ARE YOU VERTICAL?

A story by Rich Lampe

Rich recently found and read the following story to me.  He wrote it years ago when taking one of my writing classes.  I have struggled to put together a BLOG or even a newsletter this year, as things are very difficult for me as I enter year number 5 of being a full-time caregiver for Rich. Due to his many illnesses, I often feel I am the one holding our lives together and sometimes the burden seems overwhelming.  This story brought back happier memories of how we first started our journey in life together in 1988.  Due to Rich’s heart problems, we were told he could die at any time but this year in June, we celebrated 37 years together!  Below is the story Rich wrote.

Windshield wipers flap and screech in an annoying way.  Salty road spray streaks headlights obscuring darkened streets.  Another cold bleak evening matches my mood.  I need someone to talk with, someone who really understands me.  It’s been three weeks since I left home in St. Louis.  I was shocked to lose my job as vice-president of an engineering firm right after my divorce. My new job here in Rochester, New York, is not what I expected, but at fifty-three, I am fortunate to have it.  The weather has been dismal—snow and slush since I arrived.  My Alcoholic Anonymous sponsor in St. Louis urged me to find a sponsor right away.  He said, “Pick a man with an attitude that you’d want—one experienced in working the AA twelve step program.”  I must find an AA sponsor tonight.

I hope that chubby little gray-haired man with a rosy smile will be at the meeting.  I will ask him to be my sponsor.  I’ve seen him at AA meetings and also at an Al-Anon meeting.  I suspect he is in both programs, like me.  I’ve heard him talk at meetings.  He knows both programs and simply says what works for him, usually with a humorist twist.  He doesn’t preach.  I like that.  He appears genuinely happy with himself even though he is very poor.  I don’t think he has a car.  Someone brings him to meetings.  He looks to be in his mid-sixties about ten years older than me.  I love how he loves himself and everyone.  He focuses on who he is talking with and beams each time he causes them to smile.  At meetings, everyone enjoys discussing life experiences with him.  He makes us laugh at ourselves.  I hope I don’t have the same problem getting a sponsor here as I had in St. Louis.  That took me a couple of tries. I chose a very popular man.  He politely told me, “I won’t sponsor you, because I already sponsor several men and won’t have the time to give you proper attention.”  I understood this logic but was dreadfully disappointed.

I’ve been in Al-Anon two years and in AA a little over a year and know how valuable a sponsor is to stay sane and work a good twelve step program.  I finished my fourth and fifth step before leaving St. Louis and now want to complete the remaining seven.

I am lucky tonight.  I find a parking place close to the church basement door so I don’t have to tromp through slush and snow to enter the Irregulars AA meeting.  On the entry landing I smell coffee perking and hear the chatter of voices drifting up the steps.  A greeter welcomes me and points to the coffee pot and a few vacant chairs.  I take a seat on a wooden folding chair in the back row cradling my hot coffee.  I look around, pleased to be in this warm place out of the chilly weather.  The windowless basement room is brightly lit with fluorescent fixtures.  The walls and ceiling are painted a pleasant light tan, partially hiding the plumbing and heating water pipes.  I estimate thirty men and women are present.

A man at the front table calls out, “Warren, can I get you some coffee before we start?”  I gasp in amazement.  That’s the man I want to be my sponsor.  His name is Warren and he will be tonight’s speaker!  I’ll get to hear his story of how he got here.  After the opening readings and serenity prayer, Warren started his account of what he was like, what changed, and how he is now.

He begins, “I drank too much.  Didn’t know it and didn’t want to stop or couldn’t stop.  I lost everything: my health, my job, my wife, and my children.  I was so terrible that after years of sobriety, my family still doesn’t speak to me or even recognize I’m alive. I had NO friends.  I lived wherever I could and just drank. 

“Two men from AA visited me one morning, saying they would take me to a meeting that evening where I would learn to feel better.  I asked for a drink.  I was sick and didn’t care what they said as long as they gave me a drink, and they did. That evening, they returned and said they were taking me to an AA meeting.

“I said, ‘I don’t want to be seen by anybody.’ They offered me another drink to lift my spirits, and I went with them.  At that meeting, through my numbness, I saw men who said they were alcoholics, much like me, but they looked healthy and prosperous. They spoke of their drinking life---it was as if they were talking about me.  They described exactly how I felt.  What I remember from that meeting was Don’t Drink and Keep Coming Back and It will Get Better.  That was the first spark of hope I’d had in years of misery thinking I would die, but not.”

Warren continued by saying he didn’t hear much of the speaker at that first meeting he attended but was amazed at the men who once were where he was but now had good health, jobs, a car, and a place to live.  After the meeting, he said many offered the same advice, Don’t Drink but Keep Coming Back.  The first part he couldn’t understand, but the second seemed a good alternative to what he was doing.  Warren said he no longer remembered the man’s name who took him to the meeting, so he called him Michael, like the angel.  When he dropped Warren off where he was staying, they agreed to attend a meeting the next night.  His last remark was Don’t Drink and Go to Meetings. Warren said he had a fidgety, sleepless night.  He drank early the next morning and throughout the day but kept wondering how those men who were drunks like him got so well. How could they stop drinking?  He said, “I had a temporary job that afternoon and was out of booze when Michael came for me.  He didn’t offer me a drink.  I felt terrible. My head, my stomach, my whole body ached.  I didn’t ask for a drink.  I remember him saying Don’t Drink and Go to Meetings.  At the meeting, I nursed my hot coffee and heard there are twelve steps to getting well. Do it One Day at a Time.”

Warren beamed then and said, “I have not had a drink since then.  My life is much better.  I enjoy where I am now more than wherever I have been before.  I love myself and all of you here.  Don’t Drink, Go To Meetings and Work the Steps.”

He concluded with, “I would like all present to talk on the topic of gratitude.”

As I listened to Warren, my stomach soured.  I was not grateful.  I was alone in Rochester far away from my children and friends, with an unfamiliar job I didn’t like, and a dubious future.  I felt resentful as others spoke with passion about how grateful they were for this and that.  I concluded that I was not grateful and was not going to talk.  The only thing I might be grateful for was Warren, if he agreed to be my sponsor.  But I feared he sponsored too many to take me on.  I just wanted the meeting to end so I could talk to Warren but it seemed everyone wanted to talk about their great gratitude.  Finally, a woman at the head table concluded the meeting and led everyone in reciting the serenity prayer.  I moved from the back row toward Warren, now surrounded by friends talking to him.  I would have to wait until they left to privately ask him to be my sponsor.

I finally get close to Warren when a man standing at the front table called out, “Hey!  Everyone, a group of us go to the diner after this meeting.  You are all invited to join us.”

My heart sank.  In a large group, how could I ask him to sponsor me?

At that moment, I blurted out, “Warren, I really need a sponsor.” He turned, looked at me quizzically for a long few moments. 

Then he smiled and asked, “What is your name?”

“Rich,” I replied.

“Rich,” Warren said.  “Could you go for some pie and coffee?  I know a place nearby where we can talk undisturbed, and they have chocolate peanut butter pie.”

I nodded yes and said I would drive.  At the small neighborhood restaurant, Warren gave me more details of his life before and after AA.  He agreed to sponsor me on one condition.  I must call him every day.  I sighed with relief.  He would be a great sponsor and I knew calling him every day was a brilliant way to keep me focused.

I did call Warren every day, usually with a glowing summary of my day.  The conversation would go like this:  “Hi Warren.  This is Rich.’”

“Hi Rich.  How are you?”

“I’m fine, had a pretty good day.”

“How did things go at work?”

“Work was fine.”

“How is your big project coming?”

“It’s all right, a few problems to resolve, but it will be fine.”

“Going to the meeting tonight?”

“Yes. Would you like a ride?’’

“I would appreciate that.  If you can pick me up at 6:30, we’ll have time before the meeting to discuss your day.  Remember. . .”

“I know. . .Don’t Drink and Go to Meetings.  I’ll be there at 6:30.”

My daily calls to Warren became routine.  I had a friend who really understood me.  As my AA sponsor, Warren made a big improvement in the way I looked at my life.  I saw how he loved life and himself.  He lived a simple life, no car, minimal clothing, and little money.  He lived in one rented room with few belongings, had a simple part-time job he enjoyed.  He had friends everywhere, was remarkably grateful to be alive and to experience life free of alcohol addiction.  I began to lose my fear of failure.  I quit worrying about tomorrow and enjoyed the beautiful neighborhood where I lived.  I took walks along the Erie Canal and bought a bicycle.  I immersed myself in AA and Al-Anon meetings.  Life was good.

Then one day at work, projects soured.  The designers I’d trusted made some serious mistakes that could jeopardize my new job.  I didn’t have the knowledge to correct these problems.  Thoughts whirled in my head, not of solutions but panic.  I had a queasy feeling of losing everything.  Frantically, I called Warren.  I needed to talk.  He would understand my anguish.  I wanted him to calm the storm.

When he answered, I blurted, “Warren, I think I’m going to lose my job!  My projects have gone rotten.  The designs are wrong and I don’t know how to correct them.  I am sick!”

After a long pause, Warren said, “Are you vertical?”

“What?” I responded.

He repeated, “Are you vertical?”

“What do you mean. . .am I vertical?”

“Well, you’re not horizontal like sick or dead, are you?”

“Yes, I’m vertical.  I’m sitting at my desk,” I answered impatiently.

Warren continued, “Do you have food to eat?”

“I don’t have any food here, and I’m not hungry.”

“Do you have a warm place to sleep tonight?”

“Yes.  I have a peaceful place to sleep.”  I was beginning to get the drift.

Warren said, “Make a list of the things you are grateful for.  Then call me back.”

I thought about Warren, so happy and grateful when he had little of anything and his health was questionable, but I started a gratitude list that included Health, Sufficient Income, the realization I’d found a wonderful rental townhouse near where I worked on the Erie Canal with attached garage, washer and dryer for this new bachelor.  I recalled how I found the place on short notice when the realtor told me a friend had a sudden change of plans and would rent it for what I could afford.  This was a miracle.

I was also grateful for a recent phone call from a kind lady I’d met at the St. Louis Al-Anon treatment center for families of alcoholics.  She was concerned about me. . .had I made it to Rochester okay?  She was so nice that I thought if I was younger and she was single, I would confess I had a crush on her.  At that moment, I felt she and Warren were the only two people who cared about me.

Now I was surprised at the wonderful things that had happened to me. I called Warren and told him I’d finished my gratitude list.

“Good Rich,” he said.  “What did you learn from this exercise?”

“I started with health but then I began remembering the out-of-the-ordinary wonderful things that happened to me. They were like miracles.  And, yes, I am vertical. . .not even tilted.”

“That’s good Rich. How do you feel?”

“Better.  My Higher Power has been helping me all along.”

Warren responded with, “Like Let Go and Let God?” (note: an AA slogan)

“Yes, I think so.”

 “Now do you believe you can fix your projects at work?”

“Yes, with some help from my Higher Power.  Thanks, Warren.”

“Rich, can I get a ride to tonight’s meeting? Then you can tell me how it went with your projects.”

“I’ll pick you up at 6:30.  And I remember ‘Don’t Drink and Go to Meetings.’”

The afternoon went smoothly.  I met with my boss who said he knew some simple ways to correct the problems.  I called the client to inform him of design changes and he was appreciative.  That was almost a miracle.

During the next four years, until Warren’s death, he changed my attitude about life.  By watching him, I learned to appreciate and enjoy all I had in the moment.  I learned to love myself just as I was, so I could improve.  I spent more time in nature, riding the Erie Canal bicycle paths, walking the pier at Lake Ontario, visiting Rochester’s annual Lilac Festival, sailing, and cross-country skiing.  During this time, I also pursued a long-distance telephone romance with the lady in St. Louis I mentioned earlier.  We were both shocked to discover that she was the daughter of my grandfather’s new doctor, the one I’d met and helped once when I was fifteen and visiting my grandparents in Decatur, Illinois.

Whenever I was obsessed with a problem, I could always get alternate solutions from Warren.  Like a good sponsor, he did not get emotionally involved with my problems and would provide me with a choice of solutions.  Usually he would ask “Are you vertical?”  That became my signal to begin a new gratitude list.

Today, at 91, I can still hear Warren’s voice in my head asking, “Are you vertical?”  That is my cue to appreciate what I have and move on in life.  When I hear people in the programs complaining about their ‘woe-is-me’ plight, I ask them Warren’s question.  In every case, they respond with “What do you mean, am I vertical?”  Then, like Warren did for me, I lead them by posing what they possess and suggest a gratitude list, just as he taught me.