Finding the Music

A few weeks ago my wife Annie and I visited my mother, who is progressing into the final stages of Alzheimer’s in a care facility in my hometown. We were able to take the time to help feed her dinner that evening.

Before I was born, Mom was winning journalism awards. She was an accomplished jazz and ragtime pianist as well as the church organist for many years. She was a source of great inspiration and practical help for me in writing and music. (Of course! She’s my mom!) In recent years it has been brutal to watch her lose both her way with words and her way around the ivories. 

Midway through the meal, Mom shoved her cafeteria plate out of the way and started drumming her fingers on the table, moving her arms to her own cadence. Annie and I turned to an attendant who shrugged his shoulders and said, “Every once in a while, it happens.”

We listened and watched for a few moments. Then Annie whispered, “Steve, she’s playing the piano.” And with that hint, it only took me about four measures to recognize the rhythm of a pretty sophisticated ragtime standard Mom had played at social clubs, family gatherings and at home for 60 or 70 years, I’d guess. One of her favorites and one of mine, too.

I leaned over and spoke softly, “You go, girl! Zez Confrey[i] is a lot of fun, isn’t he?”

Mom nodded and kept “playing.” A few moments later she suddenly stopped, looked at me almost in panic and whimpered, “Where’s the music?” Mom knew something important was missing; that there should have been different results coming from the effort she was putting forth.

That feeling like there should be different results from one’s efforts is all too common among the neighbors we serve at the Mission.

Will has training and experience as a groundskeeper. He’s a veteran. Yet he lacks education, and his drinking has hurt him both physically and psychologically. He came to our Resource Advocate Program (RAP) a couple of months ago to apply for food stamps and to get a free cup of coffee. He took steps to become more self-sufficient, trying to more fully engage the social net that the Pikes Peak Region can offer. He kept applying for jobs with no success, and he had reasons why: “The economy’s just too tough… I just can’t find the people who truly appreciate what I do… I’m a hard worker, but that doesn’t matter anymore.”

Just as Mom needed a piano to achieve her desired results a few weeks ago, Will needed something more to achieve his desired results: sobriety. Ongoing encounters with his RAP case manager made it clear that his problem was not the economy, but his drinking. He was going through many of the “right” motions, but without clear progress toward sobriety, he’d never find the results he wanted.

So he’s making the changes he can to move toward the reality that is sobriety. Will’s attending AA. He’s voluntarily entered a local intensive outpatient treatment and moved into a halfway house with peers who will keep him accountable.

Will shows us the AA coins that mark new milestones of sobriety when he drops by. The clouds have left his eyes. There is greater clarity in his thinking. Now he takes responsibility for his situation.

It isn’t over yet, but Will is getting what he needs to find the music.

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[i] The composer of Kitten on the Keys and a lot of other ragtime songs of the 1920s and ‘30s.

John Piippo: Treating the Beast of Addiction

John Piippo: Treating the Beast of Addiction

Running and Recovering

I vividly remember a warm late spring day at my brother’s house in Atlanta about two decades ago. My son Ben was just discovering the joys of running at age two, and he was running down a hall full tilt toward my nephew’s closed bedroom door. 

I caught him just before he did a face plant into a door panel. “Ben, don’t! That door isn’t going anywhere, you know!”

Ben just grinned and put his head on my shoulder. I carried him to the living room and pointed to some blocks on the floor. “Build a rocket for us, OK?” Then I went to the kitchen to refill my coffee.

In a few seconds, I heard little footsteps going full tilt down the hall again. I left my coffee cup and sprinted toward the noise, but too late. BAM! Ben had indeed successfully executed the face plant into my nephew’s closed bedroom door. (Remarkably, there was no blood.) I picked him up just as he realized the door had won.

Helping Ben learn to run was a matter of catching him when he hurt, and encouraging him when he made progress. 

It’s like that sometimes with the homeless and addicted. One of our neighbors who regularly visits our Resource Advocate Program, Donny, has been working with us for at least 16 months. During that time, he’s been sober save for one day last winter. When Donny introduced himself to our RAP “Angels” (if you saw them in action you’d agree the nickname fits) he had already “graduated” from living in a dumpster to prison to being homeless in a shelter. The Angels helped Donny to get housing, dentures, and approval for Social Security over the next few months.

In a way, recovery involves a series of choices where you decide not to hurt yourself. You can self-inflict healing with certain choices. Donny has been on that path of choosing to get better for years. Yet not too long ago, the Angels had to escort him out of the RAP office because he came in intoxicated. 

But that was last week. This is today. 

We believe that Donny will show up sober again, and soon. We believe that, especially as Donny is reminded he has the freedom to choose, he will continue to make more choices to heal than to hurt himself. 

Our job is simply to catch him when he hurts and to encourage him when he’s making progress.