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The CyberSenior Review Volume 1 Number 3
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REVIEW
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VOL.1 NO.3 OCTOBER 1994
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The CyberSenior Review is a project of the Internet Elders
List, a world-wide Mailing List of seniors. The Review is
written, edited and published by members of the Elders.
The contents are copyrighted 1994 by the Elders List and
by the authors. All rights reserved by the authors.
Copying is permitted with attribution.
The current editorial board of The CyberSenior Review is:
Elaine Dabbs edabbs@ucc.su.oz.au
Pat Davidson xuegxaa@csv.warwicxk.ac.uk
James Hursey jwhursey@cd.columbus.oh.us
=========================================================================
CONTENTS, Volume 1, Number 3
Editorial
Jenny and Her Family Face Drugs, by John Davidson
How one family coped with the horror of a daughter
who becomes addicted.
A Trip to Australia, Or: I Came, I Saw, I Stayed, by Lotte Evans
One lady's experience of emmigrating from Austria
to Australia in the fifties.
What Did You Call Me? Or: My Mother Didn't Raise Her Boy
to be a Senior Citizen, by Sam Weissman
Sam wonders how he became one of "them," a member of
a group now studied by scientific researchers.
=========================================================================
EDITORIAL
With this third issue of the CyberSenior Review we go network wide with our
distribution. This issue will become part of the CICnet electronic magazine
archives maintained at the University of Michigan. Now, I am not sure just
exactly what this means, or how important it is, but you have to admit that it
sounds good. You may also find the first two issues in CICnet, but it is only
fair to tell you that at the time we put those issue together we had no
thought of distributing them further than our own mailing list. Be warned.
A perusal of the CICnet archives shows dozens of electronic publications from
amateurish 'zines to scholarly and professional journals. Our Review will
certainly not be the worst of the bunch, nor would we presume it to be among
the best, but we think for a bunch of amateur publishers, it is not bad.
Note that I did not say "for a bunch of old (fill in your particular insulting
term)". We dont use those terms. As you will note in Sam's slightly tongue-in-
cheek article, we dont even like terms like "senior citizen" and "golden
ager." We are just people who have lived longer.
Also in this Review you will find John Davidson's heart-rending account of his
daughter Jenny's bout with drug addiction. None of our children, or
grandchildren, are safe from this scourge of modern life. I dont think it will
spoil John's article to say that finally there is a happy ending.
Follow along, too, with our intrepid Lotte as she braves storms at sea,
grouchy doctors and disapproving Italian moms to reach her promised land and
the sun-bronzed Aussie she didn't even know awaited her there.
--Jim Hursey
===============================================
===============================================
JENNY AND HER FAMILY FACE DRUGS
by John Davidson
Forward:
No one ever thinks that their kids are into drugs, but
when they do recognize the problem they think that a doctor or
treatment center can promptly make them well again. We learned
about this the hard way, as do most parents with children into
drugs.
The following snippet of our experience in getting our
daughter into treatment and what we learned will, hopefully,
help someone else to recognize a pending problem. For this
reason my daughter Jenny has consented to let me share these
notes that I made at the time.
************
"Dad, I need help. I don't seem to handle this myself."
These words were spoken to me by my 19 year old daughter,
Jenny, one morning. She had just come home after several days
of absence. This was the first clear signal to us that she was
an addict. My wife, Louise, and I still didn't know what
Jenny's addictions were. We thought that she might have an
alcohol problem, but we never thought of her as an alcoholic.
To us she was still an immature girl that we loved very much,
even though we were frequently angry about her behaviour. We
thought that, mainly, she had made poor choices in friends.
Everything would be all right if we could get her motivated to
go back to school or to get a job. We had even bought her a
late model used car to build her pride. Earlier we had
promised her $2000 when and if she graduated from high school.
We had been seeing a family therapist and we turned to
her for advice on treatment. She recommended several treatment
programs and we started gathering information from them. They
included both inpatient and outpatient facilities as well as
for women only. Jenny was at first reluctent to consider
anything but an outpatient facility. A few days later, though,
she suddenly decided that if she was to be successful she
would need to go to a resident facility. This was the second
time that she had made a really important decision about her
own treatment.
The nature of her addiction was still vague to us. She
said that she was smoking too much pot, and just couldn't come
home and meet responsibilities after she had had some. She had
left several jobs after only a day or two of work. She said
that they were too uninteresting. Her last job I had taken her
to her interview and Louise had delivered her to the entrance
on her first day of work. Later that day, the firm had called
asking about her. She had apparently never even gone in the
door, but left to be with her friends. She didn't come home
for several days.
We found a treatment center for girls up to 20 years old
that seemed to be what we were looking for. They were well
recommended, and my telephone discussions with them indicated
they were caring and experienced. One of the problems was that
the facility was not in Seattle, but was located east of the
Cascade mountains and it was mid November, with the passes
frequently closed by snow. Transportation was going to be a
problem, particularly since they thought that it was necessary
for the family to participate in a four day session at the
beginning of December. Jenny was also concerned about leaving
right away since she would be away from home on her 20th
birthday, Thanksgiving, Christmas, and New Years. Again she
came through with a good decision for herself and agreed to
leave immediately. It was a rainy, cold, and bleak Monday
before Thansgiving that I took her to the airport and put her
on a commuter airplane for the trip over the Cascades. The
treatment center had promised to have a councelor meet the
plane.
Jenny was feeling rather low anyway since she had taken
a last fling the several days before she left. Like she had
done so many times before she had promised that she would be
home by midnight and just wanted to say goodbye to some
friends. She hadn't come home until late the next day. It
would be hard to tell who was in worse shape, Jenny or her
parents after one of these episodes. We would listen for every
bus that went down the hill in front of our house. After the
last bus we would listen for cars to slow down. Many times we
would get into violent arguments. The smallest slight would
cause us to escalate our fear into anger with each other.
Trying to carry on our work the next day while listening for
the phone (willing it to ring) and waiting in vain for our
Jenny to call left us tired most of the time. Several times
Jenny had been beaten up, but each time she had taken legal
action against her abuser, but then had gone back to them
again.
Even though we were sorry to see Jenny away from home
during the holidays we looked forward to some freedom from
anxiety. At that time we thought that we would be able to just
turn her over to the experts, and in six weeks she would come
home cured and ready to begin a productive life.
Other than checking that Jenny had arrived safely, we
didn't worry about her for several days. After all, pot wasn't
so serious, she just needed to catch her breath and learn some
new habits. Also, the rules of the treatment center did not
permit phone calls to or from the new residents for a week.
About the third day the other shoe dropped. Her counsellor
called to report on Jenny. First, her drugs of choice were
cocaine and crack and she had been using them heavily for at
least half a year. Second, her withdrawal symptoms were quite
severe, and there was concern that Jenny would "run". Even
though the treatment facility is in a farming area ten miles
from a major community some of the residents fled during their
first weeks. Later we found that Jenny had made a commitment
to her councelor that she would give it one week. Fortunately,
by the end of that time she was able to see enough hope that
she wanted to continue. Again Jenny had made a tough decision
that was in her own best interest.
At the end of the week we had a call from Jenny that was
quite exciting. She had made it through the worst of the
withdrawal, she was working hard on her own recovery, and she
had some new interests. Trivial as they might seem, they were
significant to her well being. She asked us to send her
coloring books, crayons and markers. I guess that symbolically
she was going back to an earlier and happier period in her
life. She was also taking charge of her boredom and using
discipline to create things of beauty. On our first visit to
the treatment center we saw a collection of butterflies and
exotic flowers that were as luminescent as stained glass
windows.
During the following week we had a number of calls from
Jenny and from her councellors. Jenny was working hard in her
groups and individual sessions and semed to be responding to
the displine of regular hours and wholesome food. Jenny told
me, with pride, that everything was made from "scratch" and
nothing had sugar in it. She was quite excited about our
forthcoming visit for the four day family program. We assumed
that this would be a time to tour the center, hear progress
reports, visit with our daughter, and get some advice about
her future care. It turned out to be all that and much much
more.
Crossing the Cascades in a small commuter airplane during
the winter is frequently an iffy proposition. The Seattle
airport first has to be free of fog and this can be a problem
for days at a time. Next the airport on the other side has to
be open. Fog and snow can keep it closed on short notice, too.
We left several hours late on an evening flight from Seattle
and after 40 minutes of darkness and bouncing around landed on
the other side. We had a few problems such as the car rental
agency being closed for the night and losing our way the next
day on the snowy drive out to the treatment center but it was
all forgotten when we saw our Jenny. We only had a few minutes
to see her room (which she shared with four other girls)
before we gathered with other parents and their daughters to
meet the staff and to hear about the family program of the
next four days. Jenny sat between Louise and I and it was like
earlier times before the disease of drugs had struck our
family.
The very first session told us that we were going to be
involved far more than we had expected and that we were there
to work. This made sense, too, as we began learning about the
disease we were dealing with. The program for the next four
days was divided between group therapy (parents and residents,
and parents alone), teaching about the disease and resources
that are available, and individual counselling. We had homework
each night, too. One of the most significant revelations
during the introductions of staff was to learn that every
single one of the counsellors or assistants was a recovering
addict. I was wondering why none of them had recovered, but it
came out later that the nature of the disease is that they
will never recover in the sense that you get over the measles.
They will have to live for the rest of their lives in a manner
that will keep their disease in check. They will never be able
to use any chemical that causes dependency without risking
relapsing into their former addiction. The clear message that
they gave us was that if the addict didn't control the
addiction she would die, that simple. This was emphasized by
posters and slogans in the hallways. They now had our
attention.
The second hour got us into the heart of the program. It
was called "Multi-Family Therapy" (everyone). We were all
seated in a circle, daughters with parents. In a few cases
brothers or sisters of the resident had joined the parents. We
went around the circle and gave our names and how we were
feeling. Most people indicated they were anxious, but no big
emotions showed. There was a little silence, then one of the
daughters said, "I want to work." She turned to her family and
said, "Mom, I want to tell you how sorry I am that I stole
from you. You don't know that I was the one who took your
......" She went on telling of the things she had done to
support her addiction. By this time she was sobbing and so was
her family. There were no dry eyes in the room after a few
girls had confessed to their parents. The exercise was far
more than confession, though. The girls asked for forgiveness
and the parents responded, usually not only forgiving, but
also admitting things they were concerned about, such as being
too strict, or not strict enough. The overwhelming impression
was of the honesty and the desire to be supportive.
The role of the counsellors was not immediately apparent,
but soon one noticed a soft question, or a calm confrontation
that kept the work going. In every response one found that in
some way it applied to himself even though it was from a
family that had not been known before this day. It came our
turn and our daughter managed to shock us to the core. This
was followed by an overpowering compassion and realization of
the pain she had been suffering. We took a giant stride
forward at that time in our understanding of her disease and
our desire to make the family well again. We realized that we
had been a dysfunctional family and we had the desire to
change. Not everybody fared as well. The response of one girl
was obviously phony. One of her fellow residents called her on
it. Nothing changed at that time, or during the four days, but
a month later when I was visiting at Christmas, this girl ran
up to me and said she deserved a hug, during the previous week
she had taken major steps to make herself well again.
Lunch was a welcome break. The morning had been intense.
It was hard to realize that it had only been four hours ago
that we had arrived at the treatment center and first seen the
residents and their parents and the staff. We all shared a
common bond in our experiences with addicts and addiction, but
there wasn't much talk about it at lunch. We were all in the
here and now, just recovering from the emotions of the
morning. There was also the beginning of acceptance of the
strain that each of the families had been under and hadn't
admitted before now. Our daughter seemed very close to us
after the morning's revelations and we could begin to
understand some of the pain she had been through.
The schedule after lunch called for a movie (video
cassette) that was supposed to give us an idea of what it was
like to be on drugs. It was well acted with attractive,
believable characters. Unlike entertainment movies, though,
there was no hero, and the main character died of an accidetal
overdose. Afterwards I told my daughter that the movie really
helped me to understand addiction. She looked at me and said,
"Dad, you can't really know what it is like without being
hooked. The flood of good feeling that I get from cocaine
would make me do anything to bring it back when it wears off.
I felt this way from the very first time I tried it."
Later, in group, she told some of the things that she had
done to get cocaine. It was totally foreign to our experience
and to hers prior to addiction. It made us realize that
although there are large numbers of long term criminals
involved in drugs, the addiction process also creates "instant
criminals".
Our homework that night was to prepare a detailed
description, following an outline, of our own experiences
relating to the addiction of our daughter. These included the
thefts from us, having to keep everything locked up, the long
nights of worry when we didn't know where Jenny was, the
searching for her, the verbal abuse we received. Prior to
working on this list we had not realized the extent to which
our lives had been taken over by drugs. It had all started so
gradually, but now we realized that we were codependents!
The next day we used our list of experiences to start our
own recovery. The Alanon literature calls it the "first step".
We learned more about Alanon later in the program. For now,
though, we had the basis for a powerful realization - We were
able to admit that we were powerless over the addict and that
our lives had become unmanageable. This was a crucial point in
the recovery of the family. This was formalized in a meeting
with Jenny, her councelor, and ourselves. We went over the
list with Jenny and admitted we were powerless over her, but
that we also meant to change our lives and get something for
ourselves regardless of her recovery. Her reaction was one of
anger, but under the councellor's questioning she admitted
that it hurt less to be angry at us then to face what she had
done. As she sobbingly accepted our feelings and told us of
her remorse we drew much closer together in our mutual
concern. Louise and I, as we left the treatment center that
night, both admitted that we were greatly relieved and looked
forward to an improved life for ourselves.
Going into the program the next day we looked forward to
joining our extended family, which is how we regarded the
other parents, residents, and staff. It was hard to believe
the depth of experience and the change in outlook that we had
accomplished in just two days. We had more hard work to do,
but it felt good and represented growth. We covered such
topics as communication skills; regrets, resentments and
appreciations; symptoms leading to relapse; aftercare, AA and
Alanon; and a contract with the addict. These subjects were
covered in both discussion groups and movies and were
interspersed with group therapy sessions. We really came to
appreciate the group sessions because of the powerful way that
it dealt with problems. It was far more effective than any of
the more passive techniques. It made the difference between
intellectually understanding a point and making it a part of
yourself. Surprisingly, it was almost as effective when
someone else was working as when you were.
The highlight of the last day was a four hour pass for
our daughter into the nearest major community. The two things
she wanted to do were to go Christmas shopping (she got
herself more coloring books, too) and go to a pizza parlor.
After delivering her back to the treatment center we came back
to the other world of fogged in airports and snowy passes, but
got back to Seattle late the next day.
Afterward:
This first treatment of 6 weeks was not enough and Jenny
went back to drugs early the following spring. Then back into
treatment again at a treatment center for women in Seattle.
This didn't last either, but Louise and I were working with a
very experienced councilor and we had made plans and reserved
a spot for her in a very good treatment center in Colorado.
The next time she called for help Louise kept her on the phone
while I made a mad dash to South Seattle and collected her
from a phone booth in the small hours of the morning. We gave
her antihistamines to keep her drowsy until she and I could
leave Seattle by air for Denver. I rented a car and we drove
to Clearview (through a small snowstorm). She was suffering
from withdrawal (and I was suffering from exhaustion) by the
time we got there and I checked her in . This was an extended
stay of many months, but we did have one long weekend visit
with her.
She has now been off drugs for almost 5 years, is happily
married, and has 2 beautiful daughters. She has also gotten
her high school diploma and is taking courses at a Seattle
Community College.
==============================================================
A TRIP TO AUSTRALIA
OR: I CAME, I SAW, I STAYED
by Lotte Evans
Nineteen fifty-six was a rather momentuous year for me. I had come from
England where I spent a couple of fun-filled years working in a Cotton Mill in
Lancashire and I felt rather good being back in Vienna. I mean hey, anybody
would feel good being in Vienna, especially after working in a Mill. So there
I was enjoying myself when my younger sister informed me that she and her
husband were planning to emigrate to Australia.
My initial reaction was sort of, good on you, enjoy yourself and send me a
postcard. She looked at me in a speculative way and said, "Why dont you come
along?" That's when I uttered the immortal phrase "you must be kidding, me go
to that snake pit?" Shows what an ignorant person I was, as the sum total of
my knowledge about Australia was that is was the smallest continent with a lot
of different snakes, all of them poisonous.
Ilsa, my sister, and her husband Eric put in their application to emigrate
and kept telling me what a great life they were planning when they got to
Australia. But I was hard and did not take any notice. My plan was either to
go back to England, but only if I could get a job in or around London. Or if
that wasn't possible I rather fancied Paris. Alas, the only jobs available
for foreigners in London or Paris were for domestics. My mother found the
idea of me working as a domestic excruciatingly funny. I found her heartless
laughter and her "you, ha ha ha, doing housework, ha ha ha" rather painful.
But I had to admit that she was right. I mean a person who likes to take it
easy, read lots of books and spend two or three evenings a week going to the
theatre or the opera is not exactly cut out for a life of servitude.
Ilsa kept working away on my resistance for a couple of months with daily
statements like: "You know you dont like the winter, and Australia is a lovely
country full of sunshine" or "the salaries are not bad at all, you can save
and travel around the country." She developed a technique something similiar
to Chinese Water Torture: drip "its great out there" drip "lots of open
spaces" drip. After more and more drips of a similiar nature, I began to
weaken.
I started to think how it would be if I go to Australia first, see what sort
of a country it is, get naturalized, and then go and live in London. (Of
course that sort of sentence asks for the next one to start: "But little did I
realise..." But don't worry I shan't do that).
Now after this preamble let's get down to the nitty gritty. I got my
application form, duly filled it in, got an appointment to attend a medical
and nearly changed my mind about the whole business. This was based on my
hearty dislike of the first Australian I ever met, who was the doctor who took
my blood pressure. Actually he was quite good looking in that famous
sun-bronzed Aussie fashion. But when the nurse said "please look the other
way, doctor does not like it if the patients breathe on him," I thought, if
they are all such stupid (expletive deleted) over there I would rather stay at
home.
Fortunately the gentleman who interviewed me was quite charming and we hit it
off really well. He even congratulated me on my lovely Lancashire accent. (A
little flattery goes a long way with me.)
After I had been accepted I got rather busy reading up on Australia,
(especially about the snake situation). I also dilligently read all the
handouts which came with my acceptance. One of them described the Australian
accent as Cockney English, which later experience proved totally untrue. I
also got busy getting my trunk packed and all the other fun things necessary
(like quite a few vaccinations) if you plan to leave your home for what I
thought would be a stay of 5-6 years. I also talked my best friend into
coming with me. My sister and her husband had left six weeks before me and I
didnt really fancy travelling for a month on a ship all on my own.
After a stay in a depressing camp formerly used for displaced persons, we
travelled by train to Trieste, where we embarked on the good ship Aurelia.
There were approximately 1200 people on board, mainly Italians and
approximately 350 Austrians consisting of married couples with children, a
hundred single men and around twenty or so single girls. Now I know what you
all think at this point of my story, wow, what a good time she must have had!
Well, it wasn't at all like that. The food on board was so dreadful and there
was little of it, that one's favourite dream was not of romance but of a
decent meal.
To top it all off, shipboard life was so boring. A typical day started of with
a miniscule breakfast, after which one had to fight to get a shower. This was
because the Italians were constantly washing their clothes, which they did in
the shower cubicles. After this refreshing tussle the group I was friendly
with congregated on deck and thought of lunch. All I remember of that
was that there were no vegetables, only some pickled salad and some rather
sour wine.
For entertainment there was the music coming over the loud speakers, featuring
a rather small assortment of records. Some of the favourites were the
Rock-n-roll waltz, the Great Pretender and the best of them all was some
German ditty on Heimwehe (Homesickness). Ah, the sweet remembrance of it all.
Oh yes, there was also a swimming pool, where we spend most of our waking
moments. Did you know thinking of food and swimming makes you even more
hungry?
Around the pool the Italian mothers sat giving us disapproving looks because
of showing off so much of our bodies. Whilst we gave them dirty looks in
return because they were breast feeding and showing off their bosoms.
A terrific storm was another of the trip's highlights. Luckily I did not get
seasick. The bad weather lasted for three days, practically all of which I
spent on deck with other hardy souls. You see, there was a lot of wailing,
gnashing of teeth and throwing up below deck.
After four weeks of this fun and frolic we arrived in Freemantle, our first
port of call in Australia. We were supposed to stay there only overnight.
That was before inspectors found out that all the lifeboats were unseaworthy
and had to be repaired before we could sail to Melbourne.
Every evening the happy little boat repairers rested up from their toils in
the bar till all hours telling the boys about the great life in Australia and
showing them their pay packets. That was in the days when the pubs in
Australia closed at 6 p.m. This law did not apply to the ships bar, and some
of those workmen made good use of the freedom to drink till all hours, and
incidentally telling tall tales about life in the Australian Bush. They rather
enjoyed their spellbound audience.
Freemantle is close to Perth, the capital of Western Australia. We managed to
scratch the fare together to do a spot of sightseeing in Perth. I can't
remember a lot about this. I guess we were rather impatient to get to
Melbourne and sink our teeth into some of these steaks the boatbuilders were
boasting about. After seven days in Freemantle it took us another week to get
to our final destination.
I arrived in Melbourne on the 5th August 1956, hale and hearty, with my
trunkful of worldly goods and threepence in my pocket, little knowing that
within three months I would be married to one of those sun-bronzed Aussies
and not see Vienna again until 1983. But that, as they say, is another
story.
========================================================================
What Did You Call Me?
Or: My Mother Didn't Raise Her Boy To Be A Senior Citizen!
by Sam Weissman
I was surprised to find, when I passed 50 years of age, that in addition to
some physical changes, I was awarded a title. No, nothing like Royalty, or
professional distinction, but rather a symbolic name tag pinned on my chest.
I couldn't read it, but everyone else seemed to be able to. From what I
heard said, I found that I was no longer just an ordinary adult with
falling hair and expanding waist line, but rather a "Senior Citizen"!
Some people, seemingly with more imagination changed it to "Golden Ager".
After doing some research on that odd combination of words, I
gathered that what they intended them to mean was that I was entering
a wonderfully new era in my life. That surprised me as I still had fallen
arches, puffed when going up stairs, and found it difficult to bend
down and tie my shoelaces.
I found it puzzling as to why others felt called upon to burden me with
odd names just because I had passed a certain birthday. I thought
about it for a long time and finally came to the conclusion that they
were offering me a distinction of some sort. Why? Just because I now
have grey hair? It couldn't be tied to the quantity of said hair, because
I am sadly lacking on that score. I did a mirror test and the results
were disillusioning, but I was never a great beauty to begin with. The
bottom line seemed to be that I am just an adult who has matured.
So, in order to set matters straight, I have started to wear a name tag,
an actual one. It shows my real name, lack of rank, and social
security number. Whenever any one starts to open his mouth to label
me with those fancy tags, I just turn off my hearing aid!
Another thing that surprised me about this aging process (you see, I
have been brainwashed! Otherwise where did I pick up that "aging
process"?), is my discovery that my group is being investigated?
Yes, investigated! But, mind you, it is all very scientific and is
called "Geriatric Research". Sociologists seem to be very interested
in finding out what makes "us" (there it goes, an exclusionary tag)
tick.
We (get used to it) are supposed to be a special catagory of human
beings, along with criminal types, the disabled, and the mentally
incompetent, that merit intensive academic study so that we may be
"understood", and our "special needs" catered to.
I have been in favor of science, and its advancement, but I find
myself rebelling at the thought of the next sociologist I meet looking
at me as if I was a specimen under a microscope. Luckily I don't
happen to know any sociologists. I do however, intend to write to
one of their learned journals and tell them to bug off! I just want
to live my "aging" life as normally as possible thank you.
I will conclude (yes, it was bound to happen), by making a confession.
An evidence of my weakness, and lack of character; but I will just
blurt it out. I get a warm, emotional high when my granddaughters
call me "Grandpa". Now that its out in the open, what a relief!
Grandpa Sam.
===============================================================
end cybersenior.1.3
