About
Men
It's six a.m. on a Saturday morning. I'm not up to
go golfing, or to go to a wedding or a funeral. No, I have to
be in Newport, R.I. by nine o'clock, and as I shower and shave,
I guess that I must say that I'm nervous. My wife is very quiet,
although getting up at this early hour is part of her daily routine.
Sometimes she is out of the house and down to the office by seven
a.m. We finally pass each other in our rather large house where
we keep separate bedrooms. I ask her if she would like some coffee;
she replies that it's time to go, We'll stop at a coffee shop
in Newport. The ride will take approximately one hour, and when
you're traveling with my wife, you can bet that you will arrive
early. We make a last minute check to see if we have our insurance
cards and the pamphlets that we received in preparation for this
occasion. We take our seats in the car and drive in silence. We
have four children, all of whom are over twenty years of age,
except Scott who is to be eighteen in two days. Sometime during
the past week, he put himself in Edgehill, a treatment center
for substance abusers. He was one of the lucky ones who made it
to treatment before crack and cocaine killed him. My wife had
been trying to tell me for months that she suspected he was taking
drugs, but I remained in a state of denial. My reactions were
not a result of killer pride, but rather a product of my irresponsibility
to her and the kids. And she was ready to leave me, not for another
man, but because I refused to get off the golf course to confront
such painful matters. She had taken on these responsibilities
during the 33 years of our marriage, and I always felt that she
did a good job, so why bother to step in? We stop for coffee.
It is June and the town of Newport is coming alive. My wife remains
quiet--very unusual for her since she always has much to say.
After many years of fighting a one-person battle with drugs, both
in her home and in her business, she is exhausted. The first session
began at 9:00 with introductions to the families of other patients.
The program was called Family Focus, and you even paid to attend.
A patient could invite anyone he chose to including parent, sister,
brother, girlfriend, wife, husband, even grandmother. Although
I was invited, I might have bowed out of this one too, but I knew
my wife meant what she said: either I attend this Family Focus
session or I was out on my own. It was difficult to distinguish
the patients from the concerned families and friends. I didn't
recognize anyone in the foyer where we gathered. Some were there
for their sons like us, others were there for their wives and
husbands. I lit up my cigarette which had become a big issue with
my wife. I was 6'3" and 155 lbs. and tired from drinking and playing
golf, and surely my 45-year-old habit of smoking filterless cigarettes
took it's toll. She gave me one of her disapproving looks which
I defensively ignore. I just close my weary mind. I walk over
to talk to other men who, cigarettes in their hands, are also
concealing their true feelings. We are given our tags and assigned
to our counselor who would advise us for the next three weekends.
These sessions, from 9 a.m. on Saturday to 9 p.m. on Sunday, were
a crash course in the disease of addiction. My wife had been without
a drink now for 18 years, and she has been attending Alanon meetings
for the last five years. She could hold her own on the subject,
yet I have difficulty observing the no smoking rules of these
sessions rooms. The counselor begins by showing us a mobile of
birds which she compares to the healthy family. She then takes
one bird off the mobile, and the whole thing hangs off balance
thereby demonstrating the unhealthy family. Like the spokes in
a wheel, if one is broken, the wheel does not work. But when every
member of a family is doing their share, there is harmony. Somehow
I felt that my wife really had no hope left. But she did raise
her head when the counselor said that there is such a thing as
a healthy family. During the coffee break, I realized that I was
one of the birds that had fallen off the mobile. I thought of
how many times I had enjoyed feeding the birds in our backyard.
I love those birds. I love to see them come for my broken bits
of bread. If I had taken that much time with my children's emotional
needs, I may not have felt as badly as I did at the end of that
first session. I was lighting up my cigarette even before I could
get out of the room. Here I was trying to help my son and I couldn't
help myself with my own addictions. Break time was over and we
were all to meet in the auditorium. The first film showed a father
asleep on the couch; his wife tried to get him to go to bed. Forget
the birds on the mobile, I know the guy who falls asleep every
night on the couch. My children grew up around what is now taken
for granted. My wife got so used to me lying on the couch, she
began to feel relief when I fell asleep there for if she was lonely
when I was awake, it was less painful when I was asleep. With
each counseling session, I could see a lot of what I couldn't
see before. I had always brought home my paycheck, and I didn't
go out with other women, yet I realized that I did miss my drinking
partner. Since my wife stopped drinking, it seems that she went
to her meetings and I went out with the boys. At least I could
feel comfortable with them--they didn't judge me. Scott was happy
that we attended--especially me. This took a lot of the pain away
because I felt that I had done a good and productive thing for
my son for the first time in his life. When he was a small boy,
I took care of him so my wife could work and go to AA meetings.
I would always have a treat for him in my pocket. He would run
to me, and the two of us would fall asleep in the chair. But as
the years went by, Scott got too big to fall asleep with me, but
I'd still have a beer for myself and I'd fall asleep in the chair
alone. He grew up and I didn't. He was cheated out of a father
that he badly needed. I had not died, but what was worse, I was
a corpse in the chair. We finished the three weekend sessions
at Edgehill, and I learned a lot. I began going to Alanon meetings
once a week as part of my aftercare program. I found a group just
a few blocks from my house, and I've been attending for three
years now. My son has had his slips with drugs, just like they
said could happen with a person so young. My wife left a year
ago. She bought herself a condominium near her business as part
of her aftercare program. She needed space to be alone for awhile
to look at her own recovery; she realized that her need to "fix"
everyone in the family was getting out of control and could endanger
her sobriety. I didn't stop drinking, or smoking, or playing golf.
It's lonely here sometimes. We are not divorced, nor have I heard
of any plans for it. I haven't given up on the Alanon meetings,
and I have put much thought and effort into my relationship with
my wife. I've grown a lot during this year by myself. My wife
always took care of the bills and the house. It was a beautiful,
warm, and cozy home when she lived here. Now I can see how hard
she worked for me and the children; she was always busy with life-sustaining
tasks. She tried so hard to tell me how she felt--trying to avoid
separation. But to save herself, she left her lovely home without
slamming the door, but like a fine lady. Now and then, I come
home and I know that she has been there. The house had been cleaned
with all her personal touches and I can smell her perfume. Being
a man of 55, I haven't allowed myself to feel the pain of all
this. In my day, showing your female side was unheard of. I am
getting in touch with my emotions little by little--it may have
taken a crucifixion just to wake me up, and all this silence for
her to be heard.
Copyright;
Ruth Mahoney 22-Mar-88
