Tag Archives: Recovery

Space, The Final Frontier, Part II

I have previously set out to write a three part series set in the early days of the 1970’s.  During those days, roughly between fall of 1970 and fall of 1971, I fell into lock step with the craziest of the crazy in California, which means that there were no limits and no holds barred as I wrestled with what I saw in myself and what I saw myself becoming.  I had done most of two semesters in college but only had two grades to show for the effort, a ‘C’ and an ‘F’ from the first.  As the second semester was coming to a close I loaded my motorcycle into the back of my Studebaker pick up truck and with my roommate, who had just broken up with his girlfriend, hit the road to we had no idea where at the time.  Along the way we picked up two sets of hitchhikers, both of whom were heading for Seattle or its suburbs, and so we ended up spending that summer in the Seattle area.  The tale of that summer deserves a story of its own.

When we returned to San Diego at the end of summer I obtained a low-paying job at a golf course and moved into an apartment complex where a friend lived.  Although we did not share an apartment unit we were close to each other, and most of the people in that building shared their food and drugs and other possessions in a manner very consistent with the counter culture in the Golden State at that time.  It was in this apartment and in a house that several of us rented a couple of months later that I spent my time most heavily involved in the drug scene.

As I mentioned in Part I of the story about those years, I struggled with the question of whether or not I should tell this story.  Heaven knows there is nothing uplifting about it, except possibly as an example of God’s grace that I didn’t kill myself several times during this period.  I finally concluded that I would write this tale for two reasons.  First, because this is a part of my life.  If I would write a memoir of the events of my life it would be dishonest to leave out the parts that I am not proud of.  I don’t have to expose all of my dirty laundry to convey the story of a life that hung on the edge and could have gone upwards from there or very much gone downwards, but could by no means stay locked where it was for long.  I hope that somebody in a similar place will read this and see some of themselves in my story, and decide that it’s time to make a change.  If I could do that, I would consider all of my writing to be a success.

The second reason that I decided to write about these times is that even in the midst of this insanity we were still in most ways ordinary human beings living in a particular place and time.  Representations of drug abusers found in the entertainment industry frequently portray them as sordid, nihilistic wasteoids who would sell their souls for their next fix, and some indeed are like that.  Others show users as cute and funny, sort of a Jeff Spicoli character from “Fast Times at Ridgemont High”.  The reality is that we were very much like everybody else.  Most of us had jobs, while others were in college.  Our parties differed from those of the jocks and the cowboys mostly in our choice of drugs and also in the unlikliehood of a fight breaking out and somebody getting their head busted.  We did use illegal drugs, it is true, but we were, by and large, much less of a pain in society’s neck or a project for law enforcement than were the people who used legal ones.  My hope in this vein is that I might be able to convey to anyone who has a family member, a loved one, or a friend taking up residence in this strata of society that they should not write that person off.  Your friend, brother, wife or parent is in there somewhere.  It’s not easy, but stay with them and let them know that you care about them anyway.  Just as me and most of my friends came back from that edge, so too might they.

But as I began to write part two I realized that I did not have the stomach to spend a great deal more time reliving those days.  There were times that humorous things occurred and I will share one or two before I close this subject, but I will not put any more energy into this project.  I have always looked for the humor in life and have found it in the strangest places; in Vietnam, while recovering from a divorce, and in an amusement park ride with a friend throwing up as we twirled round and round.  I would not allow a retelling of the humorous aspects of this period to whitewash the nihilistic valuelessness of it however.  That person who was me lived for little, loved little, believed in little and expected nothing.  Writing about that time causes me to hear and feel distant echoes of a me that was the diametric opposite of who I am now or strive to become, and I gain small satisfaction in remembering where I was even though I can still chuckle at some of the crazy things that I got myself into.

For instance.  One night I was driving to the apartment of a girlfriend of a friend to deliver ten ‘hits’ of mescaline.  Mescaline is the synthetic form of the active psychotropic agent in the hallucinogenic peyote cactus used by some Native Americans to achieve a state of altered consciousness in some religious ceremonies. I was never what you would call a pusher, but within our extended drug-using community anyone who acquired more of a drug than they could personally use might sell some to another user, and in return might buy some when the tables were turned.

On this particular night, as I drew near to the apartment of my friend’s girlfriend I stopped at a light, and when the light changed I turned left and began to descend a small hill at the bottom of which was the driveway into the parking lot of her apartment.  As I rolled down this hill I happened to look in my rear view mirror, and right in the middle of the roof of the car that was behind me I saw a big round red light.

In 1970 a car with a red light in the middle of the roof could only be a police car, and the fact that the red light was lit up could only mean that I was busted.  Now in those days I was seldom in a car without a bottle of beer between my legs (I do not advocate this; I’m just telling it like it was), and this was the case on the evening in question.  But of much greater concern to me was the ten hits of mescaline that I had in my pocket.  Ten hits meant ‘dealer’, and that carried far greater opprobrium with the local constabulary than did ‘user’.

Time to think quick!  What to do?  Pulling over to the side of the road I quickly dug the pills out of my shirt pocket, popped them into my mouth, and washed all ten of them down with a big swallow of beer.  I was just taking the gulp which washed away the incriminating evidence when the car which was behind me passed on my right.  It was a Chevy I think, or maybe a Ford.  I’m pretty sure that it was a sedan, but it may have been a coupe.  Aw hell, it might have been a station wagon.  One thing that I know for sure is that it did not have a glowing red light on the top of the roof.

In complete befuddlement, a condition about which I could write volumes out of close and frequent experience, I looked again into the rear view mirror.  The only light which I now saw there was the traffic light which hung in the air in the middle of the intersection at which I had just been stopped, and that light had by now turned green.  I was baffled and just sat there for a few moments trying to figure out if I had experienced a hallucinatory flashback from some previous psychedelic trip.  I had never had such a flashback before and in fact knew of nobody who ever had, but the media and some entertainment venues presented such a thing to be a fact and at that moment I was not prepared to discount it.  It wasn’t until that traffic light turned red again that I put two and two together.  I had looked in my mirror at just the moment when the red traffic light emerged from behind the car that had been following me and appeared right in the middle of the car at the roofline.

I was filled with relief!  I expected to get busted for the open beer container, but that was a much lesser charge than carrying drugs for sale.  And then it hit me; I had just swallowed ten hits of mescaline, any one of which would guarantee a fine psychedelic trip for a couple of hours!  I knew that I had time to drive back to the apartment before I ‘came on’ to the drugs, but I had only just enough time, so I hung a very illegal U-turn (why not go for broke?) and beat a retreat to my apartment, where I spent most of the rest of that night dodging asteroids somewhere between Mars and Jupiter.

Several months later I was living with five of my friends in a three bedroom house.  Four of my roommates were couples and of course got two of the bedrooms.  Dale, the fifth person, had a girlfriend who was frequently at our house and so he got the other bedroom.  I had nothing like a girlfriend, which was my usual estate, and so I slept on a huge pillow on the living room floor.  I really didn’t care.  Such things as where I collapsed were of little importance to me.

Among our company were people with a wide preference in their drugs.  All of us smoked marijuana and took the various psychedelic drugs that were available, and one of our favorite evening experiences was what we called the ‘moonshot’.  We would take LSD as the booster phase, then mescaline to blast us away from earth’s gravity, and finally psilocybin to put us into orbit.  I remember seeing our entire living room filled with neon blue tyrannosaurus rex skulls with the jaws opening a closing to the rhythm of Savoy Brown’s “Looking In” on one such evening.  In addition, some of us used pills of all descriptions; uppers and downers, and also peyote cactus and a variety of other powders and fluids and whatnot.  In short, we had a small pharmacy of recreational and very illegal drugs in our house at any given time.

On one night, when my roommates were at a concert which I had not the funds to attend, I was sitting at home drinking some beer and smoking a joint or two while listening to music on the reel-to-reel tape player that belonged to one of my roommates.  This was a normal condition for me, and one that I could handle with a high degree of competency.  Nothing out of the ordinary was going on until all of a sudden I saw a light from outside playing on the closed curtain of our front window.  Out of curiosity more than paranoia I peeled back the curtain and peered out, expecting to find one of our friends with a flashlight.  What I saw instead was a police car shining its spotlight in our yard.

This was my first experience with being scared straight.  After a moment of frozen panic I began to tear through the cupboards and drawers of my roomies, flushing all manner of capsules, tablets, powders and pills down the toilet.  I was surprised that the door hadn’t been broken down by the time that I had finished that frantic mission, and decided to eject as many baggies of marijuana and peyote and the tiny marijuana plants that we intended to plant later in the spring over the back fence.  Arms full, I raced across the yard expecting at every second to hear the pounding of leather shoes and the deadly command of “Up against the wall, Mother—“.

The command never came, and after the last plastic bag of peyote flew over the fence I walked shaken but confidently back into the house.  Even if the bust came now there was hardly enough of our stash left tucked away in more elaborate hiding places to buy me more than a minor charge.  I was a little bit surprised however that I had not yet seen a badge or heard an order barked in my direction.  Upon entering the house I traversed the dining and living rooms and looked out at the street from our front window.

There was nothing there.  No officers, no police car, no nothing.  I was, of course, very happy about this, but slowly it dawned on me that I had just flushed or chucked over the fence the stash of all five of my roommates.  How was I going to explain that?  I knew that they would accuse me of paranoid hallucinations.  Paranoid I was OK with, but I never once believed that any of my hallucinations were real.  The T-rex skulls chomping away in my living room were not real and I knew it.

All ended well though.  I was indeed accused of hallucinating but we were a pretty mellow bunch – I was probably the rowdiest of our number – and they all finally allowed that I MIGHT have seen something; maybe the police were looking for a prowler.  We recovered what we could from the field behind our back fence and carried on as best we could after what was, for me, a pretty good scare.

It was not long after this event that I quit using psychedelic drugs or any other type of pills.  I had gone on ‘trips’ before that were not fun and colorful and happy things, and in those cases I would take a barbiturate to knock the edge off of that high.  On one occasion however there were no downers in the house to be had, and I had to ride out three or four hours of an intensely unpleasant and introverted trip that was very unsettling.  I well remember retreating into my room – I had a room of my own by this time – lying on the exposed bladder that was my waterbed, and watching the television until very nearly daybreak.  It was hot that time of the year and the waterbed was several degrees cooler than room temperature, and the late, late, late night television offerings then included the cheap old black and white western films with heros wearing white hats who played the guitar and had six-shooters that never ran out of bullets.  I was able to connect with those movies and associate with when I watched them as a young boy in the security and sanity of my childhood.  I found this comforting and reassuring and in that way rode out the bad trip.  I finally, gratefully, fell asleep at the end of a long and very unpleasant night.

I was never inclined to take that ride again, and to the best of my knowledge all but one of my roommates at that house made a similar break with that dangerous and destructive path.  I had fun in those days, Lord knows!  But I also flirted with accident, overdose, and the violence that was endemic to a subculture which accepted with some pride being outside of the law.  There is nothing today which would call me back to that lifestyle, but I hesitate to condemn those who might be there themselves.  They are just people with faults who, if they survive, might advance to something better.  They have my prayers and support.

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Serious As A Heart Attack: Epilogue

Home at last. Home, where I can lie in my own bed, eat food of my liking, sleep in front of my cheesy old movies and relax while my body knits itself back together. At last I can truly heal, because I am home. At least that is what I thought. The reality however is that I have never before had my chest split open and sewn back up and been put on blood pressure and antiarrhythmic medications, so I really had no basis for expecting anything. And the unexpected is exactly what I got.

My appetite and enjoyment of the taste of food did not return right away, and although I ate much more than I did while in the hospital, and ate much better stuff, there was little joy in it. A persistent light headedness continued and continues to make walking difficult, and the slightest hill of any sort will exhaust me almost instantly. The combination of less food and a lower sodium intake than before my surgery, plus my various medicines, led to dehydration which for one night put me back into the hospital. What a scare that was, as one of the possible causes of my problem could have led me back into the operating room to be opened up again. I think I would have preferred to slip into God’s arms rather than to do that. Fortunately for me, my problem did not need to be addressed in that manner, and I will always be grateful for that fact.

One thing that I mentioned earlier was the threat of constipation, the result of anesthesia plus pain medication plus heart medications. I ate salads and veggies galore and other high fiber foods, drank a lot of water, and still fell afoul of constipation. To a great many people that seems like a minor problem, a humorous side-note, a potty joke. It was none of those things. Constipation is a vastly painful condition which is exacerbated when in the context of major surgery, which left me in agony for at least six hours and almost sent me back to the Emergency Department, so awful was it. I feel constrained not to describe my pain or the difficult and messy manner by which my constipation was resolved because I believe that the story should be told in detail with proper prefaces so that the reader will understand from the very beginning that there is nothing in that story meant to be funny or gross or shocking or anything else. If I ever write that story it will be because I hope that at least one person will read it and take it to heart so that they never have to go through what I went through that day.

And then there’s the sweating. I would wake up in the middle of the night with bedclothes, sheets and pillows drenched in a cold sweat. I assume all of the medications I had taken plus the anesthesia had to work their way out of me, and also my improved eating which replaced what was already a fairly good diet was probably liberating toxins stored up in fat cells which were now melting away. I have lost nearly fifteen pounds since my surgery and the junk stored in those fat cells has to get out one way or another. My wife was kept busy washing clothes and sheets and pillow covers every morning for much of the first week that I was home. This has now subsided and I hope is at an end, although I deep protective coverings over my bed just in case.

Still, there have been many things at home that have lived up to my hopes. I cannot go into my garden but I can see it from the deck or a window, and I can eat out of it. I would love to pull the weeds creeping amongst my rows and beds and lift the drooping tomato plant branches and support them with cloth slings tied to wooden frames that I have build around the plants, but that is not to be for now. Instead I can watch my wife and my son water and tend and harvest my vegetables, and that counts for a lot.

So it’s been two steps forward and one step back; one step forward and one step back, and so on. My recovery is very likely to take the whole three months that I have been given off from work, and I still wonder if I will have the energy to return to what can be a physically demanding job. I’m not overly concerned about that as we could probably do all right if I was to retire, but I did not want to do that yet and it would be a hardship of sorts if I should have to. I will continue to pray for healing and be comforted to know that I have family and many good friends praying for that end as well.

Now it’s time to tell other tales and lighten the mood. No matter what happens from this point on, my life has still been an interesting one, to me at least, with many stories to write and hopefully many laughs to share with my readers. And from now on when I am tempted to respond to somebody’s question of ‘seriously?’ by saying “I’m serious as a heart attack”, I believe that I will catch myself and ask “was I really that serious?” My guess is that the answer will be that I am not quite that serious after all.