My Friend Michael Is Dying

To be honest, I’m not even sure what he’s dying from, which makes helping him that much more difficult. It may be cancer, or it may be that his disease of addiction has finally sped up his demise…from cirrhosis or whatever else a body does when it’s had enough. And, given the fragmented systems of services, finding out what’s happening to him has been difficult, at best. I’ve tried to get him help…from health care to home care…but the barriers have been insurmountable, phone call after phone call, hurdle after hurdle. I know this system, and I feel defeated by it. Imagine Michael or anyone else in his situation, having any chronic, progressive, lethal disease and not knowing where to turn for assistance.

I’ve known Michael for over forty years. He moved into my neighborhood when both of us were going into fifth grade, and from day one he was smart and kind – probably the smartest, kindest person I had ever met. I’m not sure how other people hang onto childhood friends; I just know that I collect people. And Michael is part of my collection.

Once we reached high-school-age, we rode to school together, Michael driving and the two of us exchanging very few words on the way, the way we both liked it. That’s when Michael started slipping away. I’m not going to pretend that my sixteen-year-old self knew exactly what was going on, but I knew what addiction looked like, and I knew it had a hold on Michael.

One of my characteristics, likely from growing up as a child of addiction, is that I’m loyal to a fault. I collect people and never let them go. So, sure, we lost track of one another, but when we saw each other again, the intervening years faded away. Then more years would go by, and we’d see each other again.

I knew that Michael struggled with the disease of addiction, but I also knew that he was working; in a long-term, committed relationship; taking care of his family; and getting by. I knew, too, that he’d had at least one period of abstinence, albeit short-lived.

And then recently – out of the blue – he contacted me for help. Everything had come to a head about three months earlier, when he’d been diagnosed with emphysema and chronic bronchitis after a stay in the hospital. These conditions were on top of the COPD that he’d been diagnosed with already. He was now required to use oxygen 24/7. Until this point, he’d been gainfully employed. That job went out the window. And with that went income, insurance, peace of mind, and dignity. He was trying to ensure that he could still care for his children and wife, but the hoops he needed to clear were virtually impossible. They were the needle in a haystack. And he was expected to manage them while intoxicated. No, of course no one actually expected him to be drunk; they just didn’t realize that he would be.

At this point, Michael is on oxygen, smoking cigarettes, and drinking vodka by the glassful. He knows he shouldn’t be. He’s been prescribed meds to cut the cravings, but he just can’t stop. He says he’s drinking a half-pint a day. I’m not the one purchasing it, so I don’t know how much is really being consumed. I DO know that the total is usually the stated amount times three, so I wouldn’t be surprised if he’s drinking more like a pint and a half a day. I may get him to use a breathalyzer, but I’m actually a little afraid to do that. When I first saw him again, I figured his blood alcohol content (BAC) was probably around .12; the more time I spend with him, though, the higher my estimate goes. Today, after spending more time with him, I’d be shocked if he’s not consistently at a .2 — or maybe even higher.

I’m not looking for pity for Michael or myself. I know that there’s far too little understanding to go around. People don’t realize that addiction is a chronic, progressive, lethal disease and that no one chooses to be addicted. It would be nice if more people understood because then maybe Michael would get the help he needs without the phone call shuffle. But the truth is, I doubt that’s true.

And so here we are. Michael is entrapped in a system of healthcare and social services that care very little about him, wanting, instead, to lay blame for his addiction and pass the buck to another entity to deal with him because of that addiction. He’s expected to be his own advocate, which was difficult for him in the best of times because he’s not a person who asks for help. Now that he needs support, he has no idea where to turn nor what to ask for or expect. And in that, Michael is no different than you or I.

OK — truth be told: I did think he was different than I am. I worked in the world of social services; I thought I would be able to navigate through the systems easily for his benefit, but I was wrong. I’ve visited offices, made phone calls, contacted supervisors, and tried to take him to appointments. And I’m banging my head against a wall; I’m sad, frustrated, angry, overwhelmed. And I’m not dying. I don’t suffer from the disease of addiction. It’s unlikely that I have cancer. I don’t have emphysema, chronic bronchitis, nor COPD. I have health insurance. I have income. I have no worries at all.

Except my friend Michael is dying.