The phone call from my father had come in during the middle of the night.
His voice was a quiet surface on top of a storm that would eventually take him down to the bottom.
"He's gone".
Just like that all those years of waiting for Kevin to die had ended.
He went and finished his sentence the only way possible.
My insides hopped on to a dirty old elevator and took the ride down and down.
Susan's hand found my back, and her voice brought me back to the moment.
" Kevin", she asked.
I nodded, already afraid of the the moment I had spent so much of my life dreading, and so much of my life offering my health up for sacrifice.
The call finished quickly with committments to get over to Vancouver ASAP.
I lay for a while with Susan, accepting comfort. I had a whole bunch of opiates in my blood but they were not going to be enough in this case.
After a bit I got up and put on " Berlin" by Lou Reed. Not inspiring but ceratinly affirming.
My two remaining brothers met us at the ferry terminal and filled me in during the drive. We had a very small family gathering for today and tomorrow would bring the trip to the funeral people and all of the practical matters that come in death's wake.
Walking into my parent's house was difficult. My father had always put Kevin first. In retrospect I love him for his passion even as I see how this hurt the rest of us.
A brief story.
When Kevin was nearing 2 years old it was becoming clear that something was off. This was 1953 or thereabout, and going to the doctor was a big deal. They took him to see Dr. Schuman, our kid's doc. From there Kevin went to the hospital and subsequently given a diagnosis of Duchene's Muscualr Dystrophy. Usually fatal by thte age of 14 at that time.
My father's reaction was that of a very young man. He stormed into the hospital, sweeping my brother up in his arms, yelling and being aggresive, probably fuelled by whiskey.
Of course, this did not have any effect on the diagnosis but I guess it made him feel better for a bit.
I mention this to give a feel for the passion and entanglement that begin to define the whole family, but most of all, my Dad.
The impending death of Kevin (pronounced Kayvan for some reason) had been heartily ingnored by my father. In fact there were often fantasies of what the family was going to do when the bad sickness went away and the good times began.
My Mom was another story. She took me out in a hallway when I was 8 and told me Kevin was not long for the world. It was portrayed as a secret. Sort of as if no one noticed his decreasing mobility and loss of muscle. It is odd, upon reflection how much damage can be caused for the best of reasons.
So there we were, not surprised but not prepared in any way at all. It was at this point my father turned to all of us and said ,
" I feel as if someone needs to go down to the hospital and make sure he is ok'.
I suppose it shows our sate of mind that everyone accepted this without the obvious objections such as "He is dead. What do you mean ok?"
We watched as he struggled with the next sentence, but out it came.
"I cannot do it. I know I should but I just cannot"
What an opportunity for me. What a chance to show how worthwhile I was and how deserving of Dad's best.
"I'll go" I said, and I did.
I had last seen my brother about three days before his death. Despite strong objections from my wife of the time I took a harbour to harbour flight. Part of Susan's objection was monetary but she was also worried about me returning to my home town in those circumstances. She had good cause as I often destroyed my life under the flag of my dying brother with my anthem sounding like a paen to self-pity.
The trip is one I will always be glad I made. He could not talk as he had made the choice to switch from iron lung to respirator, and a silver tube attached to hoses came out of a hole in his throat, supplying the energy to breathe.
We held hands and I tickled his arms and chest, something he always loved. He was one and a half years younger than me and I loved him more than anything in the world. We slept in the same bed for years and I used to hold his hand and pray that I could be the one who was sick while he could be ok. That old saying"be careful what you pray for" is wise.
As I prepared to leave I took off a silver braclet my mother had given to me, and I put it around what was left of his arm. my brother weighed 55 pounds at the age of 21, having celbrated his birthday the week before.
Walking back into the hospital, I focused on the bracelet, determined to get it back at all costs. Of course, my focus was an effort to get me through the next bit but I had no clue at the time.
A nurse or a nurse's aid met me at the door to Intensive Care. I told her I was there to get my brother's belongings and to see his body.
She was not gone long and returned with his small suitcase and a large manila envelope. I went through the suitcase quickly and did not see the bracelet.
My state of being at the time was one of full blown panic managed by the tiniest of controls. Unable to find the silver bracelet I reached out for the manila envelope. Instead of handing it to me she shook out a watch, the bracelet and another silver metal piece.
Done transferring them to me, we both stood still and looked at what was laying in my palm. At about the same time we realized that the unknowm trinket was the piece of technology that had been in Kevin's throat, keeping him alive.
Obviously, a mistake had been made. I mean, I do not think grieving loved ones show up at the morgue and are given pacemakers, knee replacements, breast implants or other medical exotica. Yet here it was.
In all honesty I do not remember getting from there to the morgue itself, but it happened and a resentful looking fellow was standing in front of a door, all but tapping his foot as he looked at me.
I gave him paperwork by the simple means of holding a handful out as if starting a card trick, and waited for him to pick the right one.
The door was still closed to the morgue but I could feel my Kevin on the other side. Big brother to the rescue.
The attendant had said something.
I started and looked at him.
"I'm sorry. Did you say something?"
Nodding, he repeated, "are you sure you want to do this?"
I was stunned. It never occurred to me that a choice was possible.
Nodding back, I answered, "I have to."
He opened the door and the cold flowed out along the floor, touching my legs first, then moving up. I stepped into the largest fridge I had ever seen.
The room was institutional green and an empty metal gurney sat in the middle. There were a number of drawers on two walls and I expected the guy to roll out Kevin like in the movies. Instead he went to another door and opened up onto a dark room that was full of occupied gurneys, covered in white sheets.
Rustling paperwork, the attendant began the process of identifying which body he needed to match numbers with. It would really not do to pull out the wrong corpse.
I clenched inside when I realized I knew which form was my sweet brother. Muscular Dystrophy tightens all the ligaments and tendons resulting in feet and hands curled inward. The disease also draws up the legs to the waist, and there he was in all his bent splendor. The only body in that dark room that had a tent like silhoette.
"That's him" I pointed out to whatever his name was.
I was about to find out if he was OK.
Moving quickly, the man brought out the gurney and bent back the sheet to show his face. My first view was of the back of his head and I was put out with how messy his hair was.
I moved up, finding the courage somewhere, doing my Big Brother duty. Taking care of my boy.
His mouth was open a bit and the place where the trinket had been was bandaged. I reached out and touched his skin, wanting to comfort.
All those adjectives apply so completely. Cold, waxy, sunken, empty, so clearly and absofuckenlutely gone.
Except for one thing. One detail.
His eyes were open. His eyes were open in that dark frozen room where the dead made up the neighborhood.
His eyes were open to all the horror of his death.
Was it not enough to die without having to be a witness?
These are the type of thoughts I had as my knees gave out and I sunk to his caved in chest, sobbing out words that I guess may have sounded like "oh no oh no my baby boy oh no no damon is here i will fix it oh no my lovely boy i love you i love you now and always oh no oh no
A hand on my shoulder.
I am not proud of the fact that the person who looked up at the attendant was one who had enough of sadness and chose rage instead.
"Why are his fucking eyes open"? I screamed.
He just looked at me. I imagine he had some experience in these Hallmark moments.
"I'll get it fixed", he replied and headed off to do whatever. I went back to what had been Kevin. Not only were his eyes open, they were golden. Really golden and for a moment this calmed me down.
I looked closely at Kevin's face but there was no sign of suffering or pain. Instead, it seems as if death had ambushed him while he was looking the other way. He never saw it coming.
I was grateful, but not near enough to quiet the rage. I leaned over again and kissed his forehead and cheek.
I waited until the guy came back. He took large bandages and covered the golden eyes so he could not witness the horror that was trashing his older brother.
After the business was done and the morgue door closed I sat down in the hallway. The suitcase and envelope beside me.
At some point two women walked by and were laughing. I spit at them, calling them cunts.
Finally, I got back in the car and drove to my parent's home. The ride was about ten miles and it was 9 at night or thereabouts. I did not stop for a light or stop sign. I recall hitting 85 mph. Grief and rage mixed is selfish and I am glad I did not hurt anyone that night.
I walked into the hallway and the front room went quiet.
My father was standing when I came in.
Smiling, I heaved a big sigh as if letting some worry go.
"He is ok. He looked just like our boy".
Then I went upstairs, aware only now that my brother's illness was sheparded in by his father's passion and rage, and led out by his brother's rage and grief.
Friday, August 21, 2009
Tuesday, August 11, 2009
Dad and me Part 2
London, England
Next day
11AM
My dad let me in to his room after I knocked a couple of times. He was wearing his underwear with a wife beater t-shirt on. My father's body was like a map of Ireland. The poor oppressed part. His skin was as white as the belly of a fish. Freckles were scattered upon his torso and speckled their way down his arms and hands, with the added bonus of black hair on the knuckles.
He had skinny legs and he was knock kneed as well as the possessor of a sunken chest due to having rickets as a child. His face was from a different human being. One who starred in movies with the wavy black hair of Tyrone Power and the bone structure of Gregory Peck. His good looks followed him everywhere and I suspect they were as responsible for his early corporate success as much as his business acumen. Perhaps more.
No plane ride was complete without a stewardess hitting on him, and this was in the time of flight attendants being really good looking. Handsome is the word the ladies used. He stood about 6'3" and was thin. In clothes he was as elegant as 'the duke of donuts' as his mother would say.
But enough. In today's story he is ironing his pants for our trip home with half of the hash. Using an admirable creativity he sewed in pockets to a heavy raincoat for the bricks of hash. We were taking six kilos so there was a total of 13.2 pounds to carry. He planned to wear the coat, counting on his straight appearance to see him through customs at the Canadian side. The year was 1974 and security was still lax, but airplane hijackings were becoming the rage, and this became important the next day.
I stood by and watched for a while but there was nothing I could add to the operation, and we did not spend much time talking. My Dad was not into sharing himself with his eldest so I went to my friend's flat where I stayed when in London and we shot heroin and smoked hash for the rest of the evening.
The plan to get the drugs home was set, and the profit would pay for bigger buys that would get the other half load home as well as much more and in a much safer way. This was a one shot deal.
Heathrow Airport
The next day
7AM.
My father and I did not travel to the airport together nor did we acknowledge each other as we got tickets etc.
My Dad brought a carry on suitcase and had on his overcoat that carried the drugs. I looked closely but he had done a good job and he had sealed them with vacumn and heat to beat the smell. We went through customs and lined up for security. I was behind him and it took him a while to catch my eye. When he had my attention he looked to the head of the line.
I craned around and my guts went cold. They were doing body searches on all the passengers. This was new and totally due to the recent rash of planes going to Cuba despite the wishes of almost all on board. I tried to figure out a way to get us both out and as I was doing this I saw him casually take off his raincoat and fold it. He then put down his carry-on, opened it and put the overcoat away, locking it up as he stood.
When he reached security I watched them run hands down his body, and the guard pointed to the suitcase.
With a smile my father handed it to him, and watched the guard open it up after laying it on the ground. My heart beat was in my lips.
The guard ran his hands under the stack of neatly folded clothes and then took out a wand that picks up metallic objects, poking it here and there in the bag.
Finished, he stood up and beckoned my father to move ahead.
On the Plane
Not a lot of memories of this flight. I had done a really good hit of heroin before I got on the flight. More than enough to hold me until I got home. I do have one clear recall however.
The pilot came on the intercom and told us we were currently flying over Greenland, and it being a rare clear day we might get a good look at this remote world if we chose. My father was on the side of the plane where the sights were to be seen, and I was watching him looking out the window when he suddenly turned to me. There was a moment, just a short one you bet, where we looked at each other with the knowledge of what we were doing between us.
He smiled his white smile and then he winked at me. My father winked! My father winked at me, his son. Two things for me to relate. First of all, he was really enjoying himself. My Dad's favorite song was "Secret Agent Man" by Johnny Rivers and it was the theme to a TV show starring another Irish guy named Patrick McGoohan. I learned something about men and my Dad that day.
The second thing is harder to admit. Iwas so moved by him winking at me. I ached for his approval and it was such a big ache I thought it was normal life. What I learned was how fragile we sons are and how we will wait through beatings, shaming, negect and parental jealousy just to get a smile and wink. Oh my. Drug smuggling with Dad was to be my top close Daddy moment.
Winnepeg Airport
Same day
The landing was uneventful and we both went to different customs lines. We had tried to plan arriving at the same time in front of agents but I came in a bit before him.
By this time in my life I had a record in Canada as well as an Interpol record in Europe. To say the agents were interested in me is an understatement. They had a party tearing my stuff apart. As I stood by I watched my Dad, who had picked out a middle-aged female officer , go through his customs with a charming smile on his face and a hopeful one on her's.
As they led me away to be strip searched I watched him walk by me no more than ten feet away. He looked over and gave my group a look, but no more than slight curiosity. While the agents put on their rubber gloves I swelled with pride for my Dad and for my role in getting the business started.
"Bend Over" the agent said to me. I wondered if it was going to be good for him too.
Next day
11AM
My dad let me in to his room after I knocked a couple of times. He was wearing his underwear with a wife beater t-shirt on. My father's body was like a map of Ireland. The poor oppressed part. His skin was as white as the belly of a fish. Freckles were scattered upon his torso and speckled their way down his arms and hands, with the added bonus of black hair on the knuckles.
He had skinny legs and he was knock kneed as well as the possessor of a sunken chest due to having rickets as a child. His face was from a different human being. One who starred in movies with the wavy black hair of Tyrone Power and the bone structure of Gregory Peck. His good looks followed him everywhere and I suspect they were as responsible for his early corporate success as much as his business acumen. Perhaps more.
No plane ride was complete without a stewardess hitting on him, and this was in the time of flight attendants being really good looking. Handsome is the word the ladies used. He stood about 6'3" and was thin. In clothes he was as elegant as 'the duke of donuts' as his mother would say.
But enough. In today's story he is ironing his pants for our trip home with half of the hash. Using an admirable creativity he sewed in pockets to a heavy raincoat for the bricks of hash. We were taking six kilos so there was a total of 13.2 pounds to carry. He planned to wear the coat, counting on his straight appearance to see him through customs at the Canadian side. The year was 1974 and security was still lax, but airplane hijackings were becoming the rage, and this became important the next day.
I stood by and watched for a while but there was nothing I could add to the operation, and we did not spend much time talking. My Dad was not into sharing himself with his eldest so I went to my friend's flat where I stayed when in London and we shot heroin and smoked hash for the rest of the evening.
The plan to get the drugs home was set, and the profit would pay for bigger buys that would get the other half load home as well as much more and in a much safer way. This was a one shot deal.
Heathrow Airport
The next day
7AM.
My father and I did not travel to the airport together nor did we acknowledge each other as we got tickets etc.
My Dad brought a carry on suitcase and had on his overcoat that carried the drugs. I looked closely but he had done a good job and he had sealed them with vacumn and heat to beat the smell. We went through customs and lined up for security. I was behind him and it took him a while to catch my eye. When he had my attention he looked to the head of the line.
I craned around and my guts went cold. They were doing body searches on all the passengers. This was new and totally due to the recent rash of planes going to Cuba despite the wishes of almost all on board. I tried to figure out a way to get us both out and as I was doing this I saw him casually take off his raincoat and fold it. He then put down his carry-on, opened it and put the overcoat away, locking it up as he stood.
When he reached security I watched them run hands down his body, and the guard pointed to the suitcase.
With a smile my father handed it to him, and watched the guard open it up after laying it on the ground. My heart beat was in my lips.
The guard ran his hands under the stack of neatly folded clothes and then took out a wand that picks up metallic objects, poking it here and there in the bag.
Finished, he stood up and beckoned my father to move ahead.
On the Plane
Not a lot of memories of this flight. I had done a really good hit of heroin before I got on the flight. More than enough to hold me until I got home. I do have one clear recall however.
The pilot came on the intercom and told us we were currently flying over Greenland, and it being a rare clear day we might get a good look at this remote world if we chose. My father was on the side of the plane where the sights were to be seen, and I was watching him looking out the window when he suddenly turned to me. There was a moment, just a short one you bet, where we looked at each other with the knowledge of what we were doing between us.
He smiled his white smile and then he winked at me. My father winked! My father winked at me, his son. Two things for me to relate. First of all, he was really enjoying himself. My Dad's favorite song was "Secret Agent Man" by Johnny Rivers and it was the theme to a TV show starring another Irish guy named Patrick McGoohan. I learned something about men and my Dad that day.
The second thing is harder to admit. Iwas so moved by him winking at me. I ached for his approval and it was such a big ache I thought it was normal life. What I learned was how fragile we sons are and how we will wait through beatings, shaming, negect and parental jealousy just to get a smile and wink. Oh my. Drug smuggling with Dad was to be my top close Daddy moment.
Winnepeg Airport
Same day
The landing was uneventful and we both went to different customs lines. We had tried to plan arriving at the same time in front of agents but I came in a bit before him.
By this time in my life I had a record in Canada as well as an Interpol record in Europe. To say the agents were interested in me is an understatement. They had a party tearing my stuff apart. As I stood by I watched my Dad, who had picked out a middle-aged female officer , go through his customs with a charming smile on his face and a hopeful one on her's.
As they led me away to be strip searched I watched him walk by me no more than ten feet away. He looked over and gave my group a look, but no more than slight curiosity. While the agents put on their rubber gloves I swelled with pride for my Dad and for my role in getting the business started.
"Bend Over" the agent said to me. I wondered if it was going to be good for him too.
My Dad and me
London, England
10:30 AM
I pick up my Dad at his hotel, and we take one of those old black cabs the English have. Feels like a fucking movie getting in the thing. I give the driver the name of an intersection in an expensive part of town and off we go, neither one of us saying much. Just dealing with the edge and making sure it keeps us sharp instead of paranoid and twitched. Occassional looks out the back are the security measures.
The intersection has a pub and we sit down at a booth. My dad orders Scotch straight up and I take a pint. We both turn down food.
At noon I pick up the small knapsack he brought, and nod to him as I head out. The place I am looking for is only a couple of blocks away, and after checking out the street I ring the buzzer. British voice answers.
"Who is it?"
I lean forward to the speaker.
"It's Damon. Tom's friend."
"Right" the voice says and the door clicks open.
I walk into a small foyer with an elevator facing me. It is the only choice so I press the arrow for up and get in as soon as the door opens. The only button not taped over is for the sixth floor, so that is where I go.
The paranoia hits hard. I feel the knife up my right sleeve, the point of the blade nestling against my palm, waiting to be dropped if needed.
The elevator door opens and I am in a huge loft facing a couple. The guy is thin, with long hair tied back loose. About 40, he has the look of money about him. His partner is a female in her early thirties. Attractive in that horse faced way of Princess Diana. Good teeth, and in England that detail shouts wealth. It seems I am dealing with an upscale bunch. at least so far. Maybe they are saving the Cockney thugs for later
Hand shake all around and the offer of refreshments. I feel myself being put at ease and tighten up on the blade.
No names are offered.
"Let's get to it eh, " the woman says, and reaches under a table.
The cardboard box she pulls out also brings a wiff of hashish with it.
I make a decision, and while opening my knapsack I also let the knife slide into its interior. In the same motion I pull out 20,000 British pounds or about $40,000 Canadian at that time.
PLacing the money on the table I sit back, feeling good about the deal. These people are giving off good vibes of professionalism, and I trust my instincts.
A scale is added to the table and so are 25 pounds of hashish bagged in white cotton sacks.
A hand indicates I should help myself so I pick up a bag and open one end a bit. The hash is blonde and moist.
Breaking off a small piece I roll a spliff, crumbling the hash into Dutchboy tobacco. Two puffs and I know all I need to know. This is Morrocan double O and is primo quality. I can sell this in ounce form back home and make seven times the family's investment. A quick look at random sacks convinces me all is on the up, and they count the cash.
A total of about ten sentences have been spoken. Putiing the product away in the knapsack I focus on the guy. Show respect.
"If this plays out like I think I am going to be looking for more. Can you people handle more business?"
Instead of answering he reaches into his pants and pulls out a wallet. Fishing around he comes up with a card. A name and number are the only information.
"Phone me a week ahead of time and it should work out"
Smiling, I head for the door.
At the pub my Dad has tucked into another Scotch but he can handle it. Walking in I see him watching me in the mirror for our agreed upon signal of things going wrong. Instead I head for his table and sit.
His Irish face looks at me hard, as if reading his future, which in a real sense is bang on
I give him a cool look back, playing the role. He is new to this business but I am not and I am enjoying the need in this man who is my father.
He starts to smile and I nod at him.
He finishes his drink and stands up.
My Dad's first drug deal is a success.
10:30 AM
I pick up my Dad at his hotel, and we take one of those old black cabs the English have. Feels like a fucking movie getting in the thing. I give the driver the name of an intersection in an expensive part of town and off we go, neither one of us saying much. Just dealing with the edge and making sure it keeps us sharp instead of paranoid and twitched. Occassional looks out the back are the security measures.
The intersection has a pub and we sit down at a booth. My dad orders Scotch straight up and I take a pint. We both turn down food.
At noon I pick up the small knapsack he brought, and nod to him as I head out. The place I am looking for is only a couple of blocks away, and after checking out the street I ring the buzzer. British voice answers.
"Who is it?"
I lean forward to the speaker.
"It's Damon. Tom's friend."
"Right" the voice says and the door clicks open.
I walk into a small foyer with an elevator facing me. It is the only choice so I press the arrow for up and get in as soon as the door opens. The only button not taped over is for the sixth floor, so that is where I go.
The paranoia hits hard. I feel the knife up my right sleeve, the point of the blade nestling against my palm, waiting to be dropped if needed.
The elevator door opens and I am in a huge loft facing a couple. The guy is thin, with long hair tied back loose. About 40, he has the look of money about him. His partner is a female in her early thirties. Attractive in that horse faced way of Princess Diana. Good teeth, and in England that detail shouts wealth. It seems I am dealing with an upscale bunch. at least so far. Maybe they are saving the Cockney thugs for later
Hand shake all around and the offer of refreshments. I feel myself being put at ease and tighten up on the blade.
No names are offered.
"Let's get to it eh, " the woman says, and reaches under a table.
The cardboard box she pulls out also brings a wiff of hashish with it.
I make a decision, and while opening my knapsack I also let the knife slide into its interior. In the same motion I pull out 20,000 British pounds or about $40,000 Canadian at that time.
PLacing the money on the table I sit back, feeling good about the deal. These people are giving off good vibes of professionalism, and I trust my instincts.
A scale is added to the table and so are 25 pounds of hashish bagged in white cotton sacks.
A hand indicates I should help myself so I pick up a bag and open one end a bit. The hash is blonde and moist.
Breaking off a small piece I roll a spliff, crumbling the hash into Dutchboy tobacco. Two puffs and I know all I need to know. This is Morrocan double O and is primo quality. I can sell this in ounce form back home and make seven times the family's investment. A quick look at random sacks convinces me all is on the up, and they count the cash.
A total of about ten sentences have been spoken. Putiing the product away in the knapsack I focus on the guy. Show respect.
"If this plays out like I think I am going to be looking for more. Can you people handle more business?"
Instead of answering he reaches into his pants and pulls out a wallet. Fishing around he comes up with a card. A name and number are the only information.
"Phone me a week ahead of time and it should work out"
Smiling, I head for the door.
At the pub my Dad has tucked into another Scotch but he can handle it. Walking in I see him watching me in the mirror for our agreed upon signal of things going wrong. Instead I head for his table and sit.
His Irish face looks at me hard, as if reading his future, which in a real sense is bang on
I give him a cool look back, playing the role. He is new to this business but I am not and I am enjoying the need in this man who is my father.
He starts to smile and I nod at him.
He finishes his drink and stands up.
My Dad's first drug deal is a success.
Monday, August 10, 2009
Cleaning up
The room was a pit. A real shithole. One lamp without a shade stood on a table big enough to seat at least 8 for dinner. Three chairs edge in to the scene, coming from different angles. A moth bumps and bumps at the bulb.
Pizza boxes and Chinese take-out containers are scattered on the scarred wooden floor, and the walls are covered with addicts. Male or female does not matter a lot. This is a heroin spot, not a crack house where the locals earn their rock with their mouth or ass or whatever sells.
Here all is quiet and all is peaceful. I'm propped up in a corner, having just fixed . Good dope. I am nodding a bit and the room has acquired that friendly glow heroin gives. The light that does exist is for the recent arrivals, and one has just walked in. Looking up I see a young man about 20 years old. He looks dope sick, and his eyes are riveted on the table where clean syringes lay, right beside a cup of water and a number of bent spoons. There is also bleach and paper towels for the health concious.
He is in a hurry, and is tearing open the bag of heroin as he sits down. With nothing better to do I watch as he empties one, two three,and now four bags into a cooker. That's a lot of dope. This stuff is good and he does not have the look of a veteran.
The citizen in me rears his head.
"Hey man, this shit is strong ya know?"
He looks up at me with huge pupils and nods.
"It's ok man. I've done this shit before yo."
Opening a syringe he sucks up water from a bottle he pulls out from his pocket. His attention is on the prep of his fix. I keep watching, not convinced he knows what the fuck is up. What's that 'yo'shit about? He's not even a fucking brother. The nod catches me and the next time I look up he is licking the blood from his arm and has that faraway look in his eye. I can see the tension go out of his body like a balloon losing air.
He cleans up, spraying blood and water over his jeans and the floor, then staggers to a corner to enjoy the drug. I nod again, and am brought out of it by a thump I feel as much as hear. My new friend has made a lip stand on the wooden floor.
Looking around I see that no one else is paying any attention. Crawling over on my hands and knees I try and make contact.
"Hey man, wake up. Hey guy. This is not cool. they do not like people od'ing on the premises"
No response.
Arriving beside him I rise to a squat, and give him a shake.
"Wake the fuck up dude".
Perhaps it is the loudness of my voice or the urgency in the tone but a couple of other locals are coming to and getting interested in the action. One of them says 'Aw hit, another one" and heads for the door and the room where the dealer and his security hang out.
Now I am motivated. Rolling him over I see the vomit hanging off his mouth. This is not a good sign. His eyes are rolled up into his forehead. I check his carotid and find what I expect. There is no pulse. This fucker is gone, but it is nothing a little injection from the ambulance people would not fix.
I take out my cell phone and hit 911, but as I press the send button a foot lashes out and kicks my phone out of my hand. It is the security guy.
"No calls man" he says, holding a knife out to reinforce his viewpoint. He looks hard at me and repeats himself.
"No calls until we get the guy out of the apartment".
I stand up and retrieve my phone, then look at he guy with the knife.
I say "I'll grab his feet" and reach down to do so.
The kicker is no rocket scientist but knows a potential profit when he sees one. Bending down he rifles through all the guys pockets and checks his socks and ass to be sure he has not suitcased something of value.
Disappointed he nods at me and takes the hands
Two minutes later the od is on the sidewalk in an alley and I make the call.
I do not want to be here when the Man arrives so I book. About a block later I hear the siren and read the name on the liscence in the wallet I took.
"Good Luck" I whisper to that name and face, removing a fair score of cash and throwing the rest away.
Pizza boxes and Chinese take-out containers are scattered on the scarred wooden floor, and the walls are covered with addicts. Male or female does not matter a lot. This is a heroin spot, not a crack house where the locals earn their rock with their mouth or ass or whatever sells.
Here all is quiet and all is peaceful. I'm propped up in a corner, having just fixed . Good dope. I am nodding a bit and the room has acquired that friendly glow heroin gives. The light that does exist is for the recent arrivals, and one has just walked in. Looking up I see a young man about 20 years old. He looks dope sick, and his eyes are riveted on the table where clean syringes lay, right beside a cup of water and a number of bent spoons. There is also bleach and paper towels for the health concious.
He is in a hurry, and is tearing open the bag of heroin as he sits down. With nothing better to do I watch as he empties one, two three,and now four bags into a cooker. That's a lot of dope. This stuff is good and he does not have the look of a veteran.
The citizen in me rears his head.
"Hey man, this shit is strong ya know?"
He looks up at me with huge pupils and nods.
"It's ok man. I've done this shit before yo."
Opening a syringe he sucks up water from a bottle he pulls out from his pocket. His attention is on the prep of his fix. I keep watching, not convinced he knows what the fuck is up. What's that 'yo'shit about? He's not even a fucking brother. The nod catches me and the next time I look up he is licking the blood from his arm and has that faraway look in his eye. I can see the tension go out of his body like a balloon losing air.
He cleans up, spraying blood and water over his jeans and the floor, then staggers to a corner to enjoy the drug. I nod again, and am brought out of it by a thump I feel as much as hear. My new friend has made a lip stand on the wooden floor.
Looking around I see that no one else is paying any attention. Crawling over on my hands and knees I try and make contact.
"Hey man, wake up. Hey guy. This is not cool. they do not like people od'ing on the premises"
No response.
Arriving beside him I rise to a squat, and give him a shake.
"Wake the fuck up dude".
Perhaps it is the loudness of my voice or the urgency in the tone but a couple of other locals are coming to and getting interested in the action. One of them says 'Aw hit, another one" and heads for the door and the room where the dealer and his security hang out.
Now I am motivated. Rolling him over I see the vomit hanging off his mouth. This is not a good sign. His eyes are rolled up into his forehead. I check his carotid and find what I expect. There is no pulse. This fucker is gone, but it is nothing a little injection from the ambulance people would not fix.
I take out my cell phone and hit 911, but as I press the send button a foot lashes out and kicks my phone out of my hand. It is the security guy.
"No calls man" he says, holding a knife out to reinforce his viewpoint. He looks hard at me and repeats himself.
"No calls until we get the guy out of the apartment".
I stand up and retrieve my phone, then look at he guy with the knife.
I say "I'll grab his feet" and reach down to do so.
The kicker is no rocket scientist but knows a potential profit when he sees one. Bending down he rifles through all the guys pockets and checks his socks and ass to be sure he has not suitcased something of value.
Disappointed he nods at me and takes the hands
Two minutes later the od is on the sidewalk in an alley and I make the call.
I do not want to be here when the Man arrives so I book. About a block later I hear the siren and read the name on the liscence in the wallet I took.
"Good Luck" I whisper to that name and face, removing a fair score of cash and throwing the rest away.
Friday, August 7, 2009
"SICK"
To understand a heroin addict there are a number of facts to take into account. First and foremost is our fear of withdrawal or being 'sick' as we call it. This response to not having enough opiate to take the edge off our withdrawal is the motor that drives all the other behaviour. The first reason for this is simple to understand. Withdrawal from heroin is the natural result from not having enough of the drug in our blood, and the syndrome that occurs when this lack is present is very unpleasant. For a heroin addict reading this last sentence there is almost certain to be eye rolling and exclamations that add up to "yeah, right" and "no shit Sherlock". In the culture of heroin addiction, being sick is the boogie man that haunts our dreams. Some cultures have Zombies, some have the devil or the Golem. We have "sick".
While acknowledging that withdrawal from heroin is very unpleasant it is also important to acknowledge how much of a role the fear plays in the strength of the response. Heroin or other opiate withdrawal is a function of adrenaline or speed -like substances that naturally occur in the brain. Everyone has these chemicals in their head.
For understanding why being 'sick' is so powerful for us it means we need to take a look at how people become addicted to heroin or any other opiate such as morphine, methadone, hydrocodone, oxycodone, oxycontin or hydromorphone.
When heroin is introduced to the blood by injection, snorting, skin-popping or any other mode of use, the respiratory system is impacted. This is the system that has to do with your blood pressure, heart rate, galvanic skin response and breathing. Without these functions going on in your body you have a Republican or at least someone who is dead and does not do much thinking (that was a joke if a poor one). The body basically freaks out and presses an emergency button that is designed to help a person survive these moments. The button is labeled "neuroadaptation" and responds to the lowering of our respiratory system by performing a trick.
First a little brain background. The cells in our head are called neurons and perform the job of being a brain just as the cells in our skin perform the job of being skin and so on. These cells branch out all over the place and touch each other . Where certain parts of them come close to touching is called a synapse and the space between these almost touches is called the synaptic cleft. It is in this cleft that chemical messages are passed back and forth. Heroin blocks the neurotransmitter or chemical that regulates our respiratory system and when it blocks the chemical our blood pressure, heart rate and other functions go down. In other words our heart rate lowers and so does everything else that keeps us alive or liberal ( I do know the jokes are not funny but it is my blog).
Here is where the trick happens. The brain, sensing extinction, makes the cells receiving the neurotransmitter despite heroin blockage, more sensitive, thereby doing the job of all the cells. This "neuroadaptation" is normal and healthy. However, it does not go away after the use of the drug has stopped. Instead all the receiving parts of the cell (called receptor sites) remain hypersensitive. Even the ones that were blocked and that means any of the speed like chemicals from our brain that normally regulates the respiratory system`is doing the job at an increased rate. The result is a brain flooded with adrenaline- like chemicals and a person whose experience is similar to a person on speed. No sleep, no appetite, cold skin, increased heart rate, high blood pressure, wide pupils, sweating, and very much caught up in swinging emotions. The time for the worst part of this to wear off is called withdrawal and the time it takes for all of it to go away as much as possible is called post-acute withdrawal. Time frames for this vary depending upon length of use, age, health, quality of dope and use of any other substances. It can vary from 3 days to three weeks for the first part and up to two years for the second.
The response I have been referring to is also known by the name of "fight or flight". When a person is faced with a danger the brain pumps out a lot of adrenaline to help us fight for our life or run to save it. The important link is this. Fear means more adrenaline. More fear more of the signs of fear in the body. These signs include wide pupils, cold skin, sweating, anxiety, no chance of sleep, nausea and others. They are almost identical to the signs in heroin withdrawal. So here is the punch line. Stick with me now because this is important. A heroin addict is afraid of withdrawal because it is very nasty. Any sign of withdrawal will cause a fear response which will mimic withdrawal signs causing more fear, increasing withdrawal symptoms which causes more fear and so on... A heroin addict can come very close to scaring themselves "sick" in the with drawl sense.
This mechanism becomes more problematic when you realize that any up and down in life will feature some adrenaline producing moments. A fight with one's boss or love interest can cause feelings of unease that the addict will unconsciously translate as withdrawal which will create more fear, leading to the response of most heroin addicts to this feeling which is to fix.
The final bit that fits into this subject is called 'somatic awareness'. Soma means body so this breaks down as body awareness. Everyone has it to some extent but heroin addicts have it as a part of who they are. Addicts are used to paying attention to the level of heroin in their blood. If they do not plan well the penalty is withdrawal. Upon waking our mind goes to how we feel physically which means how far away is withdrawal. Years and years of this leave an addict with an automatic somatic register. It does not go away in recovery to any extent for a long time if ever. So we end up with this population of addicts as people who notice everything that happens to them physically and puts all emotional turmoil on to the physical plane. For instance, a fight with the kids may translate as a tight shoulder which leads to a headache. The addict knows how to get rid of this problem but if they are going without they say no to themselves and are left with an ambivalence that leads to more tension and more discomfort, once again begging a chemical solution.
Much of treatment's focus is on the past history of the addict, and this may well have its place in the greater scheme, but in the beginning the addict's most powerful enemy is their brain and the conditioning it has undergone. Becoming a heroin addict is a learned experience. If you do not believe that drop a normal citizen into a drug area and tell them to go buy heroin. They will be lucky to leave with their pants on.
Heroin is a drug of comfort. Think of the beautiful poppy swaying in warm winds, bending at the stalk and going where the world wants to take it. Heroin addicts are addicts to comfort.
Heroin is from the poppy and so is morphine, opium, mehtadone and codeine. Methadone is synthetic but is based upon the poppy's molecular formula. Pain killing is the primary purpose of all of these drugs. There is even a God named for it called Morpheus, the God of dreams. Heroin addicts are addicted to no pain.
There is also a sureness in the world of the heroin addict. If the drug is good so are you. This is a certainty. No grays or shades between black and white. Life is not complicated. A supply of a good amount of strong heroin is a treasure beyond money. It is the guarantee of happiness and the rest of life seen through rose coloured lenses. We are addicted to certainty and rose coloured views.
Every day has a mission. Ther is no boredom or deadly repetition. No 'why am I doing this?' or 'maybe I'l try something else today'. I get up and Use. If I do not have it I go on a mission until I do have it. Then I use. After that I do it again and each time is just as important as the last. I am addicted to a sense of importance and being on a mission.
I am tearproof, waterproof, bloodproof or however you want to put it. Despite my ability to pretend, charm, lie, profile or front, once I have a good fix in me my main goal in life is satisfied. Many of the caring ones regret coming second but this is a misunderstanding. They are not second. Heroin is.
If I am not sick I am well
If I am not sick I am well I care so little for the others
If I am not sick I am well
Inside here I snuggle up to the warm
I watch you with what you want
I judge what you want or need
I do my best to give it
I do my giving from the warmth
I do my best from the warm place
If I am not sick I am well
And I am warm
Can I help You?
Who Can I be for you?
What illusion can we spin?
How long will this dream last.
I pray for it to last forever
For all time to the end of all
To be well and well and well
In the clutch of Morpheus
My love grasps at me
as I float
My family
grasps at me
as i float
The cat curls up and purrs
I love the warmth
While acknowledging that withdrawal from heroin is very unpleasant it is also important to acknowledge how much of a role the fear plays in the strength of the response. Heroin or other opiate withdrawal is a function of adrenaline or speed -like substances that naturally occur in the brain. Everyone has these chemicals in their head.
For understanding why being 'sick' is so powerful for us it means we need to take a look at how people become addicted to heroin or any other opiate such as morphine, methadone, hydrocodone, oxycodone, oxycontin or hydromorphone.
When heroin is introduced to the blood by injection, snorting, skin-popping or any other mode of use, the respiratory system is impacted. This is the system that has to do with your blood pressure, heart rate, galvanic skin response and breathing. Without these functions going on in your body you have a Republican or at least someone who is dead and does not do much thinking (that was a joke if a poor one). The body basically freaks out and presses an emergency button that is designed to help a person survive these moments. The button is labeled "neuroadaptation" and responds to the lowering of our respiratory system by performing a trick.
First a little brain background. The cells in our head are called neurons and perform the job of being a brain just as the cells in our skin perform the job of being skin and so on. These cells branch out all over the place and touch each other . Where certain parts of them come close to touching is called a synapse and the space between these almost touches is called the synaptic cleft. It is in this cleft that chemical messages are passed back and forth. Heroin blocks the neurotransmitter or chemical that regulates our respiratory system and when it blocks the chemical our blood pressure, heart rate and other functions go down. In other words our heart rate lowers and so does everything else that keeps us alive or liberal ( I do know the jokes are not funny but it is my blog).
Here is where the trick happens. The brain, sensing extinction, makes the cells receiving the neurotransmitter despite heroin blockage, more sensitive, thereby doing the job of all the cells. This "neuroadaptation" is normal and healthy. However, it does not go away after the use of the drug has stopped. Instead all the receiving parts of the cell (called receptor sites) remain hypersensitive. Even the ones that were blocked and that means any of the speed like chemicals from our brain that normally regulates the respiratory system`is doing the job at an increased rate. The result is a brain flooded with adrenaline- like chemicals and a person whose experience is similar to a person on speed. No sleep, no appetite, cold skin, increased heart rate, high blood pressure, wide pupils, sweating, and very much caught up in swinging emotions. The time for the worst part of this to wear off is called withdrawal and the time it takes for all of it to go away as much as possible is called post-acute withdrawal. Time frames for this vary depending upon length of use, age, health, quality of dope and use of any other substances. It can vary from 3 days to three weeks for the first part and up to two years for the second.
The response I have been referring to is also known by the name of "fight or flight". When a person is faced with a danger the brain pumps out a lot of adrenaline to help us fight for our life or run to save it. The important link is this. Fear means more adrenaline. More fear more of the signs of fear in the body. These signs include wide pupils, cold skin, sweating, anxiety, no chance of sleep, nausea and others. They are almost identical to the signs in heroin withdrawal. So here is the punch line. Stick with me now because this is important. A heroin addict is afraid of withdrawal because it is very nasty. Any sign of withdrawal will cause a fear response which will mimic withdrawal signs causing more fear, increasing withdrawal symptoms which causes more fear and so on... A heroin addict can come very close to scaring themselves "sick" in the with drawl sense.
This mechanism becomes more problematic when you realize that any up and down in life will feature some adrenaline producing moments. A fight with one's boss or love interest can cause feelings of unease that the addict will unconsciously translate as withdrawal which will create more fear, leading to the response of most heroin addicts to this feeling which is to fix.
The final bit that fits into this subject is called 'somatic awareness'. Soma means body so this breaks down as body awareness. Everyone has it to some extent but heroin addicts have it as a part of who they are. Addicts are used to paying attention to the level of heroin in their blood. If they do not plan well the penalty is withdrawal. Upon waking our mind goes to how we feel physically which means how far away is withdrawal. Years and years of this leave an addict with an automatic somatic register. It does not go away in recovery to any extent for a long time if ever. So we end up with this population of addicts as people who notice everything that happens to them physically and puts all emotional turmoil on to the physical plane. For instance, a fight with the kids may translate as a tight shoulder which leads to a headache. The addict knows how to get rid of this problem but if they are going without they say no to themselves and are left with an ambivalence that leads to more tension and more discomfort, once again begging a chemical solution.
Much of treatment's focus is on the past history of the addict, and this may well have its place in the greater scheme, but in the beginning the addict's most powerful enemy is their brain and the conditioning it has undergone. Becoming a heroin addict is a learned experience. If you do not believe that drop a normal citizen into a drug area and tell them to go buy heroin. They will be lucky to leave with their pants on.
Heroin is a drug of comfort. Think of the beautiful poppy swaying in warm winds, bending at the stalk and going where the world wants to take it. Heroin addicts are addicts to comfort.
Heroin is from the poppy and so is morphine, opium, mehtadone and codeine. Methadone is synthetic but is based upon the poppy's molecular formula. Pain killing is the primary purpose of all of these drugs. There is even a God named for it called Morpheus, the God of dreams. Heroin addicts are addicted to no pain.
There is also a sureness in the world of the heroin addict. If the drug is good so are you. This is a certainty. No grays or shades between black and white. Life is not complicated. A supply of a good amount of strong heroin is a treasure beyond money. It is the guarantee of happiness and the rest of life seen through rose coloured lenses. We are addicted to certainty and rose coloured views.
Every day has a mission. Ther is no boredom or deadly repetition. No 'why am I doing this?' or 'maybe I'l try something else today'. I get up and Use. If I do not have it I go on a mission until I do have it. Then I use. After that I do it again and each time is just as important as the last. I am addicted to a sense of importance and being on a mission.
I am tearproof, waterproof, bloodproof or however you want to put it. Despite my ability to pretend, charm, lie, profile or front, once I have a good fix in me my main goal in life is satisfied. Many of the caring ones regret coming second but this is a misunderstanding. They are not second. Heroin is.
If I am not sick I am well
If I am not sick I am well I care so little for the others
If I am not sick I am well
Inside here I snuggle up to the warm
I watch you with what you want
I judge what you want or need
I do my best to give it
I do my giving from the warmth
I do my best from the warm place
If I am not sick I am well
And I am warm
Can I help You?
Who Can I be for you?
What illusion can we spin?
How long will this dream last.
I pray for it to last forever
For all time to the end of all
To be well and well and well
In the clutch of Morpheus
My love grasps at me
as I float
My family
grasps at me
as i float
The cat curls up and purrs
I love the warmth
Wednesday, August 5, 2009
help part 2
It is important to prepare for the long haul when you are dealing with a new heroin addict in particular, but the same can be said of all of us no matter the length of time addicted. The simple central fact is both discouraging and true as the sun coming up. Heroin addiction is generally going to have life of its own. It may last 5 years, ten years, or even much longer. It depends on a number of factors.
Let me go over the factors mentioned:
1. Family support- this one is self-evident in its meaning. It does not take a rocket scientist to figure out that an addict with both the background and current support of a family and other caring people is going to have a leg up when it comes time to put all the heroin toys away and come back to the world of human relationships. This can be abused by the addict but that should go without saying. All things in the way of using have potential for abuse. More on this later.
2. Work History- Life in recovery is much more doable when a newly recovering person does not have to invent themselves from the ground up. A skill, trade or previous work history that adds up to a resume is very useful. Also implied here is the addict knows what getting up for a job is and how to present themselves during the interview.
3. Social Network_ Anyone who uses is dangerous for a recovering addict. For each and every recovering person, someone who uses your drug of choice has the plague and it is extremly contagious. Anyone. This is why 12 step programs recommend taking along at least one other recovering person when going to see someone who uses. Notice there is no age or clean time exceptions. The assumption is no one is safe doing it alone. New friends or sane old connections need to make up the circle of support. There is also some who believe in not forming romantic relationships in a therapy group or a 12 step program. The reasoning is simple. One person in a relationship with recovery challenges is enough. Two people with these challenges can get complicated even more than most.
4. Education- The more schooling or trade education in a person's past, the easier it will be to integrate back into the work force.
5. Health- Basic health needs such as dentistry are very important. No one wants to hire someone with no teeth. Many of us have viral challenges and these can present their own load of concerns. Medication protocols such as interferon for Hep C or cocktails for hiv/aids cause a number of side-effects that are hard to live with. Focus in early recovery should be on physical and mental health as much as possible. Mood disorders are common in early and later recovery due to the damage that is done to the brain and also because many people get into drugs to deal with a pre-existing mental health disorder. Chronic pain may also become an issue for many heroin addicts in early recovery. Part of this is because the chronic use of heroin will help to atrophy the brain's natural painkillers (endorphins). This means that each pain is felt without the benefit of the gifts of natural pain relief. Their hurts hurt more and cause more secondary damage as a result. Also the brain cells directly connected to heroin become hypersensitive during chronic use, resulting in early detection of pain signals. There is so much more to discuss on this little appreciated area. If you read this and have a question....
6.Living quarters- While it is true a motivated addict can get clean anywhere we are like the rest of the world in appreciating nice surroundings. More important however, is a person feeling comfortable where they recover. Many counselors want to send clients from ghettos to pastoral or rural settings. This is not always the best solution and represents some counter-transference on the part of the professional. Remember that lots of people get clean in parts of cities where many fear to tread but to them is home. Recovery is partly based upon finding peers who relate to you. While it is not impossible to do this in foreign locales, I believe it is more likely at home. Of course, the danger then lies in people, places, and things, but it always does. The only difference is in intensity.
I have brought up some of the factors that can influence a person's chance at recovery. Most of these factors are of a socio-economic variety. Money can make recovery more likely. Do not get this part wrong. Money does not guarantee it, but does help.
I have worked at facilities where all the clients came from backgrounds that can be called difficult. Others might call them the disenfranchised. Whatever the case, they do not have a lot of factors to fall back on in recovery. I have also worked in a famous rehab in California where everyone who came had to come up with 30,000 cash before coming in the door. Those clients with all the advantages see a success rate of about 30% if you define success as being clean one year after the treatment episode is over. Relapse may or may not have occured but if you are clean and still trying a year later you qualify. The clinics paid for by medicaid etc. run at about 10% if success is defined the same way. Much of the evidence for this is anecdotal but not all and that evidence that does exist can be extrapolated easily.
So family member and caring person, there you have a picture of who gets better and how long it takes. Much patience and perseverance is going to be needed so it is best to settle with this right off the bat. Otherwise you are going to get very hurt and not be able to survive the long run.
Some of the rules you will need to follow and how to maintain yourself are coming up in another blog.
Let me go over the factors mentioned:
1. Family support- this one is self-evident in its meaning. It does not take a rocket scientist to figure out that an addict with both the background and current support of a family and other caring people is going to have a leg up when it comes time to put all the heroin toys away and come back to the world of human relationships. This can be abused by the addict but that should go without saying. All things in the way of using have potential for abuse. More on this later.
2. Work History- Life in recovery is much more doable when a newly recovering person does not have to invent themselves from the ground up. A skill, trade or previous work history that adds up to a resume is very useful. Also implied here is the addict knows what getting up for a job is and how to present themselves during the interview.
3. Social Network_ Anyone who uses is dangerous for a recovering addict. For each and every recovering person, someone who uses your drug of choice has the plague and it is extremly contagious. Anyone. This is why 12 step programs recommend taking along at least one other recovering person when going to see someone who uses. Notice there is no age or clean time exceptions. The assumption is no one is safe doing it alone. New friends or sane old connections need to make up the circle of support. There is also some who believe in not forming romantic relationships in a therapy group or a 12 step program. The reasoning is simple. One person in a relationship with recovery challenges is enough. Two people with these challenges can get complicated even more than most.
4. Education- The more schooling or trade education in a person's past, the easier it will be to integrate back into the work force.
5. Health- Basic health needs such as dentistry are very important. No one wants to hire someone with no teeth. Many of us have viral challenges and these can present their own load of concerns. Medication protocols such as interferon for Hep C or cocktails for hiv/aids cause a number of side-effects that are hard to live with. Focus in early recovery should be on physical and mental health as much as possible. Mood disorders are common in early and later recovery due to the damage that is done to the brain and also because many people get into drugs to deal with a pre-existing mental health disorder. Chronic pain may also become an issue for many heroin addicts in early recovery. Part of this is because the chronic use of heroin will help to atrophy the brain's natural painkillers (endorphins). This means that each pain is felt without the benefit of the gifts of natural pain relief. Their hurts hurt more and cause more secondary damage as a result. Also the brain cells directly connected to heroin become hypersensitive during chronic use, resulting in early detection of pain signals. There is so much more to discuss on this little appreciated area. If you read this and have a question....
6.Living quarters- While it is true a motivated addict can get clean anywhere we are like the rest of the world in appreciating nice surroundings. More important however, is a person feeling comfortable where they recover. Many counselors want to send clients from ghettos to pastoral or rural settings. This is not always the best solution and represents some counter-transference on the part of the professional. Remember that lots of people get clean in parts of cities where many fear to tread but to them is home. Recovery is partly based upon finding peers who relate to you. While it is not impossible to do this in foreign locales, I believe it is more likely at home. Of course, the danger then lies in people, places, and things, but it always does. The only difference is in intensity.
I have brought up some of the factors that can influence a person's chance at recovery. Most of these factors are of a socio-economic variety. Money can make recovery more likely. Do not get this part wrong. Money does not guarantee it, but does help.
I have worked at facilities where all the clients came from backgrounds that can be called difficult. Others might call them the disenfranchised. Whatever the case, they do not have a lot of factors to fall back on in recovery. I have also worked in a famous rehab in California where everyone who came had to come up with 30,000 cash before coming in the door. Those clients with all the advantages see a success rate of about 30% if you define success as being clean one year after the treatment episode is over. Relapse may or may not have occured but if you are clean and still trying a year later you qualify. The clinics paid for by medicaid etc. run at about 10% if success is defined the same way. Much of the evidence for this is anecdotal but not all and that evidence that does exist can be extrapolated easily.
So family member and caring person, there you have a picture of who gets better and how long it takes. Much patience and perseverance is going to be needed so it is best to settle with this right off the bat. Otherwise you are going to get very hurt and not be able to survive the long run.
Some of the rules you will need to follow and how to maintain yourself are coming up in another blog.
Tuesday, August 4, 2009
Family and loved ones help
The concept of a person getting help regarding the problem of heroin addiction usually targets the addict. While there is nothing wrong with this concept it does ignore a central truth. The addict is medicated during the majority of their using history while most of the family members and other caring people are not. At least not to the extent the addict is.
Heroin is a cozy drug. The user is nurtured and mothered by the opiate floating around in their system. I often think of heroin as a teddy bear type of chemical. The user cuddles up to the drug and during sleep or nod can often be heard making sounds that can be found in the mouth of a nursing babe. That is a clue as to both how heroin addicts feel while under the influence and how difficult it is to give it up. Saying goodby to heroin is somewhat akin to leaving a loving mother, or at least it has some of those elements to it. However, I digress. The point is most of the non-addicted are taking the experience right in the teeth without the benefit of being breast fed. This adds up to a real injury and a real hisory of harm coming from the addicted one.
There is a primary rule for the people who love the addict. You need to survive. Without meeting that goal all the rest is just chatter. So the next question becomes evident. What does survival mean to you? Unfortunately, no one can give you the answer but yourself. What might be good for one could kill the other. Good treatment demands individual planning, taking into account all the particulars of a person's case. The same is true of the co-affected.
Because this is a blog, I am able to be opinionated. I have 20 yeras working in the treatment and prevention industry. I have been involved with outpatient, inpatient, residential, day treatment adn night treatment, methadone, buprenorphine, legal heroin and most other forms of help for the heroin addicted.
Many of the belief systems that rule the therapy world regarding the treatment of the "caring ones" or "loving ones" as I will now refer to them, are harsh judges . Labels such as codependent and phrases such "they are sicker than the addict" have worked their way into the heads of caregivers, leaving the distinct impression of disdain and pathology. I am not arguing that the "caring ones" are deeply affected by their life with the addict. That part is bang on. It fits with my earlier remark about how the addict is medicated compared to others who often are not.
Common solutions for the problem of loving an addict are readily available at 12 step meetings and most therapist offices. In a nutshell they are about getting you and the addict help. This is a great idea and no one can argue its basic theme. Help indeed is needed, but the problem begins to occur during the second or third or fourth or whatever number of multiple efforts are made. The number of attempts at help is due to the reluctance of the heroin addict to give up BOTH the drug and the lifestyle.
To be Continued....
Heroin is a cozy drug. The user is nurtured and mothered by the opiate floating around in their system. I often think of heroin as a teddy bear type of chemical. The user cuddles up to the drug and during sleep or nod can often be heard making sounds that can be found in the mouth of a nursing babe. That is a clue as to both how heroin addicts feel while under the influence and how difficult it is to give it up. Saying goodby to heroin is somewhat akin to leaving a loving mother, or at least it has some of those elements to it. However, I digress. The point is most of the non-addicted are taking the experience right in the teeth without the benefit of being breast fed. This adds up to a real injury and a real hisory of harm coming from the addicted one.
There is a primary rule for the people who love the addict. You need to survive. Without meeting that goal all the rest is just chatter. So the next question becomes evident. What does survival mean to you? Unfortunately, no one can give you the answer but yourself. What might be good for one could kill the other. Good treatment demands individual planning, taking into account all the particulars of a person's case. The same is true of the co-affected.
Because this is a blog, I am able to be opinionated. I have 20 yeras working in the treatment and prevention industry. I have been involved with outpatient, inpatient, residential, day treatment adn night treatment, methadone, buprenorphine, legal heroin and most other forms of help for the heroin addicted.
Many of the belief systems that rule the therapy world regarding the treatment of the "caring ones" or "loving ones" as I will now refer to them, are harsh judges . Labels such as codependent and phrases such "they are sicker than the addict" have worked their way into the heads of caregivers, leaving the distinct impression of disdain and pathology. I am not arguing that the "caring ones" are deeply affected by their life with the addict. That part is bang on. It fits with my earlier remark about how the addict is medicated compared to others who often are not.
Common solutions for the problem of loving an addict are readily available at 12 step meetings and most therapist offices. In a nutshell they are about getting you and the addict help. This is a great idea and no one can argue its basic theme. Help indeed is needed, but the problem begins to occur during the second or third or fourth or whatever number of multiple efforts are made. The number of attempts at help is due to the reluctance of the heroin addict to give up BOTH the drug and the lifestyle.
To be Continued....
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