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In Loving Servitude To Dr, Lemuel Winifred Watson
Eddie picked me up from drug treatment and we drove to
Baltimore. I
dropped my stuff off at his mom's and went to meet a guy named
Lem at a
Narcotics Anonymous meeting. My roommate from treatment was a
friend of
his. She placed a call & he agreed to meet me at a meeting when
I got to
town. The Greenmount Avenue neighborhood where we met was a war zone
even in the summer of 1986 so finding the street was nothing
short of a
miracle: But I found it and Lem was waiting outside. I parked,
introduced myself, followed him inside, and remember being
struck by
just how many people seemed to know him & the warm reception he got
while we made our way around the room. Now I know the exchanges were
expressions of gratitude because with three years clean he had finally
found a home. He was proud of the pedestal they put him on &
wanted the
world to know he earned his seat in the Narcotics Anonymous Hall of
Fame. I sat next to him with a cup of coffee and listened to the
message.
The speaker shared about stealing Christmas presents for a shot
of dope.
Gifts already wrapped and under the tree were gone on Christmas
morningand that included bicycles for his children. I had only
one thought: How
did I wind up in a room full of heroin addicts when all I did
was steal
my mother's diet pills? But after the meeting I stayed cool, calm,
collected, and polite: Got hugs, gave hugs, thanked everyone for the
support, and left with Lem to get lunch. That night I dropped
Lem off at
his house and we made plans for the following day. By the end of
day #2
I recognized faces from the day before. By the end of day #3 the face
becoming familiar was mine and by the end of the week Lem and I
were an
item and stayed joined at the hip for the next nine months.
Lem was a wiry 54 year old black male: Small, lean, bald, wire rimmed
glasses, and a cigarette usually stuck behind his ear. He moved
slowly,dragged one foot behind the other, and greeted everyone
by tipping his
hat with his forefinger. The gesture had an air of gentility
about it
probably because he was a junkie from the old school who should have
died in jail with a needle in his arm. Somehow he managed to
weather the
storm & survive his life most of which was spent going in & out
of jail
so getting lost in his reputation was relatively easy. Three
years clean
made him a known commodity in the fellowship & I was an outsider
lookingin so under the radar was where I wanted to stay. I
graciously played
2nd fiddle to his notoriety & in exchange felt somewhat
protected by his
image. He didn't drive so I rented an apartment a few blocks
away from
his house & picked him up each morning.
he truth is I couldn't have found a better foot soldier.
He made sure
the path was clear before I walked it and being chauffeured
around town
was life in the fast lane for Lem. My car had air conditioning which
didn't hurt at the end of a Baltimore summer and he knew the
city like
the back of his hand so I figured out where I was with Lem driving
shotgun. He knew the city like the back of his hand and
seemed to enjoy
the revved up pace. I slowed down long enough to address my
ambivalencewhich kept me alive long enough to believe my life
was worth fighting
for. In the process I developed an artificial comfort level for
day to
day life in the inner city and by the end of 1986 there wasn't a
church,hospital, or recreation center that I couldn't find. My
brain retained
his short cuts and his uncanny ability to get from place to
place by
going through alleys, avoiding dead end streets, and knowing
where the
red lights were.
The only place I wouldn't go was to an NA meeting in Baltimore County.
The suburbs were forbidden because I had no desire to bump heads with
pictures of addiction that looked like me. I understood the likelihood
of having to look in a mirror but I wasn't introducing me to myself
until I had to. Or better yet: If I was headed for self
disclosure I
ran in the opposite direction and the city became an extra layer of
armor protecting me from myself. I got lucky. Hiding in a
world where I
was different kept me alive long enough to believe my life was worth
fighting for and my early recovery is remembered in the
emotional fabric
of Baltimore's ethnic neighborhoods: Gelato's from Little Italy,
snowballs sold on the streets in Canton, the smell of fish in
Pig-Town,
arabbers selling fruit out of horse drawn carts in West
Baltimore,children getting in trouble for opening fire hydrants
n a heat wave,
and recovering addicts sweating in meetings so hot the
humidity could
be cut with a knife.
In between meetings I went to the Lexington market andwatched Lem
play pinochle with his buddies. They could have been called "The
SeniorDope Fiends" and for my purposes they were a relatively
safe bunch to
hang out with. I enjoyed listening to the stories they told
about their
lives and pinochle games in the open-air market played like the final
performance of a play. They went around the table blurting out
the most
horrific details of active addiction: Shooting dope in your
neck, not
being able to find a vein, sharing needles, bloody syringes, methadone
lines, abscess's, friends who thought you were dead, and
withdrawal in a
jail cell without cigarettes, alcohol, or air conditioning. Then
with a
hint of humility they started again but this time listed the
milestonesin recovery: A key to your front door, a key to your
daughter's front
door, an invitation to Christmas dinner and having somewhere to
go on
Thanksgiving Day. Bus trips to Atlantic City, fried lake trout
from a
drive-thru in the middle of the night, and not waking up sick or
havingto cop dope in the middle of a snow storm: No more hanging
on street
corners waiting for drug dealers who didn't show or praying your
heroinwasn't laced with rat poison when they did.
Then they signaled with a gesture communicating that it was time
to end
another good day. They looked like a group of old man relaxing
after a
really big meal but while words can illustrate the nuanced gesture
nothing can accurately describe the underlying emotion: Except
to call
it the binding link born only in the hope of recovery. The
bond that
grows in a soul that found its way back from hell and softened
on the
journey home. Then they accused each other of cheating, relived
addiction with a few more accolades, and we all went home.
The New Year brought moments of lucidity tempered with
periods of self
loathing. My money was running out. I couldn't find a job. Lem
made a
perfect target for my discontent because he was there. My spir
knew it
was half of an addictive relationship but my flesh refused to
give in.
We fought and while I don't remember "who pushed who first" I do
remember how it felt to be cornered and shoved against a wall.
When I
retaliated Lem started biting me on my arms. He was
resisting the ever
growing temptation to hit me and in a moment of clarity I owned
where I
was: Depending on a man to keep me sober and participating in a
dysfunctional relationship against my will. I bargained with
God: If
given the opportunity to start recovery over again I would check
the box
marked me and sign my name on the dotted line.
My best shot at freedom looked like a 1/5 of Jack Daniels. After
drinking enough liquor to drown my sorrows I waited but the
anticipationof being anesthetized turned into a lead balloon
when hours later I
wasn't even mildly intoxicated. The next morning a friend found me
sobbing on my living room floor. I was admitted to
treatment that day
but this time the 28 day program was for indigents. Drunks were
dropped off at Tuerk House when the police pulled them out of the
gutter. I sat
motionless: Stoic, fearful, immobilized, and ashamed.
There were no
tears left. My head pointed to the ground when the nurse walked in
because I couldn't bear the thought of making eye contact with
anythingbut the floor. A nurse walked in and asked me to take
off my coat. She
saw my arms and held them up to the light to get a closer
look. She
gently turned them over one at a time. The scabs and dried up blood
resembled jaws of a human mouth. She must have known the
abrasions were
bite marks from a human being because after giving me a tetanus
shot and
as kind enough to say no more.
That night I slept on a soiled mattress and remember little more than
the rancid smell of alcohol that permeated the place and seemed
especially prevalent in the room where they put me. But the
smell was
preempted by acceptance: I acknowledged circumventing
disaster and knew
beyond a shadow of a doubt that the 30 pound Quaalude had
deceived me
for the last time. Never again would I be tricked into believing the
perfect high was anything more than a spot on the moon I chased but
never could catch. I woke up refreshed. The despair was
still there but
it was partnered with the relief of knowing that had there been
a spot
in the universe where I could have gone without taking me I
would have
found it. So I succumbed to the fear I believed would swallow me alive
and found surrender so magnanimous that I hardly wait to
collapse in its
arms.
28 days later I was discharged. By then it didn't matter how
long it
took to build a new life because I had gotten out of the race. I moved
down the street to an apartment that put me closer to a university.
Almost overnight I found myself in a world resembling
civilization as I
remembered it. I unearthed my essence and found my spirit in
tact when I
reclaimed it. Students, bookstores, coffee shops, galleries, and men
walking poodles reminded me of who I was and each day was filled
with a
little more hope than the day before. Seasons became gentle reminders
that I was in fact starting anew even though the first few years were
difficult. My car was totaled. I couldn't find work. Creditors
came out
of nowhere. I took busses, declared bankruptcy, worked odd jobs and
couldn't have been happier. My marker for success had changed
and a good
day was getting to more than one meeting and remaining grateful
for the
roof over my head.
Eventually Lem and I talked but I never told him where my second
apartment was and he asked for the next 12 years. The question
took on a
life of its own like an inside joke between two old friends who agreed
never to share the real story with anyone. In 1989 after
three long
grueling years of unemployment I joined ranks with other state
employeesas a Parole and Probation Agent supervising offenders
in Baltimore City.
Lem married a newcomer in the fellowship but stayed committed to his
only real priority which was making sure his son transitioned
successfully from boy to man. Somewhere along the way addicts that
looked like me became an irreplaceable source of comfort so I
moved to
the Baltimore suburb affectionately called "The Yiddish Hood."
In 1992 I gave birth to an adorable little girl who changed my
life and
redefined my dreams and while Lem and I both stayed clean I
would never
again depend on another human being to keep me sober or
employed. We
never lost touch, always talked on the phone, and saw each other at
meetings a few times a year. If we missed each other for too
long one of
us would call the other or I'd start getting messages around
town. My
little girl would say, "Somebody called mommy. He said to tell
you Dr.
Watson is looking for you so make sure you call back." Or a babysitter
would say, "Dr. Watson called and says you're expecting him.
He'll be at
the noon meeting on Greenmount Avenue." Or my secretary would
buzz me
and say, "Dr. Watson is waiting for you in the reception area
and he
says you'll know who it is."
On January 7th 1999 my then six year old daughter broke her leg and
after a miserable night in the emergency room her father and I
came home
to a telephone ringing off the hook with friends calling to make
sure I
knew Lem had died. I pieced together events that started with a
migraineheadache the day after Thanksgiving. The pain was severe
enough to
justify a trip to the emergency room and a few days later Lem
found out
the headache was lung cancer that had metastasized. They sent
him home
after a few rounds of radiation and he died in the hospital on January
5th. The following week found me standing outside a Muslim temple
freezing my buns off in the bitter cold: Chapped lips, frost bite,
running nose, tears freezing on my face, and rumblings of a heart
experiencing more than one emotion at the same time. Lem's son had
converted to Islam so Lem was buried as a Muslim. Non-Muslims weren't
allowed to see a body after it was wrapped so his friends from
NA stood
outside. I stood between two friends reportedly speaking
of a regret
that had two parts.
The first piece was I never thanked him. When we saw each other
I'd say
"I have to tell you something but I can't remember what it is so I'll
tell you the next time I see you." I wanted to say thanks.
I love being
a contradiction to colleagues who ask "Why is a white Jewish
woman from
the D.C suburbs so comfortable doing field work in the worst
neighborhoods in the city? She's got the alleys memorized. She knows
where the dead ends are! How did she come to know the city like
the back
of hand?" But now it's too late to tell him. And why on
earth didn't he
tell me he was sick! There are five weeks between Thanksgiving
and New
Years Day. I get it was fast. We didn't talk every day. I wasn't the
center of his life but we were friends who never stopped loving each
other and I would have been there. Now I had to go on
without a
conclusion to who we were. I was blind sighted. Left without and
end to
us. I stood outside after the hearse pulled off thinking a few extra
minutes would help me process whatever it was that I was feeling but
went home with unresolved sorrow.
When my daughter went back to school I went back to work and a mailbox
busting at the seams with a mound of bureaucratic paper. I spent
the day
organizing an never ending paper trail and when I was down to
the last
priority pile a piece of paper fell to the floor. I picked it up
and saw
it was a message from Lem dated 12/28/98 @ 3:11PM. It said, "Urgent!!!
Dr. Watson has been trying to reach you! Call him ASAP. He's @
University of Maryland Hospital - Oncology Ward - Greene Street. Needs
to tell you something and if you don't get him he wants to make
sure you
know he called to Merry Christmas and he hopes you have a wonderful
1999! I sat back down in my chair for a minute or two & wiped
away one
lingering tear. In that moment we parted & I moved on with my life
knowing I built a good one.
Today I can see Lem's house from the window in my office. It's been
boarded up for years but as one might expect my eyes wander in that
direction every now and then even though I have no idea what I
expect to
see. But make no mistake about this: In the early hours of
morning while
drinking coffee and planning my day I close my eyes & an image
pops up
of the first picture my brain called "Gratitude" and there they
are: The
Seniors playing pinochle in the Lexington Market. I'm trying to figure
out how I got there and they're reminiscing about days gone by.
In that
second I know who I am and in a whisper recite my story to
myself. With
pride I remember my recovery being born in a sea of desperation. There
is a world where joy and despair are only opposite sides of the same
coin and happiness is the absence of pain. I wore that world
like an old
pair of pajamas giving me sustenance as I began the delicate
process of
rewriting my soul. For if my beginnings taught me nothing else I
learnedthat gratitude looks different when you've spent a
lifetime treading
water and if you were supposed to die in jail with a needle in
your arm
it doesn't get much better than a key to the front door or an
invitationto Christmas dinner. Or as Lem would say, "The
fellowship delivered its
promise to me the day I walked in the room and nobody threw me
out. That
was life beyond my wildest dreams and everything after that was just
icing on a dope fiends cake."
Believe it or not it's been 24 years since I met Lem and I've never
wondered what my life would look like without him. That's
because I know
what it looks like with him and with him I discovered the rooms of
Narcotics Anonymous where I am given a daily reprieve from active
addiction one day at a time. Admittedly there are days when I
ask myself
the age old question: What came first the chicken or the egg?
Was Lem
put in my life to prepare me for a career I was already chosen
to have?
Or am I simply being reminded of what I am in order to find out
who I
am? Either way it's good. Peace has been the gift of knowing
that I too
weathered the storm and somehow managed to survive life and mine
was one
of the souls that softened on the journey home.
Leslie Wolf Plajzer lives in Baltimore with her husband Floodsy and their daughter Sarah.
She has been a Parole and Probation Officer in Baltimore City for over 20 years currently assigned to their violence
prevention unit. She recently celebrated 23 years clean in Narcotics Anonymous.
Email: Leslie Wolf Plajzer
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