My Last Visit With Don Doane

Written September 12, 2015 Revised on September 19, 2017.

The Author with Don Doane at the Rockport Lobster-Festival in 2009

Editor's Note: Don Doane passed away December 16th, 2015. But the musical legacy he left will shine on indefinitely. Today's post focuses on my last visit with this dear man in September of 2015. There are some personal notes about both Don and myself in this story. Because of this, I chose to get permission from family members before posting. I am grateful to Joe Doane for allowing me to post the story as written two years ago. However, I did edit for content and grammar before posting here. I find that a writer is never done crafting a piece. And I look forward to comments from other musical alumni on Don's past and continuing influence. 

I went to a local veteran’s home to visit my music teacher from elementary school yesterday.

Don was a fixture in my life both musically and personally for a very long time. He was a little rough around the edges, but I just knew he was in my corner. Even after elementary school, Don was involved with the musical interests and aspirations of his students. He showed up for all things musical, and always found just the right thing to say to us. He would encourage, but he didn't suffer fools well. Yet his warmth, sense of humor and love for music and all that played was omnipresent.

High School Music Students would just about bow in his presence. Don showed up to Marching Band practice on his nights and evenings off. He made appearances at Junior High and High School Band Practice. He brought his fellow musicians to Stage Band so the students could experience Jazz played by professionals. 

He did all this without interfering with those in charge, and was still able to command respect from all the kids. We, in turn, would mirror his love and respect to younger students. It's just what was done, and Don was one of those rare figures central to the music program without grabbing any spotlight.

As many of you already know, my childhood was not a happy one. There were countless instances of abuse. Yet when I was with Don, I felt safe. I couldn't wait for our "All City" band practices where all the elementary schools would play together. I loved our local elementary school practices too. In retrospect, these practices were wonderful times where I could forget about any struggles in my young life. Between this and summers at the local pool, I somehow survived my childhood.

I was not a great musical student, but I felt respected, even when Don was critical. It was just his way that he could do so (with or without and over the top reaction of disappointment) that let you know he really cared about you personally. On occasion, childhood antics were met with open frustration. Yet Don expressed himself in a way that was firm to us; while being caring and kind.

About fifteen years ago, they were going to convert the old Westbrook Junior High School on Main Street into elderly housing. They were looking for a name for the building. I wrote an essay about why the building should be named after Don Doane.

In doing the research for this paper, I discovered his private philanthropy and commitment to the arts programs in Westbrook; especially music. Don stood toe to toe with a lot of resistance in that blue-collared town I had grown up in. He made sure that every kid that wanted to play had the means to do so. Parents would purchase musical instruments on reasonable monthly payment plans. When folks were hurting, the payments got made. When talent or enthusiasm was spotted among the poorest of the poor kids, Don made arrangements for these kids to get free instruments.

Many times, Don would play gigs that paid for kids to have that drum, or wind instrument, or time at the piano, etc. He'd scour the local music scene for additional free or reduced priced equipment. The building got another name, but it's where Don's soul enhancing work had its roots.

I've seen Don over the years. He's had a stroke, but still plays a three-valve trombone. He even has a practice time in the nursing home. You may have seen the latest installment of his musical story on the news in the past year (Originally written 9/12/15). 

  

I had seen Don play a few years back at the Rockport Lobster Festival. I was sitting under the tent enjoying some seafood. There was a torrential downpour, and a band was playing behind me. I heard his trombone and was touched by the sound. In between songs, the singer mentioned Doan Doane, and I spun around to see him playing a three valve trombone. I didn't know there was such a thing.

I visited with Mr. Doane that day between sets. He remembered me (as always) and we spoke about our lives. Though Don was dealing with the issues of his massive stroke, he made it a point to find out what was going on in my life, and offer encouragement.

Later, I heard that he had to go into a nursing home. Then I learned that his wife had died. I know Don's son, Joe, and I asked about visiting with him. Joe told me to stop in any time. That was about six months ago.

I don't know why, but I struggled to go and see him. I knew I wanted to . . . Had to, really.

I wanted to tell him all the things he had done for me. I wanted to let him know that I felt safe and secure under his care. I wanted to tell him just how much he has meant to me over the years.

I decided to visit yesterday (September 11, 20015).

We talked about old times. Then he asked what I was doing now, so I told him. He asked how I got into this kind of work.

"As a patient!" I said with a bit of nervous laughter.

That led to a frank discussion about our own battles with alcohol/addiction. Turns out that Don had been sober for over fifty years. He did his work via taking a pledge and confession through a local church. It was serendipitous, because he worked with Father Barrett, the one priest from my childhood that I felt absolutely safe with. I talked openly with him about my recovery. We had so many common denominators. That fateful look in the mirror and not liking what one sees staring back at them. The fear and disgust of being locked in addiction, and so many other familiar places we'd both been to; emotionally and spiritually.

We talked some more, and I was able to add, "Speaking of confession . . .”

I told Don just how much he meant to me when I was a child. I told him that there were many unhappy aspects of my childhood, but I let him know just how safe I felt under his care. I was able to let Mr. Doane know how much his teaching and mentorship had meant to me. Don brushed away tears from his eyes and took my hand.

"Wow!" I said. "You're the first sober influence in my life."

He just smiled and said, "Yeah."

He did deem it important to let me know that he hoped he wasn't too hard on me. I let him know that I never felt anything but respect from him.

We talked a bit more, and then I wheeled him back to his room. He reminded me to come back again. We said our goodbyes, and he said "It's nice to meet the real you."

This is one of those moments promised to me by other trauma survivors. A promise that, if I sifted through the wreckage, surely, I would find nuggets of spiritual and emotional gold. A moment of thanks and gratitude for being treated well as a child by a trusted servant. Someone who honored who I was, and everything I had going on. 

I am truly blessed

Max The Most Loved Pug

Not Max 

I like to post a good memory on here from time to time, for balance. 

From my parents house on Brackett Street, I used to walk to Canal School. I'd usually walk with a couple of neighborhood kids. We'd head down Pennell Street, cut through a couple of backyards near the Moreau's house, and on to East Valentine Street. That's where we would always stop to greet Max. 

Max was an adorable little pug that lived with his person family on the corner of Little Avenue and East Valentine Street. He was a lovable dog with one mission in life. To greet every kid walking to school. He would be outside as we walked by. Max would hop and jump on his leash and would come up to any and all comers with little butt wiggles and snorts to accept pets from us. 

As I remember it, one of his owners (a woman) would usually watch through the window as kids greeted Max. Funny how I can't place her face, but I do remember her smiles. 

After school, we would walk down Glennwood Avenue to Monroe Ave, turn onto Woods Road and take the path to cross Spring Street, and onto East Valentine to see Max waiting for us. He would repeat his enthusiasm and look forward to seeing each of us kids. 

We came and went in groups, and Max was on a tight timetable. He'd give you attention and wags (butt wiggles) and hop from kid to kid for pets and praise. But he would not linger. If Max spied another group of kids approaching, he would politely step past you and begin to announce his presence to the next group through a series of snorts and little barks. I believe he would also run his feet along the ground, throwing dirt, grass, or snow (depending on the season) as a way to garner attention from the next group. 

Max made going to school fun. I always looked forward to seeing this little fellow. I remember talking with his owners and having them tell us that they liked putting Max out to see the kids. As I've said previously, I cannot remember who the owners were, but I remember they were kind. 

Time passed, and we moved on to Junior High and different routs to school. Down Brackett Street to cut through the cemetery and on to Main Street, then the bus when the new (to us) Junior High School opened up on Bridge Street in the fall of 1975. We'd catch the bus at the corner of East Valentine and Brackett. 

Max faded from our lives, but I assume he greeted other Canal School kids long after we had moved on. He wasn't there anymore when we began walking to High School a couple of years later. I can't say for sure if he crossed the rainbow bridge, or his people moved, but Max was gone. 

Still, Max has been on my mind a lot lately. I think there are lessons in what Max taught so many of us. He made room in his day to show up and express and receive love from a multitude of people. 

We should all be so diligent with love and affection toward others. 

Maybe, we'd all be as blessed as Max. 

M :-) 

The Church Of My Childhood

Trigger Warning: Trauma, Power Over Victims of Adverse Childhood Experiences

Not My Photo 

So about god. 

As I've said previously, I use the term god, higher power, spirit of the universe, etc, interchangeably. 

I've certainly had my time at defying god. I have trouble with the all-seeing, all-knowing, santa-clause version who keeps a naughty and nice list. I was initially raised with this deity in the sky who judged ferociously. The people in my life that administered Catholicism were few and far between with the matching spiritual principles purported and promised if one remained close to god.  

Sidebar: 

I need to add that there was a great man from my childhood who served in the most wonderful of ways. Father Barrett was a safe and, dare I say, Godly priest. And I've heard more spiritual things about his works since his death. It seems especially tragic to me that the horrors I suffered occurred during his tenure. 

I have nothing but safety and goodness where Father Barrett is concerned. 
When I discovered through recovery what had happened to me at St. Mary's, I wanted to go to him and ask for counsel on how best to move forward from the terrible memories imbedded in my flesh and soul. But I decided that the tragedy of such news was better served being shared elsewhere. I did not want to burden Father Barrett with this knowledge in the twilight of his life. 

More on that work later in this piece. 

Given that the church I was raised in was rife with sexual predators, it's no wonder that I had an extreme and adverse reaction to men and women of the cloth whenever I saw them later in life. I only spent kindergarten and first grade at St. Mary's in Westbrook, but it was more than enough to squelch this young, vulnerable child's search for anything godly. 
Nearing the core of my sexual abuse history: For me, 625 Main Street in Westbrook is a site that represents all that is unholy with the Catholic Church. I have memories of being savaged by nuns and a young priest at this site. Their appetite for violence and exploitation against this wonderful, beautiful child was without equal. I have a distinct memory of them attacking me as a group, usually in the basement bathroom of the church. I will spare the reader with the details of these unwanted and damaging encounters from when I was five and six years old. 

My experiences at this most unholy of sites became what appeared to be the cornerstone of my trauma history. It is no wonder I have struggled with faith as a result. At my very core exists a god that is punishing and demands submission in order to provide protection from the great, unknown (or worse yet, known) dangers that await followers who stray from the path. 

Fifty years later, I am still working to peel away layer upon layer of shame disguised as spiritual judgement. 

This feeling can be intensified when the prospect of relief in recovery is presented as a spiritual solution. While most methods of recovery leave the spiritual aspect up to the individual, the collective conscience can sound an awful lot like the need to submit in order to recover. 

I believe that what is described as an addicts ego can often have roots in this refusal to submit yet again. So many addicts and alcoholics I've worked with (professionally and personally) can clearly point out their own adverse childhood experiences. Yet those ensconced in their professional positions or well-rooted recovery will often poo poo the painful reality of those that actively suffer at the hands of addiction. 

During my recovery from trauma, I have spoken with hundreds of survivors of adverse childhood experiences. One of the saddest parts of being sexually abused is the apparent ability of perpetrators to spot young folks who are vulnerable to abuse. It is as if the first traumatic sexual experience I suffered placed an invisible neon sign above my head that said I was open to being abused. After my experience at St Mary's, the misconduct was delivered again, and again. 

As I aged, and puberty began to have it's way with my body, I began to explore the only sexual dynamic I knew . . . Being exploited. Imagine a vulnerable, 13 year-old boy showing up at a renowned cruising spot and being picked up by men two and three times their own age. Add to that an incredibly homophobic society where other closeted members of the community were forced into silence of what they witnessed, because to report would mean coming out to a hostile world, and being attached to the abuse by association and stereotyping. After all, all us gay folks are after your children. That's the message I received in spades, based on my activity as a young boy. And this belief was reinforced by the homophobic society I was raised in. 

This was the second layer of a foundation that kept me from faith . . . Judgement. In my adolescent mind, I was the one committing the sin by searching in the shadows for connection. My bike trips, and bus rides into Portland to look for sex were accompanied by the only mentors and messages I had at my disposal. Those mentors were trauma, and the perverse spiritual messages that went along with being raped, All these adverse childhood experiences perpetuated the dynamic of exploitation. And that's who I searched for, and what I found there during adolescence. 

There was no one in my world to talk to about my budding sexuality, and my only companions were these negative messages and experiences. I was, therefore, the perpetrator of these instances. I had no reason or yardstick of recovery to believe otherwise. 

As an adult, I became complicit in the silence. I would avoid certain things, telling myself that I was with folks who could consent. But I continued to witness behaviors that reinforced my beliefs that I was sexually damaged beyond repair, and that god would surely punish me for my most horrible of sins . . . Being gay, and seeking sex with men. 
By this time, drugs and alcohol were my only solution for relief from some power greater than me. But even as a young, stoned and drunken adolescent, I couldn't escape the feelings of shame and guilt about who I was. So I tried to get higher. 

Not much room for a loving, accepting, and compassionate god in all of that mess. 
While some folks are blessed (or cursed) with the ability to stop using substances on their own, I needed professional, medical, and community help to get sober. But even here, on the tail end of the 1980's homophobia was alive and well in treatment modalities. Some suggested that the work I was doing to get sober would "cure" my sexuality as well. 

Thank God (Capital G emphasis) for people who began suggesting that my higher power could be of my own definition. This scared the shit out of me, given my decision making process. But they promised that I could re-define the god concept in a way that was personally empowering and life sustaining. 

It was a small, but important beginning. 

When I lived in Serenity House on 30 Mellen Street during early sobriety, I had a hard time sleeping. Every time I closed my eyes, trauma memories would flood my mind. I had to have something greater than me to offer me comfort. I pictured god as a big, fluffy cloud that could hold me. My perception of god needed to be without arms, legs and other body parts that could hurt me. Sometimes, I could even imagine myself enveloped in this cloud of complete love and comfort. Not bad for a raving lunatic with 90 days of sobriety. 

I remember my first summer sober. I worked in a local organization's home learn to swim program. I would drive from residence to residence and teach neighborhood kids to swim in a homeowner's pool. I was driving through Cumberland, in-between appointments. I smoked cigarettes then, so I was chain-smoking and cranking heavy metal rock and roll. I was also absolutely bananas that particular day. I drove by a church and tromped on the breaks. 

There was a sign in front of the church, who's location has long since left me. The sign gave me my first glimpse into the unconditional love from something beyond me that I was searching for. It simply read: 

All Loving

All Knowing

All Caring

I wrote it down in my journal that was my constant companion during this time. I had found a working definition for my god concept. 

Now . . . Over the years, I have vacillated back and forth (sometimes, to dangerous extremes) with just who and what god is in my life. I mean, How can an all loving, all knowing, and all caring god let the things that had happened to me be out for my best interest? 

There have been times of rage toward god too. Since a mentor of mine told me that his higher power had big shoulders, I figured an occasional "Go f*ck yourself!" wouldn't hurt god's feelings. I journaled to god, I raged at god, I abandoned god, and I vilified any person or institution who purported to do "God's work" while doing tangible damage to individuals or society at large. 

And I practiced prayer and meditation as well. I did prayers that other Queer people felt comfortable with. I modeled their spirituality, because mine was a complete mess (Can you say judgement?). And I practiced, practiced, practiced. 

I wish I could point to a particular white light moment or epiphany where I all of a sudden just "got it" where god is concerned. The truth is, it's an ongoing lesson for me, and one in which I am willing to journey forth. 

I remember sitting in the balcony of a church on Congress Street one day. I was in the balcony, and I just started praying for a god personal to me. One without judgement (whose judgement?) that I could truly embrace. I looked up at the alter, and just above it were symbolic icons of several religions. I didn't know at the time that I was sitting in a UU church that believes all are welcome. Imagine that! There I sat in a church that welcomed all of us. A place that would engage in civil rights struggles on my behalf, and I was asking for acceptance from God. Kind of makes me giggle now. 

And yet, I struggled (Struggle!) with the idea that a spiritual life is necessary insurance to prevent an otherwise horrible end. And when some fresh trauma memory, or a real-life struggle of someone close to me appears, or we lose another person to this awful disease of addiction, or someone says "Enough!" and checks out permanently from their trauma history, I rail against this absolute power of a supreme being that has elected to be so harsh as to abandon a soul in pain. And I wonder . . . Will the day come where my higher power will abandon me? Will I be one of those poor lost souls that will suffer immeasurably when god washes its hands of my predicaments? 

And I discover my deepest fear. That maybe god won't be there after all. Maybe, I truly am alone, and my footwork along this path won't be enough. Maybe I'm not going to make it. 

Or worse yet, maybe I must submit to a power greater than myself in order to prevent further suffering. Why do religions insist on pledging allegiance? Why does God's fragile ego require my kneeling and subservience in order to be effective in my life? 

I know these are age-old questions, but I also know that having been forced to submit makes even the asking of these questions all the more difficult. 

And I really don't have any answers. Not for me, and certainly not for anyone else. 

Lately, my mind keeps returning to my time at St. Mary's. Not for the traumatic memories, but for the lessons taught to that young, beautiful, and vulnerable child. I'm searching for the connections between childhood rape and my resistance to the spiritual. I use the term god, because it's easy. Not because I believe there is the monotheistic, white bearded fellow in the heavens waiting to pounce on my imperfections. 

But he's there. He's in the fiber of my being. And though I know he exists as a myth, perpetuated by humans who desperately sought control of a small and defenseless child, I shudder at the thought of his presence. 

I've easily transitioned to other spiritual beliefs, and look at my devotional practices as a buffet table of easily accessible skills sets that are there for the taking, and free to all to use, or not use, without judgement. I have worked for that belief of ultimate forgiveness and unquestionable love. 

So what do I do with this other guy?  

Regarding "More on that work"

I returned to the church of my childhood as a sober man. I knocked on the door of the rectory and asked the priest in attendance for a moment of his time. We went to the church that has since been torn down and I disclosed to him what had happened to me in the building next door. 

The priest wept as I revealed my story. By the time I was finished, tears were streaming down his face. He told me how sorry he was that any of that had happened to me and asked me what I needed. 

I told him I needed a moment of time to tour the old building where the church had once been. I wanted to offer up a prayer where the alter once stood. He obliged me and we toured the old building. Our last stop was the site of the old church before the remodeling. 

I walked to the place where the alter had been and hit my knees. I offered up a prayer, but I don't recall what it was then. I think it was a check-in with god about how I survived and had forgiven. 

I thanked the priest and left. 

There was and is so much work left to do. But I realize now that in my moment at the alter, I did not submit to the abuse. I reached for a better version of myself in order to attain wellness. 

Maybe that's the answer? 

What's next?

I've been doing a lot of writing. When I'm feeling blocked, I'll "free-write." That is to say I will just start typing. Sometimes, I start with "I don't know what to type, but I'm at my keyboard . . . " and continue from there.

I've had a couple of great free-writing sessions about conflict and behaviors (coping skills) that can both sustain and harm a trauma survivor. But I don't have anything cohesive enough to lay out as a blog post at this time.

Additionally, there seems to be so much violence in the news that I've been reacting to and needed self care about, that my writing has turned very personal in nature.

Please be patient. I will continue to post here.

Until then, read and digest the blog entries posted in whatever way is safest for you personally. And remember that all comments are welcome. The only thing I ask is that folks remember to be kind to one another. I am always available for feedback, but there are strangers I've never met that the subject matter resonates with. Please hold these people with care as you contribute.

Thanks and best regards,

Mike :-) 



Lessons From "The Tank"

Not My Photo

When I was a kid, growing up in Westbrook, Maine, we had an outdoor pool. The official name of the place was the Cornelia Warren Outdoor Pool. But in our neighborhood, it was affectionately referred to as The Tank. 

That's what my Mom called it when she used to drive me to lessons. "C'mon Mike. Time to go to The Tank. You're lesson is at 9:00." 

Some of my earliest and most positive memories from childhood centered around this place. Swimming was a constant in my life during the summers of the late sixties and early seventies. I was at home in the pool, and I always felt safe there. As soon as I was big enough (probably eight or nine years old in what was a much smaller town then), I could walk the mile distance with a group of kids from my neighborhood. 

We would take the railroad tracks (long since gone) where William Clark Drive is now, and stop at a local store on Maine Street to purchase candy and soda. The soda was in a water-cooled cooler and always felt ice cold in those old glass bottles. I can't remember the name of the place, but it was right next to Matty's Taxi.

Just across the street from the store was what we called the rail road yard. On occasion, we would sneak over and try to climb in one of the boxcars. But usually, the workers would scare us away. 

After our penny candy feast, we would head for the pool. The Tank lived up to its name. It was a behemoth rectangle made of asphalt and concrete and painted aqua blue. There was no filtration system back then, and a lone "bubbler" circulated the water from the center of the pool. We used to swim out to the bubbler, because the water was extra cold. There was a shallow/wading end that got progressively deeper until it reached a rope divider. Then the pool got really deep. There were three diving boards at the far end where the water was deepest. Two low boards on either side with one high board in the middle of the deep end. 

One lifeguard would entertain us at the gate while we waited in line. Meanwhile, the other guards would walk around the edge of the pool with flower watering pots. The large containers were filled with chlorine, and the guards would walk and dump the chemical at the pools edge. I think two guards did the duty, walking away from one another at the shallow end, and meeting up at the deep end of the pool. 

Fifteen minutes later, the gates would open, and we would pile in the pool house to drop off our towels, sneakers, socks and shirts. There was a quick walk down a hallway that had a small wading pool to rinse off our feet. Then a guard would make sure we went under the shower. We would run for the pool from there.

I seem to recall that on occasion, the guards would have us all line up around the edge of the pool, then send us in all at once. And sometimes, they would direct us to lay in the water and kick our feet. The adult in me now wonders if we were the agitation/mixing mechanism for the chlorine. I know we didn't do this often, and the memory is kind of fuzzy. I'd love to hear from other Westbrook kids at the time to see if I'm recalling this correctly. 

I can't remember the criteria or test to swim in the deep end. Maybe that's because I used to wear my Red Cross Swim Patches on my bathing suit, along with my season pass. The patches and season pass were made of cloth, and could be easily sewn onto our suits. I loved those badges, and I would move them from suit to suit as I outgrew my clothes; begging my mom to sew them onto my latest bathing suit. 

I remember the deep end test I had to take to pass during lessons though. We had to swim across the pool at the deepest part. The first time I tried, I only made it to the first low board before I got scared. Mr Harriman pulled me out of the pool with one hand. I remember thinking he was the strongest man I knew, and I instantly had a new hero. 

After a few tries, I passed beginners, and advanced beginners too. It must have passed advanced beginners at the end of the summer. The next year, I was at the pool with both patches on my suit. I made sure I was the first in line for opening day. I marched down to the deep end and got up on the low diving board, walked to the end, and jumped in. Only I hadn't swam for about nine months, and I momentarily forgot how. I struggled to the side, and went back to the shallow end to practice for a while. 

First lesson in humility? 

Many times in my life, I have needed to return to the shallow end of the metaphorical pool to gain my bearings, reassess my skills sets, and set off for deeper waters again.  

While elementary school was difficult for a host of reasons, it seemed that I got a break from being bullied during my time at the outdoor pool. I remember a couple of instances of being teased/abused on the way home, but nothing like the daily grind of having to fear walking home from Canal School. 

Trips to and from the pool were spent with friends. First walking, then riding our bikes. And the friendships I made around the water still hold a special place in my heart. There has been a ton of emotional work to do as a result of being bullied daily during 4th, 5th, and 6th grade. But now that the work has been done, I am left with the wonderful memories from neighborhood kids. It's amazing how kindness can resonate in our lives. I sometimes forget that friendship and affection have their legacies too. Yet another lesson from swimming at The Tank.

As I got older, and the new junior high school was built, I had access to an indoor pool and competitive coaching. We would still swim at The Tank for fun, and there were relay races and other activities on the last day of the season. A bunch of us Jr High swimmers got together and laid waste to the entire pool during the first relay. So much so, that the guards separated us, and made us swim with the other kids. But I remember the kudos we got from other kids about how fast we were. It was some of the first acknowledgment that I was actually athletic, and I so desperately needed that at the time. 

Over the years, I learned a lot from swimming. I've learned the obvious. Dedication and hard work can help to achieve goals. I became a school record holder and state champion in the 100 yard backstroke. I taught swimming and life-guarded at the YMCA in Portland during High School. I went on to coach, and aquatics was the ultimate mirror I had to face to recognize that my drug and alcohol abuse was a problem. Who I wanted to be in the field of aquatics and what I had become at the hands of addiction were so far apart that I had to seek help. 

But even now, swimming continues to teach me more than anything I give to the sport. I have been recovering from impingement syndrome in my right shoulder, and had made some great gains. In February of this year, I could barely swim 25 meters without having pain in my shoulder. In fact, my shoulder was beginning to hurt, even at rest. I sought treatment for my shoulder, and have started working out again at the gym, and in the pool. In July, I was averaging a mile swim, twice a week. 

But the pain in my shoulder has returned, so I went back to seek additional treatment. The first thing the physical therapist did was remove any overhead exercises at the gym and reduce my swimming by more than half. 

So here I am, in the shallow end . . . Again. I will follow directions, reassess, and take heed of my the importance of rest. I will head out into deep water eventually. 

Sometimes, I need to emotionally hang out in the shallow end as well. Life can get heavy and cause an overabundance of pain. And there's nothing wrong with a strategic retreat back to the shallow end to reassess, follow directions, and allow for emotional and spiritual rest. 

I can always head back out into deep water eventually. 

M :-) 

Gratitude Tuesday

It's Gratitude Tuesday. What are you grateful for?

Post in the comments section (below)

The Good Doctor

This post has all the good feels:

When I was a boy, our family doctor had an office in his home on Woodford Street in Portland Maine. The house was a robin-egg blue with a white and dark blue trim. His name was Walter E Penta MD

Regardless of the reason, I always loved going to see Dr. Penta. And I'm saying this about a man that directed me to have my tonsils out at six years old. There would be other painful moments where we would connect, and his support was instrumental. More on that as we continue.

During the last few years of my drinking, my mother was worried that I wasn't getting good medical care. She mentioned to me that if I ever needed to see Dr. Penta for any reason, "Just make an appointment, and tell him to put it on my bill Michael." In retrospect, I did not hear the concern in her voice. I've since had numerous conversations with my "Mum" about how my drinking and drug usage effected her well being, and the well being of others in our family.

All I heard was that I had a free ticket to see Dr. Penta whenever I wanted.

This is not to say that I went often, but I do believe that the permission my mother gave me, allowed for consistent care. That consistency, while far from making me get sober, assisted in my overall well-being, in ways that I didn't imagine until well after I entered the helping profession.

I could tell Dr. Penta anything. And I mean an-y-thing. He was kind, gentle, honest and supportive, regardless of my condition or circumstances. He was the first professional that I . . . Came out to, freely admitted my problems with drug addiction and alcoholism, discussed my trauma history with, told of my struggles based in that trauma (promiscuous sex, destructive relationships, etc), the first  person I confided any ache, pain, rash, or symptom I was convinced were HIV related. He sent me to specialists that he trusted when there was a problem, and the free clinic at Portland City Hall for HIV testing when they were the lone organization  that, in his experience, would test without judgment or condemnation.

He met all of this with a gentle assurance and a knowledge base that was grounded in medicine and devoid of homophobia.

After I got sober, he was my confidant in chief about all things recovery. I would discuss many of the above issues through the lens of sobriety with him.

I remember showing up at his door because of an incident with the flu and Pepto Bismal. For those of us who partook in freebasing, this may be a trigger. I had the flu, so I took something to settle my stomach. The next morning, I woke up with the shakes, fevers, and a terrible (but familiar) taste in my mouth. I went to the mirror and stuck out my tongue. Sure enough, I had the infamous brown patch that appeared the day after a freebase binge. My mouth had that sickly-sweet but burnt taste that I had experienced after a cocaine smoking bender.

Terrified, I called Dr. Penta and demanded to see him right away. I showed up to his empty waiting room (he was semi-retired by this point) and waited for him to open the door to his exam room. When he did, smoke would billow out, and he would insist that he'd be right with me. I'm sure he did his best to air out the exam room of cigarette smoke, but I could always tell from the initial offering when he'd first open the door. The accompanying cloud always gave his habit away; not that he tried hard to hide it.

I showed him my tongue, and told him about the flu and Pepto Bismal I took.

"Yes Michael. The bismuth would create a reaction with your stomach contacts, and a slight re-flux stained your tongue . . . " Then he paused, leaned over, and smiled at me.

"This has kicked up all your cravings. Hasn't it Mike." He was still grinning.

I agreed that it had, and he suggested garnering support from my sober friends, using the telephone to stay connected to people, and getting plenty of rest and fluids. He also reminded me that I hadn't relapsed, and that I was safe; as long as I worked a program of recovery.

Dr. Penta also advised me about many of the more intimate emotional and physical aspects of my recovery, including additional supports ("I think Serenity House is a wonderful idea Michael.") and any additional steps to recovery from issues I had poured alcohol and drugs over to deal with. He told me those things would come back now that I was sober, and doing the necessary emotional work was as important as any medicine he could prescribe.

His office visits were only $10. But sometimes, I would still ask him to put the visit on my mother's tab. There were numerous visits over a fifteen-plus year period.

I stopped seeing Dr Penta around 1997. He had stopped accepting patients long before this, and I was advised by another group of professionals to find a primary care physician that could orchestrate my total care . . . If they only knew. Begrudgingly, I listened to these new providers in my life.

It's sad that we sometimes forget (worse yet) neglect to remember the folks who were instrumental in saving our lives. Dr Penta had been the lynch-pin of my medical care from the time I was born, until I turned 35, but I never so much as sent him a thank you card. I was younger than I am now, and busy with my life.

In 2001, my mother called to tell me that Dr. Penta had died. He had been her doctor when she was an adolescent, so we had a long and storied history with him. Our whole family admired the good doctor. And my mother and I reminisced on the phone about some of our favorite stories about him. He even made house calls. Yup! I'm that old! 😁

Then I remembered my mom's direction to seek care from him, and send her the bill. I mentioned this to my mom and suggested I should pay her back.

"Michael." she said. "Dr Penta never sent us a bill for your visits."

All those visits. All those encouraging talks. All those treatments and referrals . . . And he never charged me a dime.

Being a trauma survivor, I can forget that anyone ever looked out for me. Yet sometimes, the sky will part and sprinkle memories from times where people were there for me; expecting nothing in return. This past weekend, I was reminding my family about Dr. Penta's philanthropy with me. Today, I was curious about the specifics of his death, because I wanted to blog about his good deeds.

Here's what I found in the Boston Globe:

WALTER E. PENTA M.D. 

Obituary Condolences

In Portland, ME, Walter E. Penta, M.D., 81, of Windham, ME. Beloved husband of the late Irene Estelle Platt. Father to Donald Platt Penta. Memorial Service 11 AM on Thursday, August 2, 2001 at Hay & Peabody Funeral Home, 749 Congress Street, PORTLAND, Mane 

Dr Penta's memorial service happened on August 2nd, sixteen years ago to the day I decided to look him up.

A dear friend of mine says that "A coincidence is when God chooses to remain anonymous."

I'm pretty sure Dr. Penta knows how I feel about him.

Perhaps I could reach out to his family and reiterate my sentiments to them as well.

M 💓