Other than drinking.

My sister says. Don’t give Julie advice. About her drinking problem. Instead, merely be her friend. And listen. Yes, shut up. Let Julie do the talking. Sister Babs says alcoholics don’t want advice.   In fact, preaching. Or giving advice. Is the worst possible approach. Just listen. Listen. Listen. Allow an alcoholic to talk. To ramble.  Because they won’t right the ship. And quit drinking. Until they are good and ready. They have to do it on their own. They can’t be forced. They have to come to enlightenment. On their own. In their own way. Babs should know. She spent most of her life as a drunk.  Babs told me that the more I preached, the more she resisted. The more entrenched she became. In resolving not to get help.  She kept drinking to spite me. And other preachers. My sister finally came to her own reckoning. Just over 10 years ago. When she quit. Cold turkey. Not only stopped drinking. But quit smoking, too. All in the same day.  She’s a recovering alcoholic. And vows to stay that way. For the rest of her life.  I’m encouraging Babs to connect with Julie. If she did, Babs wouldn’t talk to Julie about her drinking problem. Instead, she’d come to Julie. As a friend. A listener. Talking about everything but drinking. About Julie’s interests. About life in general. Yes, about the stuff she likes to do. Other than drinking. --Jim Broede

Makes me svelte and handsome.

I wonder. If there's a study. Of Alzheimer care-givers. That have taken to drink. Thinking. That's a way to cope. When really, it often leads to disaster. They become the ones in dire need of care. I observe.  Tipsy care-givers. Overweight ones, too. They tend to eat. Gorge themselves. With food treats. Day and night. At the least sign of stress.  Yes, makes me wonder. If it's better to be addicted. To food. Rather than drink. I confess. I'm an addict,  too. Addicted to exercise. And to the Chicago Cubs. Fortunately, exercise is a positive addiction.  Makes me svelte and handsome. Helps, too, that I have a sense of humor. --Jim Broede

Without falling off the edge.

Julie feigns happiness. By mouthing platitudes. But I can tell. By looking. At her face. In her eyes. She ain't happy. She grieves. And mourns.  About something. Or other. She still needs her fix. Her crutch. Red wine. She keeps a stash. Hidden. Indoors. And maybe even outdoors. Something to fall back on. In stressful and crisis times. And she lies about her addiction. To others. But even worse, to herself. Oh, she talks about quitting. With a caveat. That she'll still be able to take a social drink. A way of telling herself. That she's really not a true alcoholic. That she can handle it all. When really, she can't even sip. Without falling off the edge. --Jim Broede

Ample reason to celebrate.

When my mother died. It wasn't particularly traumatic. I didn't grieve or lament for a long time. Oh, I loved my mother. Very much. But I accepted the fact. That people are likely to die. By the time they celebrate their 88th birthday. As she did. My father's death was far more traumatic. Unexpected. At age 38. From suicide. But still, I found ways to cope. To get on with life. And reached the stage where I'm not bothered. In the least. Knowing that death is an inevitable part of life. My friend Ron. Just died. But I won't mourn or grieve. Instead, I am truly celebrating Ron's life. There's no need to shed a tear. Didn't even cry when my mother checked out. After all, it was time for her to die. No sense in lingering on and on. Better to shed one's physical being. Thereby allowing one's spirit to thrive. On it's own. Unburdened by a physical anchor. That was best for my father, too. Even at a younger age. Yes, there was still ample reason to celebrate. His death. --Jim Broede

Amazed. And perplexed.

I'm being kind. To my friend Julie. In my own way. By being a little bit cruel. By telling her the truth. About herself. That she's mentally ill. And needs help. And that she has friends. Willing to extend helping hands. And that now. It's time for Julie to reach out. And grasp those hands. Yes, it's that simple. But still. I am amazed. And perplexed. By Julie's refusal. To accept help. When she needs help the most. Another sign. That Julie is mentally ill. --Jim Broede

Before Julie got lost. In despair.

Daughter Julie isn't taking her father Ron's death well. That's to be expected. Because after years and years of care-giving, she's distraught. Exhausted. Physically. Mentally. Emotionally. She's in the throes of depression. She's drinking. Her favorite beverage, red wine. She's become an alcoholic. That, more than anything, exacerbates the situation. Makes everything worse. She's lucid. When not drinking. For periods that seldom last for more than three or four days. That's when I talk to her. About going in for treatment. But she never does. Instead, she takes to drinking again. In order to forget. Her unhappiness. Her instability. Her inability to cope. If I had my way, I'd force Julie into treatment. For a sustained period. She's in dire need of psychotherapy. The rest of us are celebrating Ron's demise. We are happy for him. For his escape from the ravages of Alzheimer's. I'm sitting in a lawn chair. Chatting with Julie's husband Rick. About Ron's wonderful and long life. Yes, we are celebrating. Not mourning. Not grieving. We did that long ago. Before Ron died. But Julie has been mourning and grieving. For years and years. Non-stop. Makes me wonder. If Julie will grieve herself to death. Yes, some people die of grieving. Rather than getting on with life. It's just a matter of time. For Julie. Unless she gets help. To stop her slow and methodical march to suicide. When that happens. Rick and I will grieve and mourn. For a day or two. About what could have been. Then we'll get on. With living life. The way it should be lived. Living. Happily ever after. With fond memories of Julie. When she was the real Julie. Before she got lost. In the labyrinth of despair. --Jim Broede

No reason to grieve.

Ron died today. Just as well. Because he was Alzheimer-riddled. No reason to mourn or grieve. Because Ron's spirit has been freed. And remains alive. After being shackled in his physical body for 87 years. I'm celebrating Ron's physical death. Didn't make sense. For Ron to linger on and on. With a physical mind plagued by dementia. Fortunately, the spiritual mind isn't physical. Which means, it's free of dementia. And functioning with remarkable clarity. In a spiritual dimension. I'm connected with Ron's spirit. Which is possible. When one truly believes in spiritual existence. I'm able to listen to Ron. And he's able to listen to me, too. Meanwhile, I'm encouraging Ron's loving and devoted daughter, Julie, to jump high and click her heels. In celebrating Ron's new and lofty existence. Really, there's no reason to grieve. After all, Ron's spirit keeps him very much alive. Forever. --Jim Broede