The Phone Call

Chapter 1

In Training
The phone rang only once before I bolted up and slid over my husband’s body to pick it up. It was a little after 2 a.m. and I couldn't remember if he was on call or not. Either way, best if I don’t wake him.

“Is this Cory Kaiser” the voice on the other end asked, somewhat doubtful he would get a positive response? Cory Gould now, but yes, I am Cory Kaiser. “This is doctor…, “ I couldn't hear what he said his name was but I was certain whatever he had to tell me would force me out of bed. "We have a patient here who has your name and number in his wallet. He also has a few drivers' licenses. I doubt any of them are his. He’s unresponsive”. “What are the names on the licenses?” A pause, an audible sigh and he rattled off 4 names. “Listen” he said, “none of the dates of birth match the person lying on this stretcher….you understand?” I understood. “I can be there in an hour”

Who else could it be but my father? The phone call I had waited 35 years for was not what I expected but it was, after all, a phone call. The words were never spoken but I believe the doctor knew I was hoping he could keep him alive until I got there. In any event, he was alive…sort of. I stared down at a man who was unrecognizable as the man I once knew but I knew he was my father.

There was no peace in my house growing up, only fighting, screaming, hitting, crying, dishes flying, and phones being pulled out of walls. There was always ice and amber liquid in a glass, the pervasive sight and smell of cigarette smoke and the distinct smell of the mixture of the two.

Every aspect of life was fought over. The days and nights were filled with a crescendo of fighting followed by time spent cleaning up the mess. My mothers begging and pleading; my father’s incoherent, incomprehensible thundering in his drunken madness. Every night and every day, no breaks from it, at least not until closer to the time my father walked out. I look back now and wonder how any of us survived.

Any time spent alone with my father could end up in disaster. Even going to the supermarket could turn into a surreal nightmare of being left alone with a sea of strangers. The reason for the trip to the market would always be the same. No milk. No eggs, no juice. After the blow up over why there was no milk or whatever, my mother would beg my father not to go because he was too drunk. He would laugh, say something horribly cruel, grab the keys and I would beg him to take me. Only the first few times were terrifying. Eventually, even at a young age, my ability to maneuver myself around and keep safe became very well developed.

But the first time was serious business. No seat belts back then; just his big hand whipping in front of my tiny body to keep me from flying into the dashboard as he would run the stop sign at the bottom of our street. Only once his hand didn't harness me to the seat fast enough and I got a fat lip. Other then that time, considering his condition, he was remarkably good at it. It is a habit I picked up that my kids find quite hilarious because they are always strapped in tight. But thinking back to those times, I still can’t figure out what, exactly, I felt. Was it scary? I do not remember feeling scared. Was it exciting? I am not sure till this day what I felt. Whatever it was became a sensation I would have to reconcile later in life.

The supermarket was moderately busy. As always, I was so excited to be there with my dad and was hoping I would be able to talk him into buying me a coloring book. It was always easier talking him into buying me presents then it was my mom. She was too practical.
I walked close by my dad’s side, always looking up at him and feeling so happy when he would look down at me, smile, pat my head, call me "killer" and mess up my hair. Sometimes he would pick me up and carry me for while. I loved being up there. He got what we needed and a few things we didn’t and headed for the cashier.

I’m not sure when he left the store but in my mind he simply disappeared, like in a magic act. One second he was there, the next second he was gone. Afraid to move too far away from the shopping cart I tried my best to stretch, stand on my tip toes and look for him. A cart pushed in behind me completely blocking my view.

I don’t know if what I experienced was called panic but if it was not actually panic, it was a close relative. I could hear my heart pounding in my ears. It was impossible to hear what anyone around me was saying. My legs became very weak and I had to work hard to keep from buckling. I was 5, almost 5 anyway. It was February and I would turn 5 in June. I remember it was February because soon after this incident my mom gave birth to my sister whose birthday is February 28th.

Ultimately, I told someone I could not find my dad. “Oh, don’t you worry sweetie, I’m sure he went to get something he forgot”. It actually never even occurred to me that was the case. I knew he was no longer in the store. I’m not sure how I knew, but I knew.

From my perspective, all I could see were people’s coats and their shoes. Lot’s of movement. Lot’s of muffled noise. The emotions and sensations I was experiencing were so overwhelming. It was hard to speak. I felt like I was being choked. There were plenty of tears.

I’m not sure how long I was standing there before someone knelt down and asked me why I was crying. "I want to go home". I remember saying that, very deliberate, very slowly because it was hard to push the words out, “I want……to…go……home.” A woman was kind and brought me to the store manager. A few questions, a phone call and my mom was there to pick me up. We only lived a half mile away but I had no sense of that.

I learned much later that my dad went to the bar across the street. The store manager got to know me. The supermarket scene played out a few more times before my mom stopped letting me go. I would have kept going. There was an excitement about being with my father that was hard to explain and my ability to manage in ridiculous situations became a tremendous source of pride.

Unfortunately, things got a lot worse before they got better because that is what happens when there is an alcoholic in the house. Initially, there were always apologies after an egregious act, sometimes even a gift. In time, that stopped. Whether it was subtle or not so subtle, my fathers' spiral down hill was uncontrollable. The scenarios of being ditched or being forced to find rescue continued until my father left in the summer of 1967. I was 12 and I was devastated.

Conventional wisdom would lead you to believe that I would have or should have, been grateful and relieved when my father left but that was simply not the case, far from it. I was deeply anguished and lost. So much of my life revolved around him. There was a huge void. And when he left, he really left. We did not hear from him for years, nothing, not even a phone call. But that did not stop me from waiting for one. For many years I waited, staring at the phone; jumping when it rang only to be disappointed when I picked it up and would hear someone else’s voice on the other end. In the beginning, I was so disoriented, I would just hang up or put the phone down without so much as a reply. Just because the major source of trouble left didn't mean our troubles were over. Quite the contrary, in many ways, they were just beginning. With my dad in the house, how could any of us have any problems? He had enough for everyone. We had them of course, but who could tell? Who could possibly even notice?

From that evening in the supermarket until the summer of 1967, there were 6 very eventful years. Years that would hone certain traits; some good, some bad and some ugly. There was no escaping the damage.

Despite all his craziness, my father managed to do some unbelievable things. In the summer of 1962, he bought a boat. Hard to imagine for a million reasons but it was just this type of thing that made our family look so ideal and actually enviable, to the outside world. Over the next five years, he would buy three boats, trading each one in for a bigger model. The last was a 38 foot Chris Craft Commander. After my parents divorced, my mother would spend the next 10 years paying off the debt my father accumulated. We even owed the Good Humor Man $220.00 and in 1967 that was a lot of money. My father was very flashy. He would buy ice cream for all the kids in the neighborhood. It was bedlam on our street when the ice cream truck came around and my dad was home. People still talk about it. The money was the least of it.

There were many occasions my dad simply forgot I was still swimming off the back of the boat. He would lift anchor and start the engine. I’d be flailing my skinny arms around madly trying to get his or my mothers' attention before I’d surely drown from the boats engine churning up the water around me or worse, I’d be chopped to pieces by the propellers spinning below me (those propellers loomed heavy on my mind). My desperate wailing was no match for the battle going on on board but somehow the engine would shut and an arm would reach down and pull my slippery and exhausted little body out of the water. I became quite the swimmer. It was usually the occupants of a neighboring boat that would get my parents attention. I can’t even imagine what those people were thinking after they would get a wave or thumbs-up sign and "thanks - got 'er" shouted across the water. Anyway, I caught on quick – never swim astern.

We kept our boat in Cos Cob, Connecticut. You can see the marina down on the right as you drive by exit 4 heading North on Interstate 95. The marina is situated on the Mianus River, near a draw bridge. There are 7 openings under the bridge. Only one is navigable and can handle a deep draft and keel of a large boat. Amongst local boaters, it’s common knowledge and although not well marked, it's marked. The fact is, my dad knew the right passage. I knew it. In retrospect, that he only missed it once was a miracle. But the day he missed it was not a good day and it would be the last day he would be out on the water with me on board. It was just the two of us that afternoon. It was low tide, overcast and drizzling. “Daddy, you’re heading towards the wrong opening”. We were on our way back in and he was in no condition to be driving the boat; something I could only recognize when I looked back as an adult. There was some sort of conversation between us but whatever was said did not really matter. We ran aground very close to one of the support columns of the bridge and near a set of rocks. I took the boat hook, a long telescoping pole we use to pull into our slip, and tried to push us off the silty bottom. No luck. The radio was broken (it would get the same treatment as our house phone). The solution to this problem was simple. I had to swim to the marina.

I was a very good swimmer, perfectly capable of making it in. My father was aware of that but I did not want to do it. The cold air made the water feel warmer then, in all probability, it was. The only scary part was being in the water so close to the support column. Water around a bridge is disgusting. Green algae, big seaweed, rust, litter and oil are nothing you want to be submerged in. Water around a marina is equally if not more disgusting because you have the added feathers and dead fish that always seem to be floating around. In some spots, I could touch the bottom – ech –awful! The swim to the marina was dedicated to thinking about how I was going to handle getting help. I was 9 and could handle myself in a lot of crazy situations but this seemed challenging. The problem wasn’t asking for help. “We ran aground near the rocks and we need a tow”. How was I going to explain getting to the marina? What do I say? “My dad made me swim here”. I would never say that. I hoisted myself up onto the dock, leaned back over and threw up. I picked little pieces of seaweed out of my hair and off of my very scrawny body and walked toward the marina’s store. I stared at my reflection in the push-letter sign (coke .25, Bait .35) and walked in. I’m sure I was quite the sight. Whatever I said got the job done. I went with one of the young launch workers to our boat. My dad threw him a rope he had tied to one of the fender locks near the bow and we were pulled free. By the way, no one ever asked how I got to the marina – thank God!

Although very few, there were sweet moments with my dad that revolved around the boat. Most of those moments took place on dry land. On occasion, he would take me to the marina and we would get a big bucket of steamers. I knew he was so proud that I loved them and was very proficient at eating them; opening them up, pulling them out of the shell, sliding off the wrinkled black membrane, dipping them in the salty water then into the melted butter and popping them in my mouth. Yummy! He would open the back of the station-wagon, pick me up and sit me on the hanging door, look down at me, smile, call me "killer" and mess up my hair. We would finish the whole bucket. The seagulls would be hovering around us and I remember wanting that moment to last forever. *In a healing process that took more then a decade, this memory would be vital.

The Year of Living with Disulfiram:
Better known as Antabuse, it was the first medication approved by the FDA for the treatment of alcohol dependence. What it is; a cruel joke played on families of alcoholics. It was discovered by accident in 1948 by researchers Erik Jacobsen, Jens Hald, and Keneth Ferguson at the Danish drug company, Medicinalco. The drug was intended to treat parasitic infections but an interesting thing happened when the researchers tested it on themselves and then went home and had a drink; they felt really sick. Fortunately, they all had the same habit of having a drink at night so they quickly came to the right conclusion; disulfiram and alcohol don’t mix. It works by interfering with the way our body metabolizes alcohol. When we consume alcohol, it is metabolized into acetaldehyde, a flammable, organic and very toxic chemical that in large amounts causes what we experience as a hangover. The body continues to metabolize (oxidize) the acetaldehyde into acetic acid which is harmless and your hangover dissipates. When Antabuse is taken, the ‘oxidation into acetic acid’ process doesn’t happen and guess what? A hangover takes on a whole new meaning and it does not go away so fast. In addition, even if the person stops taking it, Antabuse is absorbed through the gut extremely slowly and can last for up to two weeks in the body. If you continue to drink (and all alcoholics do) there will be a build up of acetaldehyde ten times greater then would normally occur and symptoms of a hangover will precipitously, increase. The results are not pretty.

"Antabuse makes drinking unpleasant". That is one of the great understatements. The unpleasant effects include; projectile vomiting, profuse sweating, difficulty breathing, extreme thirst, flushing, severe headache, chest pain, weakness, trembling, dizziness, blurred vision and confusion.Yes, very unpleasant to say the least. The idea (the hope) is that this severe adverse reaction will keep a person from consuming alcohol; a type of aversion therapy. I don’t think the success rate is too impressive and clearly, it had no effect, what-so-ever on my fathers drinking. It did however, have a huge effect on the rest of us. You would be amazed at how much vomiting that tiny little pill can cause; stunning, really. It also creates endless opportunities for embarrassment. The Antabuse period of our lives was short lived but it was memorable. So much time and effort was put into trying to get my father to take something that made our lives so much more difficult than it already was. It was hope against hope that somehow that little white pill was going to solve our problems.

It's hard to imagine how it all happens, how it can get so bad. It was so insidious. One bad night seemed to lead into a bad day and before you knew it, like wildfire, we were consumed. Life became dedicated to dealing with and managing someone who was incapable of managing themselves. To make matters worse, there was the constant manufacturing of stories to explain away what was going on. The amazing thing; we were fairly successful at it. No one knew how bad it was and compounding our problem was this constant covering up created a distorted sense of reality. The question that begs to be asked; "What happens when you grow up in an environment where your sanctuary is chaos?" I'm gonna get to that.

The Good and the Funny:
My dad thought he was Eroll Flynn.
To be continued....


*I consider my healing a life-long journey. I'm referring to getting help and stopping the insanity that was inevitable from growing up in a household like mine.