Pastoral emergency

Another chapter in the series Stories from Somewhere, fictional reflections of an unidentified place at an unknown time. Other chapters are listed here.

“There is no such thing as a hopeless case”
—AA Big Book

“Minister, I need you to come over right away. Please. I am in trouble. Come right away.”

I haven’t heard from Art for some time. He attends our later Sunday service only sporadically. I visit him at home every few months. He is an interesting man, a career in accounting, now retired, with musical interests — he occasionally plays the organ when Gladys is away. He always appears well dressed and seems to have life well in hand. So this call for help, late on a Saturday night, comes as a total surprise.

“Art, could this wait till tomorrow afternoon? I’m beat. It’s really not the best time for me.”

“No, I need you to come right away. Please.”

The winter rains have arrived and I only have my bike; my car is in the shop for repairs. So, off I go, pedaling through the inky black and dreary night. Fifteen minutes later, I push an iron swing gate open and follow the path to the front door. I stumble a few times given there is no porch light on. I knock. There is no response. Yikes, I wonder. What is going on? I knock again. This time a faint voice calls out. “Come on in, the door’s open.”

Entering directly into the living room, as I shake off my water-laden coat, everything seems normal. Art’s beautiful western red cedar home is simply furnished. The room is tidy and uncluttered. Everything is in its rightful place. Art, however, must be elsewhere in the house. I call out.

“Art?”

“I’m in here; in my bedroom.”

I find the bedroom past the kitchen and down a short hallway. The room is dark, just some light from the distant street outside. He lies on the bed, clothed (thankfully), scrunched up in a fetal position. His voice quivers as he gently sobs. Has he tried to commit suicide? I wonder. I know little of his personal life. Has a relationship just ended catastrophically? Does he have financial problems? Surely not; he’s an accountant.

“What’s going on, Art? What do you need help with?” I plead.

“I need someone to stay with me. I can’t be left on my own.”

“What do you mean you can’t be left alone? Why? Have you tried to harm yourself?”

His sobbing continues. I don’t know if he has any family or close friends nearby. He is a real loner, but there must be someone who looks in on him every few days. A house cleaner maybe? A neighbour?

Just then, someone knocks on the front door; I hear them walk in. Leaving Art, I return to the living room where I discover Gladys.

“What are you doing here Gladys?

“Good; you made it. I suggested to Art that he call you. Art is an alcoholic who I thought was doing just fine. It seems I was wrong. He’s fallen off the wagon, rather badly it seems.”

“Are you involved with him somehow?” How do you two connect?”

“While I am not his AA sponsor — I think that person has moved away — I am active in Al-anon which connects with AA locally. We meet at the church on Tuesday nights. You may have seen us come and go.”

Another surprise. (What else don’t I know about what goes on around our little church?).

“You are in Al-Anon?” I said.

“My first husband was a heavy drinker, eventually drinking himself to death, literally. I keep in touch with locals in twelve-step programs, including AA and NA,” Gladys confides.

“That’s really good to know. By the way, what’s NA?” I ask.

“Narcotics anonymous,” she says.

I had some training in twelve-step recovery programs at seminary. Pastoral support for persons struggling with addiction is not, however, my forte.

“Where’s Art? Has he said anything to you?”

“Not much. Come with me. He’s feeling quite sorry for himself right now. I am not sure how long he has been lying on his bed.”

 Together, we make our way to the darkened bedroom. Gladys quickly takes  charge; she obviously knows him well. She rolls him on his side and helps him sit up. Taking a little white pill from her purse which he promptly swallows, she looks him over, searching for any telltale signs of drink, drugs, or items that could cause him harm.

“Okay Art, what’s going on? You’ve fallen off the wagon again,” she says.

“Not good, Gladys; not good. I feel . . . dizzy. I need the bathroom. Help me up, please.”

“We’ll get you sorted, Art. You just had your tenth birthday party. What’s going on?”

An AA birthday party is when people in recovery celebrate their ongoing sobriety in community with others on the same road. Obviously familiar with the AA twelve steps, Gladys continues:

“So back you go to meetings; time to get back on track. Who is your sponsor now? Adam left town, I think.”

Art doesn’t hear her question. He staggers towards the bathroom. Closing the door behind him we hear him throwing up.

Turing to Gladys I ask: “So what do we do now? Should he go to the hospital; or do we call his doctor? Or the police?”

“His doctor is part of the problem. He’s what we call an enabler. He refuses to deal with his own issues. He wants to be liked by everyone. So he thinks he is being kind by proffering booze and sometimes drugs to his patients and their friends. He thinks small doses of alcohol or drugs will alleviate withdrawal symptoms. It doesn’t work. It perpetuates addiction. There are better ways to manage withdrawal.”

“Got it; at least I think I do.”

“Look at it this way, Minister,” Gladys explains. “Falling off the wagon is like a washing machine. When you start it up things are fine. Then something goes off kilter. The load shifts and becomes unbalanced. The machine bumps and thumps; it lurches, and sometimes jumps all over the laundry room. Alcoholic addiction is like that. Life goes awry, for any number of reasons. The load becomes unbalanced; things get bumpy, eventually lurching all over life itself.”

I keep listening, carefully. I won seminary prizes for New Testament and church history; not for pastoral care. There is so much to learn in my early days of ministry.

“By the way, speaking of doctors, have you found one yet?

“No, not yet,” I reply.

“Take my advice; avoid any doctor whose last name begins with A or B. That leaves one more, and she is excellent.”

“Thanks for the tip. So what next?” I ask.

“He will need to find a place in a DETOX programme. There are a few around but they are very expensive. I think I know of an alternative. I will ask around.”

“That’s all? He just needs medical care?”

“No, there’s more. He needs to reconnect with AA where he can start again with the twelve steps. There he will find community and care. Recovery requires discipline and accountability which AA can provide.  For now, it’s back to the beginning — Step ONE.”

“So how can I be truly helpful? I have little to no experience with addiction myself; I feel wholly inadequate to assist others.”

“Along with medical and community support, he needs to deal with his demons, his struggles, you know, the things that literally ‘drive him to drink’.”

“Like Jacob in the bible; he needs to wrestle with God,” I offered.

“Yes, that’s it. Steps FOUR and FIVE require those in recovery to make a fearless, moral inventory followed by a confession. That’s your department, if you are willing.”

“I am; yes, I am.”

“You need to be firm. He will try to manipulate you in all sorts of surprising ways. Remember, we all need to keep him focused on recovery. Alcoholics are amazingly inventive. When they are needy they will do anything to get what they want. You also need to be realistic. Some in recovery never recover. Some die. Are you prepared for that?”

I don’t know how to answer her. Gladys is so full of surprises herself. So much life experience; so much wisdom; such great ability to connect with the lives of others. She’s everywhere.

Returning to the living room she offers one final thought: “Remember, however, what the Big Book says: ‘There is no such thing as a hopeless case’.”

“Thanks for that; I will hang on to that very hope.”

“And so will I. So will I.”

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