The 50 Yard Line

A doctor friend of ours once said that being a doctor in a small town is a little like having a front row seat on the 50 yard line of people’s lives.  He also said that it was a privilege.  He thought the same was probably true for small-town counselors, as well.  That we too have the privilege of a front row seat on the 50 yard line.

I’d gotten a phone call from the hospital that afternoon asking me to stop by later that day and visit a patient who was detoxing from alcohol.  The nurse explained that the patient had said he was willing to speak to me.  I knew the man, though we hadn’t talked for some time.  I said I’d come by.

When I walked into the  hospital room later that afternoon I pulled a chair over to the side of his bed and sat down. I explained that the hospital had called me.  He nodded.

“Yeah, I told her you were the only counselor-type I would talk to,” he said, with a wry smile.

I smiled and said that was pretty high praise.

I asked how he was doing.  He shook his head.

“Oh you know, this stuff is killin’ me.  I can feel my liver givin’ out,” he said.  “Every time I do this it’s a little harder for my body to come back. I’m gonna kill myself with alcohol.”

One of the hardest things I had to learn when I became a counselor was to be quiet.  To be able to sit in silence.  Those first few years I often felt the need to fill the gaps of silence.  It took me a while to understand that those silent gaps are often the most important parts of conversation.

“You know my kid?  He can’t even drive yet.  He’s a good kid.  You know him?”

I said that I knew of him.

“Yeah, he’s a real good kid,” he nodded.  “Not like his old man.”  He snorted a painful laugh.

“I was gettin’ in real bad shape, you know?  Drinkin’ a pint at a time, every hour or two.  I started shakin’.  I was coughin’ up blood.  I barely made it to the bathroom in time to puke blood.  When I came out of the bathroom, I guess he saw some blood by my mouth. He got scared and said he was drivin’ me to the ER.”

I sat by the side of the bed, listening.  He was a couple years older than me, but looked much older.  His eyes were yellow, as was his skin.  His stomach was bloated.  His whole body shook under the hospital sheet.  Every few minutes, he would reach out an unsteady hand and grab a cup of ice chips on the tray next to his bed.

“So he loaded me in the car and drove me here.  Not even old enough to drive yet, and he’s drivin’ his old man to the ER.”

I asked what his plans were once he was discharged from the hospital.  He said he had to get back to work.  He said he just couldn’t do treatment again.  Who would pay his bills and take care of his family while he was in treatment?

I had only recently started supervising the local treatment center. I mentioned that, and said that we could work something out.  He congratulated me on my new position.  I waited. Hoping he was actually thinking about my offer.

After a little while I added that I was worried he was going to die.

He said that he knew that.  There was another long silence.  And he shakily reached for some more ice chips.

Then he whispered, “The thing is, I don’t think I can beat it.  I think it’s gonna beat me.”

I said all the things a counselor says at times like that.  And he already knew everything I said.  He’d already been to treatment a couple times.  I knew that.  He reminded me anyway.

“Doesn’t matter,” I shook my head.  I reminded him that he and I both knew people who are clean and sober today who’ve gone to treatment numerous times.  I reminded him that you never stop trying.  That treatment works.  And he knew that.

He nodded.  “Yeah, I do.”

“And your kids need their dad,” I added quietly.

He nodded again.  And the tears started.

“I’ve been a shitty dad,” he whispered hoarsely.  “Practically killin’ myself right in front of my kids’ eyes. I tell ‘em, ‘Don’t you guys ever drink, ya hear me?’”  He snorted again.  “What a joke, huh?”

I said that he wasn’t a joke.  That he was a good guy.  Who had an addiction that wanted to kill him.  I repeated that I knew treatment worked.  And I wished he’d keep trying.  I promised to do everything I possibly could to assist him in this fight.

“Thanks,” he said, reaching for another ice chip.  “You know that if I do decide to go to treatment I’ll give you call.”

We visited a little longer.

Then he erupted in a violent coughing fit.  He was struggling to breathe.  I stood up to leave when the nurse came in to help him.  He looked over at me one more time, still coughing, and lifted a hand goodbye.

I left the hospital room feeling like I’d failed.  Knowing that it had to be his decision.  Knowing that there was no way I could force him to go to treatment. Knowing that even if he did go to treatment he still may go back to drinking.  Knowing that it is not my responsibility to save people.

I knew all of that.  And I walked out feeling like a failure all the same.

When my work day ended, I drove over to the baseball field to watch our son’s Little League game.  I stood outside the fence by the outfield, away from the other spectators, glad for some time not to have to talk with anyone.  Just watching a baseball game, alone with my thoughts.

Our son’s team won the game, which was unusual.  Their pitcher threw an impressive game.  Strike out after strike out.  Never wavering in his concentration.  A serious look of determination etched in his young face.

And as I watched the boy pitch, I couldn’t help but think of his dad. Shaking in a hospital bed. Coughing up blood.  Probably dying.  From a treatable disease.  And I thought again about how much I hate addiction.

I left the ball field that night with our excited son.  As we drove home we passed the pitcher, trudging down the road, head down, kicking at a rock.

Our son stopped talking about the game for a  second, and turned to look at the other boy.

“He’s the reason we won our game tonight,” our son remarked.  “He sure doesn’t look very happy, though.”

And that was when I remembered where I was.  Front row.  50 yard line.