Today I took part in a telephone conference. I was there. Of course. My brother, Gary, was also present. As were his social worker, one of the unit psychologists and a regular staff member from the ward; his psychiatrist is out of town for two weeks or our ranks would have swelled by one. It was probably the most successful meeting of this sort that we've had since he's been a ward of the California State mental health facilities. Due in large part to the fact that this past weekend was probably the WORST weekend that he's experienced there in quite awhile.
His social worker called me last Friday to introduce himself as Gary's new one-on-one therapist and to ask if I wanted to start being in on their regular team meetings. He's a recovering alcoholic with a rough childhood in his own background . . . I liked him immediately. His sense of humor is also quite generously developed and made for an easy-flowing call. Most social workers seem a bit retracted or hesitant, maybe reserved is what I'm shooting for. I tend to feel that I'm being somewhat 'worked' or treated carefully with a tiptoeing around the truth with them. Not one iota of that existed with Mr. Smart (we could call him Maxwell for fun thought it really isn't his first name). I welcomed that as a rather nice change of scenery in the story of Gary's life. "Next Tuesday, say-y around 3 or 3:30? Will that work for you?" Would that WORK for me?! He could bet his sweet bippy it would. I've been waiting to see this game move forward. And maybe there would be some actual insight from the participants. I scribbled the info on my Emdeon note cube. Something to which I looked forward with curiosity and interest. I'm generally underwhelmed with these types of get-togethers. Gary often doesn't interact, or at least not in-depth where the sharks are swimming and feeding on his guts. The
-ists and -ologists folks often speak as if we are all 6 year-olds. Or they simply orate the entire time without any apparent regard for what Gary or I might add to invaluable words they are offering up like sweet incense to the head of the great psychiatric ward in the sky. I guess it's fair to say that the few I've actually sat in on with Gary over the past two years or so bore no respectable fruit from where I sat and listened.
Now, about the weekend. As I mentioned in the previous entry here, Gary's girlfriend had a scheduled court date this week. They've both known for weeks that it was coming. Back and forth, back and forth, they lobbed that ball around, but he felt like he had a grasp on her impending departure. And then the surety that she would be gone by Monday (yesterday, though she actually left this morning) set in for Gary. Goodbye might as well be like death for him. He handles them poorly, so sure that it signals the end of the friendship. In fact, WE never utter the word goodbye to one another, always finding some other phrasing with which to end our chats. We've settled upon the lighter version of goodbye as expressed by the Italians, 'ciao.' I actually used it today with his team when I clicked off on my iPhone because it's so ingrained. Hah!
Anyway, that niggling tickle of anxiety began to exert pressure that became something far more overt a presence. It was more emotion than he had the tools to handle. So, he reverted to finding an outlet for the pressure through more familiar ways. In this case, he stole liquid hand soap from the supply room. Added a large quantity of salt to it, which separates the cleaning grade alcohol from the solids. And then he downed the potent chemical which many in his situation lean on when they can't find real alcohol. It's incredibly dangerous. In fact, last year his girlfriend has a very serious binge on the stuff and found herself in a coma and close to death on the medical ward. This was before they became something more than friends. That episode happened on the heels of Gary's use of the substance which bought him an entire weekend in the hospital with an IV and meds and absolutely no memory of what he had done while under its influence.
Gary called me this morning. As he often does, he relayed his weekend wobble after the fact, but sparing no detail under my gentle cross-examination. He tells me the truth, he's fond of saying, he just isn't always 'telling the truth on time.' We rehashed his episode, his voice revealing the physical toll he was suffering from effects of his abuse. I listened. Going over my own feelings and thoughts as they marched alongside his recitation. Examining them. Absorbing them. Lining them up with that I know of myself and who I know Gary to be. I checked my initial frustration and sense that he had done this to me -- because he didn't -- and reminded him that he would have setbacks despite his recent successes. Often, those bad days come right on the heels of exceptional weeks. He should expect it. Address the elephant in the room so that it wouldn't grow larger. And continue on his path. Don't let the slip-up be anything other than a a momentary lapse. Learn from it. Realize that it's normal, in his case, in my case, in anyone's case, to stumble under the weight of incredibly stressful and emotional happenings. My disappointment wasn't going to help a thing: he carried enough of it for all of us. Me, him, his girl, etc. Guilt is his strong suit.
When we reconvened by phone with his team on board, I tried to spend my first minutes just getting a feel for the room and its players. It didn't take long to realize they this team of people actually a) care about him; b) know him to a certain extent; and c) are not putting on airs or loading up the back of the truck with a pile of steaming stinky brown stuff. They are the real deal. After two years, my brother's circumstances have finally placed him on a ward where there's a much higher than average chance of him receiving the help he NEEDS and WANTS to get him where he must be, internally, before he can ever hope to get where he would like to be, externally. And for the first time, Gary uttered a beautiful string of sentences which basically expressed his desire to be better as a goal ABOVE that of getting out. He put the cart BEHIND the horse. That there is progress, people. Real progress.
We hung up with a promise that they would meet with him EVERY DAY next week to see him over the hump of his withdrawal from the daily comforting contact he so came to rely upon with his girlfriend. A scarred woman for whom he holds very strong affection and deep abiding concern. Our goal is to help him discover a safe alternative avenue for his need to divert emotions and stress. He can't lean on her. Not all the time. No person is that for another: a 100% source of distraction/cure/healing/etc. He must possess his own inner resource for dealing daily with the ongoing challenges of being a human being with a disposition for addiction.
It's been the goal all along. But it took a bit of doing to cut back the briars which had overtaken that particular path. After today, I feel certain that Gary can actually see where he needs to next place his feet. I raise my coffee mug to that progress. Salud.
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