Good Grief

Dad died.  Unexpectedly.  Well, he was 94 years old and can one ever die unexpectedly at 94.  Probably not.  It's just that up until the last day he was doing fine for a man his age.  He was able to go for his walks.  His mind was as sharp as could be.

Dad came to live with us for the last month.  We'd hoped it might have been more.  He had shared that following Mom's death he was becoming increasingly lonely.  That's the problem of growing older.  One by one the companions of your life die, and you are left either seeking other companionship, or resolving to make the best of it alone.  I determined that the last thing I'd want would be is a lonely old man when I died, and so I invited Dad to make his home with us, surrounded by family.

I think the last few months were the best one could hope for.  This summer he had spent most of time at the lake place, having the opportunity to see all of  his children there.  And then he was with us.  In the end, all was well with Dad.  Is all well with me?

I find myself wondering how my grief will play out when coupled with being bipolar.

I am deeply grateful for the last evening with Dad.  Thanks in part to his hearing aids being cleaned up and checked out, he was able to converse normally.  The opportunity was not lost.  Prior to my going to bed he came out and asked if we could talk.  What is your favorite Bible verse?  As the conversation progressed Dad did something unusual.  He made the effort to get up out of his chair and come over and sit next to me on the couch.  There was a closeness we had not experienced together, perhaps ever.  We were at one and the same time father and son, and colleagues in ministry.  "I hope we can have many more conversations like this, Dave."  "Me too, Dad."

I only wish I'd said "I love you" or gave him a hug then.  I didn't.

And so the next morning the grieving began.  I was able to sit with him following his death.  Now, too late, the "I love you" was spoken.  A kiss goodbye.

And I wrote the sermon for his  funeral, based on the conversation we had shared.  Next came the fulfilling of a promise I made to him, which was to make an urn for him and mom.  Mom's urn was too small to contain both their ashes, too large to allow room for a second urn in the niche, so the urn I turned above is large enough for both of them.  As I began the process of building it, tears flowed.

I'd spent the summer remodeling the house in preparation for his moving in.  This was different.  So final.  And a goodbye.  And yet one more way to say "I love you, Dad."

One of the thoughts that came to me, with the death of the last of our parents, was that I might be next.  I am at the very least part of the 'oldest generation' in the family.  Other thoughts as well have been stirred.  Might this be the last time all of the siblings are together at one time?  Oh, we'll see each other individually, but will it be possible in the future to all be together?

Dad's hat and coat still hang in the hallway.  I want them there.  For a while at least.

There had been a distance between us that needn't have been there between a Father and Son.  One would think that my having followed him into the ministry would have changed that, but the distance remained.  Part of that distance was simply a symptom of being Norwegian Americans.  We're not known for being overly affectionate.

But if I'm totally honest, the distance between us goes way back to my childhood.  I was arrested for  shoplifting.  Dad came down hard on me and declared that I'd permanently damaged my character, that I'd always be a criminal from that time forth and forever more.  I turned elsewhere for affection ever since.

Part of the grief I experience now is concerning not his death, but the missed opportunity to have a better and richer relationship with him throughout his life.  It could have been better.  But sometimes the emotional scars of childhood are difficult to overcome.  Part of the challenge for me is that when I turned elsewhere for affection, the first person to offer it was a band director who subsequently sexually abused me.  I had so longed for affection that I was unable to recognize the abuse for what it was until over 20 years later.  It was not until my own children were the age I was when  I was abused, that my eyes were opened.  What if someone treated my children the way I'd been treated.  "I'd kill them!" was the thought that came to mind.  Well, at least press charges.

Part of the distance between my Dad and I was because the stern judgment Dad made of my character after being arrested for shoplifting set me up for the abuse that was to follow.  Father's are supposed to protect their children.  I think I've forgiven him.  But that's easier said than done.  There is something to be said for years of psychological therapy.

Now there is just grief.  Both for the Dad I lost, and the Dad I never had.  I wonder what affect Dad's losing his own mother during his childhood had on his emotional development.  Alice had contracted tuberculosis, spent time in a sanitarium, and then subsequently died when he was about 12, curiously enough, about the same time in his life as the abuse occurred in my life.  Two wounded souls.

And we both found ourselves called into the ministry to care for other wounded souls.

There's something fearful about grief when one is bipolar.  Will it trigger something far worse.  I've achieved functional stability, but grief can destabilize.  Will the medications I'm on prevent a relapse?  Will I be offered the opportunity to experience 'good grief'?  Or will circumstances rage out of control.  Thankfully, I've maintained therapeutic relationships.  There is some comfort in that.

In so many ways Dad lived a remarkable life.  Much of what I am is a reflection of the gifts he and Mom gave us throughout the years.  I've joked that I inherited my Mom's bad knees, and my Dad's bad heart (we've both had mitral valve surgery, a genetic condition).  But there is much good I've received, as well.  My resourcefulness and independence are gifts of my parents.  I'm a builder like my Dad.  And faith.  In the midst of all the hurt in life, I have faith.  Dad's gift.  And that is sufficient.

5 Years, 60 Months, 1,827 Days, 43,828 Hours, but who's counting?

It was not pretty, five years ago.

I had been treating my undiagnosed Bipolar Disorder with significant amounts of Scotch.  The last year I averaged 10 fluid ounces a day.  "Just a couple of drinks, mind you!"  A fifth of Scotch was not particular challenge to consume on those days that I didn't have to work, and when my wife wasn't around.  And, if I must say so myself, I was quite functional.

I used to joke that it took 2 Scotch doubles for me to feel sober.  I've since learned it was not a joke.  When one is advanced in alcoholism, one's system requires a sufficient level of alcohol to be present to feel normal.  Alcohol initially intoxicates people, and many enjoy the buzz.  As time goes on, it merely staves off the unpleasant experiences of alcohol withdrawal.  And numbs you.

For the most part I didn't drink Saturday nights, lest I smell of whiskey on Sunday mornings.  I developed the shakes Sunday mornings.  I couldn't pour the wine from the chalice for communion.  I didn't know what was happening.  Now I do.  My restraint on Saturday evenings was causing detox symptoms Sunday mornings.  Vanity is a strange thing.  I was so concerned about smelling of liquor that I didn't drink, and then detoxed in front of my congregation.  Uffda!

To a certain extent, alcohol gave me control of my moods.  I knew how I would feel after one, two, three drinks, four.  A calming of anxiety, a lightening of mood, a drift into melancholy, sometimes depression, at other times mania, but most often just sleep.  That was one of the main motivators.  Sleep.  "Passing out" is what my doctor insists on calling it.  I insisted that passing out was only when your face planted in the mashed potatoes.  I went to bed.  She would insist however, that there is a difference between sleep and an alcohol induced unconsciousness.  What does she know.  She's only a psychiatrist with a specialty in chemical dependence. .  .

There were warning signs.  A colleague, Gail, watched me down two hefty Scotch doubles during happy hour, order a third for dinner, and then as we walked from the bar to the dining room she commented, "Dave, if I didn't just watch you down those drinks, I'd have no clue you've been drinking.  What's that all about?"

I was a 'professional drinker'.  Amateurs are actually the ones who couldn't handle their drinking.  Given the choice, I'd rather ride in a car with an alcoholic with a .20 alcohol level, than with a amateur drinker with a .08.  Habituation has its advantages.

The problem is that the toxicity of alcohol remains even though the symptoms of  intoxication diminish with habituation.  I could drink a fifth of Scotch and never feel 'the buzz' that I craved.  The problem for an alcoholic is that the alcohol remains toxic, even when it is no longer intoxicating.  It'll kill you.  An often does.  It almost did me.  Though I'm quick to point out that five years ago, last night, it was not just the alcohol.  I violated one of my rules and took Ativan in addition to a fifth of Scotch.  Against Medical Advice.  To say the least. By the grace of God I survived the night.

I no longer crave the drink.  When I smell Scotch, what I experience is what I call a 'cravulsion'.  At one and the same time triggers the appetite AND produces the most repulsive reaction possible.  A simple solution is to simply avoid the smell.

One would think that sobriety would immediately impact the externals of one's life.  That sober one would prosper in ways not possible drunk.  Well, not yet, is my reply to that.  My recovery has been complicated by being Bipolar.  The first thing that happened is that a major manic episode was triggered.  That resulted in my resignation from my call in ministry, and investing $60,000 or so in woodworking equipment for my new business.  Bottom line, I'll not be able to retire as soon.

Every step of the way, just when we think that our financial situation has stabilized, another shoe drops.  I lost my disability, but found a job in woodworking.  Karla received a raise.  Then, a part time call in addition to Karla's job, and my woodworking job, was going to solve our problems.  Then Karla lost her job.  More recently, Dad moved in with us and the income we received from caring for him was going to stabilize our situation.  He died a few weeks later.  The loss of him is the only real significant issue.  But the reality is that it leaves us once again scrambling.

Sobriety is sometimes 'marketed' as a way to move from life in the gutter to life in the stars.  I am of the belief that such promises don't always materialize.  Sobriety, though is its own reward.  Oh, and yes, I'm still alive.

Five years later I mostly wonder what the next five hold for  me.  I'm deeply grateful for many things.  Like life, a family that I didn't lose, and that one way or another all bills are paid and current.

One of the struggles is that my measure of a return to normalcy is actually affected by my being Bipolar.  I was capable of things during my manic phases that still surprise even me.  That hyper functioning set the bar high.  Now, with my moods controlled by medications, I doubt (I hope?) I'll ever again experience those manic highs.  To an extent, that's depressing.  But due to the medication, not too depressing.  Its just that one must adjust to a new normal, that is neither lived at the summit or the deepest darkest valley.

Some friends will join our family to celebrate my fifth birthday of no 'fifths'.  It'll be a good time.  I'll be sober, as will they.  I do not have a drink in my plans for today.  One more day.  Number 1,828.  But who's counting.