So who’s counting?

Nineteen years ago today, at a few minutes after 4:00 PM, I washed my last Valium® down with my last beer. Shortly thereafter, I walked through the doors of a drug and alcohol treatment center to begin the rest of my life. A couple of days later I had the moment of clarity that was truly the beginning of my recovery.

I could write a book (and may someday do so) about the next six weeks of confusion, illumination, and being dragged kicking and screaming into a thriving community of recovering addicts. Over the past few days I’ve found myself remembering some of the others who accompanied me on my first steps along the Road to Happy Destiny.

Many have faded from memory, or else I remember them only vaguely, especially those who have since relapsed. In the world of recovery, out of sight frequently becomes out of mind because of the numbers who don’t make it. You just can’t keep track of them all. Some, still sober, simply drifted away from the group or moved away. Others, needing additional research time, headed back to the bars, alleyways and crack houses, rejoining us later after having completed their education. Many of those are still around, and I see them at meetings occasionally.

There was, however, a nucleus of folks who stuck around and completed the two years of weekly aftercare. Some, with the help of a dedicated counselor, even kept the aftercare program running for over a year after the treatment center itself was forced to close due to tightening insurance restrictions. These people, and a few lost along the wayside, are the ones that I remember clearly.

I remember Fred, the model who had been a bit too gay during his time in the navy and who, after struggling for his sobriety, went on to become a blessed support for many people with AIDS and acted, in addition, as a spokesperson for PWAs in the community at large before himself succumbing to complications of the disease, four years sober. His memorial service was one of the high points of that period in my recovery, consisting as it did of so many hearty belly-laughs along with the tears.

My roommate in treatment, Wayne, drifted away from our group but continued to show up for several years for anniversary celebrations. When the venue of those celebrations changed, he stopped showing up. I hope he is well, because his quiet strength was an important part of my introduction to treatment.

Cathy — who at one time, when asked to say something good about herself, could only think to say, “I’m happy that I’m a small person.” Cathy, a recovering Jehovah’s Witness who was estranged from her identical twin sister. Cathy, hit on her bike by a drunk driver and killed in the third month of our recovery.

Helen and her husband got sober together, she more successfully than he. Their marriage failed to survive the chaos of two people at cross-purposes in recovery, along with the other issues that could not be resolved for whatever reasons. I haven’t seen him for several years, but Helen will be with us on the 28th when we celebrate this year’s successes.

Myra was my wife’s roommate, a good ol’ gal from the Low Country of Carolina who watched in horror on the treatment center TV while hurricane Hugo demolished the county where she grew up, and where many of her relatives remained. They all made it through Hugo, and Myra went on to become a pillar of the recovery community, serving on boards of this and that and generally reminding everyone, with her signature drawl, that “If I can make it, anyone can make it!” She and her husband David, met and married in recovery, moved up to North Florida, and we lost touch.

Austin, my closest friend in recovery over the past 19 years, called me this morning to tell me that he and his wife Anne made it through hurricane Ike in their home north of Houston, along with their several cats. Austin was involved in a religious group in that area, and fell in love with the church secretary, herself many years into recovery. A few years ago he moved to Texas and they got married. We talk frequently, and visit when we can. We’ll miss them when we get our medallions, but they will be with us in spirit.

My-Wife-The-Shrink is still very much among the clean and sober, and in addition to being the love of my life is the best friend I never had in my youth. As many of my readers know, she and I once worked together in the same rehab. One of our colleagues in the field, and a much-treasured friend, is Pierre — the counselor who worked so hard to keep us all together when the Center For Recovery closed its doors. Pierre will be with us on the 28th, as he has been since the beginning.

Mon Amour, et Mes Amis, celui-ci est fait pour vous!

It works, if you work it.