Our Sunday at the Locks

Our Sunday at the Locks
Our Sunday at the Locks

Our Sunday at the Locks
By ROSTI

It was my first time
At the Locks.
About time after living here
After 20 years here.

They were fascinating
Watching the water rush in
To carry the big boats up about six or seven feet,
The discrepancy between the Sound and the lakes.

Lots of traffic
From less expensive mooring
On the bay
As opposed to Lake Union.

Yet, Lake Union was where everyone wanted to go
There…or Lake Washington.
Through the Cut
Close to Portage Bay where the houseboats sat quietly.

We walked through the arbor
And chatted about things…
Our collective and individual pasts
And our present and future.

Someone brought up
My husband’s and my “date night”.
I mentioned that, after almost a dozen failed attempts at love
How important I’d found it to keep things fresh between my hubby and I.

And it had worked well
For the last decade and plus.
After our meandering
We ended up on Capitol Hill for cider and small bites.

What a wonderful evening
Capped off by hugs all ‘round.
Only the dog was unhappy at our late arrival,
Scolding us about our absence.

 
© Richard A. Martin, Jr. MD CPC 2016

1977

1977
1977

1977
by ROSTI

The needle slipped in so easily
And created a profound change.
I was sickened first from the hepatitis my patient transferred to me
But there was more.
A madness that turned me from normal
To having long periods where no rest could be found
Despite the narcotics, the barbs, the benzos.
My unwanted companions for 13 long years.
And between the hyperactivity,
Bone-crushing depression for which I sought help
From amphetamines, cocaine, meth.

Over that decade plus,
I treated myself, a fool for a patient,
Having more and more trouble
Modulating these foreign moods
Which had become commonplace and routine.
4 marriages, 3 divorces,
Another marriage on the rocks.
And becoming habituated to my chemical compounds
At one time thought of as friends but now enemies.
It was this fourth marriage on the skids
And my separation from my son that wore me out finally.

I chose the barbs as my exit tool.
Lying there conscious of the fact that I needed to remember to breathe.
Somehow a friend I had known from years’ back
Just happened to show up,
Just happened to find me in a stupor,
Just happened to act rapidly to call 911,
Just happened to.
I was comfortably numb during the resuscitation,
Thank God!
I really have no recall until I was transferred to Rehab
For detox and a 30-day drug and alcohol program.

After detox I was diagnosed…
Bipolar 2 was the name they gave me.
“And, oh, by the way, you have AIDS, too.”
I recall the perfunctory way the doc
Just slipped that test result in front of my face
And said only, “Don’t do any more drugs.”
Not noticing how dumbstruck I was
Offering no compassion.
Perhaps he knew the relationship of AIDS to Bipolar?
Maybe not…
But I uncovered it and thought back to 1977.

That gave me insight.
Whenever I’m sick
It’s best for me to create a mental picture of my illness.
So now I had one.
A link back to that patient in 1977
The one with dementia
And weight loss
And cryptococcal meningitis
After all those years I had, unknowingly,
Made one of the very first AIDS diagnoses.
A dis-ease I had given myself!

Despite tremendous personal, financial and professional issues,
Despite the cognitive impairment that went with that diagnosis,
Despite the endless array of varying combination of pills and potions,
I aligned myself with the BEST practitioners I could find.
I followed treatment plans to the very letter.
Rigorously…
I enrolled in experimental protocols.
I struggled to survive
Not one, not two, but three
Life-threatening illnesses…
After 25 years, it finally paid off.

The lynchpin was dumping the “drug of choice”
And starting an atypical and two antidepressants-
An SSRI and SSNI.
I suddenly became calm
And normal like I hadn’t been since before the fateful day
Back in 1977.
It was almost as dramatic as flipping a light switch
And flooding an unfamiliar room with light.
To see the unseen for those thirty plus years.
To be back in my own skin again.
To achieve normalcy.

After those eighteen years of work
The rubrics cube of me was finally aligned correctly.
Today, I’ve been in the same relationship for over a decade.
Today, I’m residing at the same place for fourteen years.
Today, I’m an effective father and spouse.
Today, I have personal responsibility for myself
And my remission.
Today, I engage in activities that are congruent with my nature,
Which is that of an intelligent, empathetic, resourceful person,
Able to deal effectively with life on life’s terms
And share my successes with those who would have them.

The takeaway?
Recovery IS possible
As long as one has the capacity to work hard
With themselves
And their healthcare team
IF I could do it
That means it IS possible
Like anything of value
It requires effort
And courage
And, I’d guess, a bit of luck.

 
© Richard A. Martin, Jr. MD CPC, 2016

Change

Change
Change

Change
By ROSTI

I was on my way
To a place I grew up in.
I knew I was on the right road-
The big mountain was right where it was supposed to be…
The Brothers had lost most of their snow-pack
In the waning throes of that summer day.

But…the spidery cranes and laborers
Carrying sheet rock to and fro,
The skeletal web of girders and concrete
Everywhere I looked…
Not a familiar sight at all.
The bookstore now a high rise…very disorienting.

Gone was the PETCO
Where Ms. Kiddy had her nails done.
Gone was the old tavern
Where we’d drink and sing karaoke
And brunch together on Sundays.
Was this actually the right place?

It was so
All over the city…
Growing taller,
Bigger,
Shinier.
Places I’d visited many times…Gone.

Yet, in the midst of all that change,
There it was…Easy Street.
The familiar breakfast,
The records now replaced with CDs.
But Paul was there, and Alice, and Scott;
Teresa even made a cameo.

So,
The same but different.
In the midst of change,
Constancy.
We ate, we talked…
Even went by the old house, still there.

A comfort among the disquieting
Change.

© Richard A. Martin, Jr. MD, CPC 2016

Labor

Labor
Labor

Labor
by ROSTI

Just like clockwork…
The winter has begun.
Bumbershoot is over, winter’s upon us.
Oh, we may have a few more decent days
Of Indian summer
But winter’s coming.

So, there’s a real strong marine push today.
And here we were, Felon, my dog, and I
Walking down to the alley
And coming towards us
A guy I knew from my brief stint in the 76 store
Last Fall.

This guy used to visit frequently
During a shift – say 12 hours and 2 or 3 visits –
And always make the same buy,
The fortified beer…one can…in a bag
Perhaps he needed that to be healthy
Which he always appeared to be.

I knew him from the church,
Ozanam House for the Chronically Homeless.
He had a nice warm bed and three wholesome meals a day.
I wondered if he didn’t actually need that frequent drink
To keep the ship aright
But that would be another story.

So…me, Felon one way, this man the other in the alley…
And it was the first time I ever saw his feet.
(The counter obscured view from the waist up when we’d interact at the mart)
And as we came slower towards each other,
He and Fel lock eyes…you see, they were buddies.
Fel loped his happy dance toward him and both sets of eyes brightened.

He had to re-ask Fel’s name, and each time he chuckles when I say “Felon”
“Like a criminal”, just to translate
He always says, “Oh, he’s not a criminal!”, with a great big smile.
And, not sure how he comes ready with pepperoni stick in pocket,
But he does, every…well almost every…time
Today, tho, I saw his feet…first time…

He had a Reebok on his right foot
And a Rockport on the left..
And while he and Felon were exchanging hugs and kisses,
I longed to get the “story” of that mismatch.
“Business on the left, party on the right” came to mind
An old comedy routine

At it’s inception a sociological statement about a type of haircut,
But topical here, it seemed.
And, of course, me, the storyteller reached inside to my things…
How I became “branded”.
And here’s the one I made up here…
Once upon a time…

And the story was about this man,
Living on $756.00 a month plus food stamps.
He has shelter but this costs him dearly
Fifty-six bucks left,
At about $7 a can,
He needs that extra cash from his pension
To stave off those infernal shakes.

And, so, shoes take a different place in his life. Amen
Whew! He’ll just make it! On the beers.

 

 
© Richard A. Martin, Jr. MD CPC, 2016