Alex
Stereotypy so faithfully erects barriers to communication, and human empathy is victim. A Scot is painfully frugal, a black youth trouble on the prowl, a Scandinavian unfeeling, an Indian—
Although his surname was French, Alex was Ojibwe to the core. The man was middle-aged when I came to know him. Bright and articulate, he was skillful in one of the construction trades. He lived on an Indian reservation by choice rather than from some decree of hopelessness. He had the distinction of being what was termed a Treaty Indian; as a birthright, he held citizenship in both Canada and the United States. Draw some dividing line through the middle of someone’s home and call it an international border? Nonsense! Boundaries had been created by men of European descent who ignored wishes of Native people. As a token of belated appeasement, the two countries allowed Alex and his brethren to cross the border at will.
Alex’s family were important people in his community. Leaders. Men and women with ideas and personalities to implement them. Life was good for Alex, except...
Except that Alex was chained to a demon. Alcohol transformed him into a version of Stevenson’s Mr. Hyde. Fights, riotous behavior, oblivion in a fog of booze.
A country doc attends every calamity a man pulls down on his head. DWIs and accidents, with police-mandated requests for blood-alcohol tests. Cuts to suture, broken fists to mend. Alex and I became involved in our version of a revolving door. When his behavior became extreme enough, family members or legal authorities dragged him into our emergency room, and I would again spend an hour or three coping with his latest medical problems.
Oh, he was contrite, not unusual for major-league binge drinkers. The morning after or a day later, he and I would sit down for “The Talk.” It varied little from one episode to the next. After one particularly spectacular drunk, I levered him into a session before the circuit judge, with commitment for treatment the objective. As he later explained to me good-naturedly, “The judge and I sat there discussing the situation. I volunteered to go to the regional treatment hospital... after he explained what would happen if I didn’t.”
Over a period of four or five years, Alex and I danced this waltz half a dozen times. He was an apt student of AA dogma, learned the slogans, foxed his way through the “steps” of treatment, became as facile in jargon as the counselors. A gut level understanding of his disease, and what to do about it? Like water sliding off Simonize wax.
Time did its thing. Another night call. Another ride to the treatment center, courtesy of a deputy sheriff. Another round of sparring with exasperated counselors. Another...
But, wait!
One of the mysteries of the world of addiction and its treatment is predicting which victim will “get the message,” as separate from those who flounder endlessly. Alex finally heard something, found answers within himself. Perhaps, in the jargon of the craft, he “became sick and tired of being sick and tired.” He “got a program!” He came home that last time with a clear eye, filled with quiet confidence. He stayed sober. He ceased self-destructive escapades. He dived into training and became himself an effective AA counselor.
I am glad to have known you, Alex. From this distance in time, I salute you.