A colleague once found himself committed to the locked alcoholism ward at Advocate Lutheran General Hospital in Park Ridge. Though we were not friends, I decided, being a sort of self-designated official greeter for recovery, it might be a fine thing were I to visit him there.
Lutheran General is where Elton John got sober. If you ever saw “Rocketman,” it’s amusing to contrast the place as it appears in the film — arched hallways, Roman columns, brass sconces — to the dated, sprawling facility on Dempster. No self-playing grand piano noodling in the lobby, no life-size fiberglass whale hanging from the ceiling, none of the other fripperies found in the finer downtown or North Shore medical establishments.
Arriving, I got the sense there wasn’t a conga line of visitors. Finally I found someone to let me in, show me a locker to stash my possessions — a strategy to cut down on visitors passing booze to residents — and eventually was ushered into my co-worker’s room.
He wasn’t in shape to receive company — restrained, with wide leather cuffs strapped to his wrists and ankles. I settled myself into a chair, radiating what I hoped was cheerful solicitude. He looked at me and started talking incoherently, a babble of nonsense syllables. I nodded, eyes wide, for 10 minutes or so before I decided I’d done my duty and fled.
This episode came to mind when I asked my wife if she intends to watch the presidential inauguration, and she said she probably couldn’t bear it. I said that I feel obligated to. Duty-bound.
There is a value in showing up, bearing witness, being there, if not to the person being visited, then to the person doing the visiting. I doubt very much my few minutes in Park Ridge registered on the booze-shattered psyche of my former colleague. But it certainly stuck with me, on of those little helpful reminders that as refreshing as a big glass of Jack Daniels on the rocks might seem at any given moment, best to stay on the path instead. Avoid the ditch.
That’s why, even though everything I’ve written over the past decade, taken together, has not diverted the country from its running plunge into the abyss, I still feel the need to pay attention, through latticed fingers, and offer occasional commentary — not for the nation’s benefit, but mine. And maybe yours too.
Actually, a program I’m familiar with offers a variety of tips that might prove helpful to us in enduring what is to come. Over my desk is a plaque that reads, “One Day at a Time” and that is helpful, today being all we have.
Then there is the escape of rote activities. When I went into rehab — 20 years ago this fall, my the time does fly — I think I spent five days cleaning the basement. I remember sweeping a line of fine gray dust across the concrete floor and thinking: This is very zen. Like being in a monastery. I easily have four years worth of deferred household chores, if not 40, Now is the perfect opportunity.
Not that you shouldn’t do whatever you can think of to put yourself between the cliff’s edge and the nation hurtling toward it. Protest, write, contribute, complain. And there is a value, maybe even a nobility, to making an effort you know is utterly futile. Remember: you’re not doing it for them; you’re doing it for you.
“We don’t want to be sunshine patriots,” I told my wife. If you love a person — or a country — you don’t stop loving them just because they’re screwing up their lives. You try, knowing there is nothing you can do, and you are there, to share their tragedy.
Otherwise, find a hobby. I had my first class of 102 Methods of Mortise and Tenon Joinery at the Chicago School of Woodworking Monday night. “Two and a half hours of sheer terror,” is how I described it. Not that the class wasn’t well-run and completely professional. It was. But it also involved operating enormous power tools that require a lot of focus.
I’ll tell you one thing. When I was pushing boards through a jointer, doing my level-best to make sure I didn’t jam my fingers into the spinning blade, I wasn’t worried about the prospect of ruinous tariffs or vengeful, self-destructive immigration policies. There is something to be said for that. I may not need the end table I’m building, but I sure do need to build it. After class was over, I was exhilarated, having made it through intact.
As we all will be one fine day. Though not anytime soon.