Excerpt from chapter 2- The obsession that I was still in some twisted alternate reality strongly returned  overnight, although perhaps a bit less nightmarish ly . A historic inn in Colonial Williamsburg, packed with   alcoholics and addicts, was where the deities of my celestial temple had placed me. I was floating above my bed. The door  to my room opened and a flashlight beam stunned my eyes. The deep voice behind it asked me to report in five minutes to the nurses’ station for vital signs. What time was it? I sat up in bed, put on my psych-ward  yellow footies   and shuffled out into the hallway, moving down to the nurses’ station, which glowed eerily with nighttime lighting. I spotted the analog clock behind the desk;  it read 5:15 . Two nurses were standing behind the long counter engaging in casual,  caffeinated   conversation about Donald Trump’s election-night victory. One of them was sipping coffee out of a  royal - blue mug...

Once again I find myself in that strange semiconscious state between night shifts. Having gotten home from work at 8am and crashed until noon, I'm neither fully alert yet nor in a mood to try any more sleep. So like my other states of being, I have developed a routine that seems to work: 1. Small coffee 2. Run (more like shuffle) with the dog 3. Write something 4. Chores I don't much care to do (laundry, bills) 5. Guitar, guitar, guitar I like #5 the most, and feel I get the most out of a good practice session when I am in boxers and a ratty tee, not fully rested.  For reasons I cannot explain, during these moments I prefer to try new songs rather than play old ones. I guess that's just my brain wanting to focus on something original so there is no room in my head to rehash the previous night's ER scenes of abdominal pain and flying secretions.  Today I've stepped outside my “nineties grunge“ comfort zone and am teaching myself "Sitting, Waiting, Wishing" ...

  Excerpt from Chapter 10 I was traveling back home, looking forward to crawling into my own bed with an awaiting Cassie . It was a clear,  warm night, and within a few minutes I  was cruising on the I-581 beltway, passing the brightly lit Mill Mountain Star   and  heading  toward I-81. Traffic was  scant   .  . .   until it wasn’t. Just up ahead, perhaps a quarter mile, a trail of bright red brake lights suddenly appeared like a Christmas tree lighting ceremony.  It was a few seconds before I realized the ca rs hadn’t just slowed, they had stopped completely. Crap. Must’ve been an accident. Upon closer inspection, peering through the last of the September dusk, I saw open car doors and people on the road, running around on the highway asphalt, arms flailing. This was not good. In the same way an off-duty cop is never completely off duty, neither is an emergency worker. I slowed and veered my truck onto the left shoulder, came ...

I think the emergency departments are getting back to normal. At least, the ones I work in seem to be. For months now while I on duty I waited around aimlessly as occasional patients would trickle in here and there. Apparently, most people were choosing to have their heart attacks and strokes at home rather than come to the hospital and risk contracting the coronaplague. Although at its nadir our volume was literally cut in half, the patients that did show up were generally much further down the illness progression timeline, necessitating much more aggressive actions to stabilize and reverse the disease cascade. Sepsis comes to mind- that state in which an infection spreads like wildfire through the bloodstream so aggressively  that the body's defenses become overwhelmed and circulation collapses from an immune system gone haywire. After one hour of the "sepsis state," survival drops precipitously, often irreversibly. Avoiding the ER for these patients is tantamount to a ...

Dear Daddy I write you in spite of years of silence You've cleaned up, found Jesus, things are good or so I hear This bottle of Stephen's awakens ancient feelings Like father, stepfather, the son is drowning in the flood                -Weezer Dear Dad, It has been a while since we have spoken. I did not come to your gravesite this week but I know this would not have bothered you. You were never much on religion or spirituality; you once told me "When you're dead, you're dead." Whether that's true or nor I'm not sure, but what I do know is that you live in my heart, my sister's heart, my brother's heart. Your spirit is not underground in some grave, that I feel in my bones. We love you, I love you. I miss you. I am so grateful you never learned the truth about me, about my drinking. Your passing triggered the final chain of events that ultimately ended my old life and got me sober. I reflect on my last alcoholic bender, when I drove to your fun...

The invisible hand of my Higher Power has once again been flawless (isn't that always the case?) This road trip is looking and feeling like a divinely inspired perfect decision. I really need to shut down my thinking and listen to him more often... I pulled up to their home in central PA on day one into the welcoming arms of "Darryl and Julie."  He was a medical school roommate of mine from 1988-1991, and we have managed to stay in touch ever since. Also an ER doc, he's one of those guys who has always calmly accepted life on life terms without ever having to learn about it in a 12 step program. I arrived, they set me up in a guest room, and immediately took me kayaking on the perfect June day. As we paddled along in the calm waters, we managed to catch up on years' worth of stories, as well as pull out some oldies but goodies from the past. We laughed a lot, got some sun, and all the while a bald eagle kept us company. Yes, the gorgeous creature would perch hims...

I just finished the book Raising the Bottom  by Lisa Boucher; I listened to the entire audiobook while on my road trip. Written by a career nurse, it chronicles her spiral downward into alcoholism at a young age, her reconciliation with the disease, her relationship with an alcoholic mother, and eventual long-term success. She relates in detail about the women in her family and how the disease impacts their relationship and the family dynamic as a whole.  The book is written from a woman's perspective with the theme of how the disease affects women specifically, although I found many of the take-home points pertinent to my own recovery. She underscores how 12-Step work was essential, and how it can serve as the touchstone for all women (and men) who want to fundamentally change and have success in long term recovery. Her chapter about physicians and the medical system in general, with its institutionalized biases in dealing with alcoholism and addiction, approaching it not as ...