hadn't changed was her uppity, self importance – that was still very much intact. She complained and whined about being made to wait to everyone that would listen. She drummed her once perfectly manicured nails on the rim of her shopping cart and tapped her foot in annoyance. She shifted her weight and tried to peer into the pharmacy as if demanding to be acknowledged. Every impatient and put upon gesture was accompanied by a hugely audible sigh but nothing was working. I'm not proud of it, but I was enjoying the moment. I could recall the hundreds of time I'd waited on her in the photo store and seen exactly the same behavior, the same old money'd arrogance and entitlement. In some ten years of weekly visits, she'd barely bothered to learn my name. Even so, I didn't want to risk being recognized so I was careful to keep my back to her and keep my smile to myself.

I'm smart enough to know that how I feel about women like Miz Adelaide is more about me than them but I'm a grudge keeper and think that forgiveness is mostly overrated. As a general rule,

I'm happy to be overlooked except when I'm not. More than once I've had the thought that age clarifies your outlook, not always in a good way. There's a fine line between service and servitude and women like Miz Adelaide cross it without a backward glance or a second thought. Again, I'm not exactly proud of feeling she's earned this particular moment in the pharmacy line but I'm not exactly ashamed either.

She reaches the counter and immediately initiates an argument with the cashier, petulantly complaining about the wait, the lack of efficiency, the price of the prescription and the overall state of the country, which in her opinion is disgraceful and completely the fault of anyone who didn't vote republican. She persists in this shabby tirade well after the helpless cashier (who I suspected wasn't even old enough to vote) has apologized several times, then snatches the pharmacy bag out of the poor child's hand and jerks her shopping cart out of line, plowing directly into the cart of an unsuspecting shopper who happened to be passing. There is, of course, no apology offered, instead she glares at the hapless woman then storms off down the

makeup aisle, looking perfectly prepared to mow down anyone who crosses her path.

“White trash,” a voice behind me says distinctly.

“Sing it, sista,” a second voice adds.

It was a crossroads moment that could've led to a minor riot or at the very least an ugly scene. It could even have led to a conversation. Instead it led to laughter, only a trickle at first, but then a full out wave. Strangers grinned at each other and shook their heads with something very close to pity. Even the pharmacy staff smiled although discreetly. The woman shopper who had almost been run down flashed a thumbs up sign and what could have been a thoroughly nasty incident turned into a small victory for civility and unity.

You can't be beaten by something you laugh at ~ Jonathan Harnisch

Storms

The storm hit just after 4 in the morning with a tremendous shotgun crack of thunder and a protracted series of lightning that lit up the sky like white neon. The little dashshund woke with a start and gave a small whimper before burrowing deeper into my side. The tiny one, fast asleep above my head, barely stirred. The rain came, hard and cold and falling fiercely, tearing the newly blooming azaleas to shreds and bending the crepe myrtles like so many paper straw wrappers. A second crash of thunder set the walls to vibrating and now thoroughly terrorized, the little dashshund yelped and frantically began to dig his way beneath me. I reassured him as best I could, speaking softly hugging him tightly and pulling the blanket over both our heads. It took several minutes but eventually he began to relax, tucking his whole head under my chin and holding on for dear life. After awhile, it got me to thinking about how little comfort we can sometimes offer those we love, especially perhaps when they need it the most.

I had visited my friend, Jean, earlier the day before and come away feeling helpless and worried and depressed. She'd had steroids with her last chemotherapy treatment and was chatty and perky and cheerful enough but she looked beaten up and unhealthily thin. She moved with a fragile unsteadiness and had trouble following the conversation. The skin on either side of her throat was red and raw from the radiation and she kept a cold compress wrapped around her neck and shoulders. It chilled her so she'd tucked her hair under a loosely fitting green knit cap and wrapped herself in a thick shawl. The overall effect was frailty and weakness - I was reminded of a child playing dress up in clothes several sizes too big. We talk and tell stories, make up silly jokes, plan the places we will go when she's well and can taste food again. I tell myself anyone would look like this after 4 weeks of daily radiation and weekly chemotherapy. The doctors tell her, so she tells me, that she's tolerating it well and there is every reason to hope. Maybe so, but there's a part of me that sees shadows in this sweet little house. Granted, they're hiding in the corners for now and there are days when they seem to be gone entirely but

I can't shut them out completely. I'm afraid for my friend and for myself and I despise my helplessness.

Meanwhile, my dear friend, Tricia, has been thoroughly leveled by a gastrointestinal bug. I find her wrapped in a blanket and huddled miserably in her recliner. She looks like – forgive me, Tricia – death on a stick, thin, colorless, fragile and cold, too sick to move. Just like Jean, there's nothing I can do to comfort her or ease her pain and this harsh helplessness gnaws and grates on me like an abscess. There is an almost chronic weariness in her dark eyes, a sense of futility in the circles beneath them. She looks haggard and beaten and racked with pain. A few days later when she rallies - just a little – I wonder at her tenacity and will. I feel grateful and guilty all at the same time, so glad we are such good friends but at odds with myself for not being able to share or at least ease her suffering. It strikes me that the unfairness of how life treats us is a cold hearted bitch indeed and I make a mental note to remind myself to be more aware and appreciative of my own circumstances.

God has a plan, Jean tells me, and it's not ours to know. The agnostic in me thinks it's all a sad, man-made fiction but the part that wants to believe hangs on for dear life.