Last Call: An Epicurean's Journey Through Addiction

By John Paul Bordach

With many of his earliest memories centered around the enjoyment of good food and strong drink, John Bordach’s successful 30-year career in the hospitality industry was in some ways preordained. Whether waiting tables in high-end establishments, managing one of the first sushi restaurants in the region, or cooking for large crowds, the creation, presentation, and pleasure of a fine meal enhanced with the
perfect liquid accompaniment was Bordach’s greatest ambition. It was also almost his death.

Relating tales both comic and tragic, Bordach takes us through his journey of alcohol addiction with a self-deprecating humor that belies the poignancy of his story. Coming of age during the 1970s in Detroit’s downriver suburbs, yet deeply influenced by the woods and waters of northern Michigan, Bordach spans a wide-ranging landscape of love, friendship and work colored with the emotional despair and physical destruction of addiction.

Both a cautionary tale and a hopeful ode to recovery, “Last Call” reminds us that addiction can happen to anyone. When the ingredients in an addict’s ‘bowl of life’—outer-directed blame, indifference, denial, and guilt— combine to create a toxic meal, only new ingredients—inner reflection, faith, and hard work -can provide the nourishment for recovery.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Mar 19, 2012
• ISBN: 9781469151328

John Paul Bordach

A SMALL AUTOBIOGRAPHY My name is John Paul Bordach. I was born on August 30, 1954 at Lincoln Hospital in Detroit, Michigan. The hospital was torn down shortly after my birth. I guess they decided they couldn’t replicate perfection. My Father was an immigrant from Hungary. My Mother hailed from Akron, Ohio. Father made Fords at the Dearborn Mi. Rouge Plant from 1935 until 1976. My Mother was a house wife filled with patience and love. I have an older Brother; retired from Ford A Sister, who is a retired teacher in Ohio. Mom passed away at age 54, Father at age 81. I graduated from Lincoln Park High School in 1972, from Henry Ford Comm. College in 1977 and 1979. I earned an Assoc. in Science degree in Botanical Sciences and a certificate in Hospitality Management and Culinary Arts. My career spanned approximately 30 years in various hospitality operations, including restaurants, clubs, and institutional feeding. In the 1980’s I was co-owner of a small catering concern, which was a valuable experience. I am now retired because of a disability. My wife Beverly and I have been married for 20 years and reside in Dearborn Heights Mi. She had two children from a previous marriage and between them, we have 6 grandkids. It’s a man’s dream, six grandkids and the only diapers I’ve seen have been on television. It is a dream except at Christmas, of course. My alcohol addiction is the reason for me to write my book. Possible success is nice. Being able to help people is my ultimate goal. Thank you for the opportunity. John Bordach

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Copyright © 2012 by John Paul Bordach.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Getty Images are models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Getty Images.

Foreword written by A. E. Nowlin

Cover design by S. F. B.

Interior photos provided by J. P. B.

Rev. date: 10/13/2021

Xlibris

844-714-8691

www.Xlibris.com

594993

CONTENTS

CHAPTER 1 Awakenings on a Journey

CHAPTER 2 In the Beginning

CHAPTER 3 As Time Goes By

CHAPTER 4 Right on Schedule

CHAPTER 5 Patient Interrupted

CHAPTER 6 The World

CHAPTER 7 Of Airplanes and Flaming Falls

CHAPTER 8 Earthquake I

CHAPTER 9 Earthquake II

CHAPTER 10 Making the Rubble Bounce

CHAPTER 11 Juma’s Charge

CHAPTER 12 The Dentalist

CHAPTER 13 Good Bye . . . . Hello

CHAPTER 14 Of Sailors and Too Often Charted Seas . . . .

CHAPTER 15 Where’s My Freakin’ Truck?!?

CHAPTER 16 Too Soon . . . Too Soon

CHAPTER 17 Tooth Wars

CHAPTER 18 Time Marches On . . . In Place

CHAPTER 19 Goodbye to All That

CHAPTER 20 The Why of Want

CHAPTER 21 Our Losses are Mounting

CHAPTER 22 Ascent to the North, On a Southbound Trail

CHAPTER 23 A Hunt in the Remembering Snow

CHAPTER 24 Lessons from the 45th Parallel

CHAPTER 25 Rehab Ability

CHAPTER 26 Fully Awake

This book is

dedicated to all people who have suffered through or witnessed the debilitating effects of addiction.

Ad Maiorem Dei Gloriam.

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

I WISH TO thank the people who brought this book to life. They are . . .

• Mr. Arthur E. Nowlin—for pressing the button to start this engine.

• The staffs of Garden City, Oakwood Henry Ford, and William Beaumont hospitals. Thanks to you, I’m still here.

• The University of Michigan Dental College. My dental construction artist, who gave smiles while building my smile.

• The professionals at Thera-Matrix, who took this broken pile of rubble and made it walk.

• Carrie, my dear friend and wordsmith. Thank you is not enough.

• My friends at St. Linus Parish. You are helping steer this ship.

• My sister and brother, for their patience in helping raise me. Your job isn’t finished.

• Mom and Dad. You are remembered always.

• All of my friends herein, living or gone. You wrote the book, I just happened to have the pen and paper.

• My wife Beverly. Only you and I can trade cannonades like two old galleons at sea, only to sail away together afterward. Quite a team.

FOREWORD

O CCASIONALLY, IN OUR personal endeavors of life we come in contact with people who may illuminate a special presence or gift which is apparent during the first encounter. In meeting John it only took a few moments to recognize that he possessed a special gift. John had the gift of storytelling. It was intriguing to listen to John as he provided information regarding his history of alcoholism. John was also forthright in explaining how a harmless expression of relaxation and celebration could cause an engagement on the battlefield between life and death.

During John’s interesting career in the restaurant business he had the opportunity to develop his skills in meeting the needs of those who came to eat and drink. As he continued to progress in his craft, he also learned how to drink and socialize with his co-workers. John’s story became compelling to me as I recognized how easily our lives could become caught in the web of despair. Although John was a professional in the restaurant business he was unable to realize how the cunning disease of alcoholism had taken root in the mind and body of its host. John was not prepared for some of the dynamics that invaded his psyche, creating a continuous desire to engage in celebration without consideration of consequences of his actions.

John was brought into reality due to a near death encounter causing him to make a major decision of whether to live or die. John has chosen life and the world will benefit from his decision. John has decided to give an account of his life and describe how he left a world of alcoholism to transition into recovery. This book is a sensitive description of the humor and pain of John’s experiences. John provided an account of his life which addresses some of the issues that affect many of us today. The need for self-gratification becomes emphasized and we lose sight of what is reality, and what draws us to the unrealistic attraction of addiction.

I recommend that you take the opportunity to read this book and celebrate the victory of life as John offers you the humor and sensitivity into his soul. Well done John and congratulations for choosing life.

PREFACE

S OMETIME IN 1964 a 9 year old boy walked into Art’s Place restaurant in Akron, Ohio accompanied by his mother, aunt, and uncle. By this age he was already enthralled by restaurants. He loved the hustle and bustle, the noises coming from the kitchen, the pretty, smiling waitresses, and of course, the food.

This particular night was a Friday. That usually meant mountains of fried shrimp would soon be in front of him. Instead, as he looked at the menu he noticed something he had never heard of - Blue Pike. Being from Michigan and surrounded by the magnificent Great Lakes, he thought he knew about every fish there. He knew the Northern Pike, the Gar Pike, many of which ended up on the end of his fishing lines. He ordered the Blue Pike.

What followed was the quintessential Great Lakes shore dinner: three long, crispy fillets with hand cut French fries, cole slaw, tartar sauce, (which he never used. Why spoil perfection?). Accompanying was a basket of soft warm rolls which acted as a butter sponge. The boy asked for and received two more pieces of fish which he ate with the same alacrity as the first three.

The boy swore his undying fealty to all things restaurant, although it would be years before he could participate in that noble endeavor.

Around the same time, he was being introduced to another entity that was based around consumption. It was the local bar. He had seen alcohol many times: at home, at the neighbors, at picnics. He knew what it did to people. It made them silly, sometimes violent, sometimes sick. Now, sitting at his small table at the local bar with his warm, pulp laden orange juice, occasionally sliding a puck down the long shuffle board table, he got to watch. The boy saw his father, sitting at the bar, on a tall stool, beer and shot in front of him. There were his father’s Sunday friends, the day he had off work. The friends engaged in loud, then soft conversation as they drank the day away.

The boy took note of the many different colored lights in the otherwise darkened room. Most were emanating from beer advertisement signs. (Drink this beer, and you’ll be a real man.) The centerpiece was the large circular light over the center of the bar. It had a team of horses pulling a large wagon around the inside of the light. This fascinated the boy. There was a porcelain statue of a fat man with red cheeks and nose hoisting his porcelain glass of beer skyward. Why did he look like W.C. Fields? Why did the men surrounding his father look like the statue? Always it seemed, at the far end of the bar sat a woman. She was under the brightest light in the bar as if she were on stage. She wore heavy makeup and an odd sort of dress that the boy knew his mother would never wear. Her hair was long, curled and pretty, but clearly an after thought.

There she sat, cigarette smoke swaddling her shoulder and face, as she stared, sometimes upward, beckoning something, remembering something, sometimes staring past the brightly lit bottles behind the bar. The woman was oblivious to the sound of the dirges or dance music coming from the juke box that she had put her dimes into, only to forget about a moment later. As she curled her hand around her strangely colored drink, the boy wondered. Was she sad? Are those tears? Why was she alone? How come none of the men were sitting with her?

The boy couldn’t have known it then, but the restaurant and the bar were conspiring to gain a large portion of his soul.

As you know by now, the boy was and is me. Herein you will find a story of joy, humor, also sadness and tragedy. You will see how the various ingredients came together in my life’s bowl to set me on the course of alcohol addiction. Some of these things may seem familiar to you, either as an addict or someone who is deeply affected by someone close to you who is. There are as many tales of addiction as there are people who inhabit the earth. If there is at least one salient point here that touches you or gives you clue as to a cure, then this book has done its job.

The Blue Pike is extinct now, a victim of man-made pollution and over-fishing. I nearly followed suit by the hand of my own self-induced pollution. There are only two possible outcomes to addiction. There is either lasting victory, or the ultimate defeat. There are no ties in this game. There is one word that should never be in proximity of any length to the word addiction. That word is Complacency. There is one word that should always be present. That word is Truth.

It begins.

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CHAPTER 1

Awakenings on a Journey

T HE SUREST WAY to end a habit that is hurting you is to continue it.

The gentle swirling began to subside. The darkness which had seemed to go on for quite some time receded. I blinked a couple of times and looked around. Okay, yeah, hospital, which one, why? I reached back for a memory of the last few days—zero. One week? Was I that bad? Am I in danger?

Presently a nurse appeared bearing water, cups, tissues, spit cup . . . . all of the things needed to set up base camp John B. She said the doctor would be in momentarily to see me to explain the procedure he had performed and give me initial results. A few momentary hours later, he showed up and regaled me with tales of all of the pokings, insertions, MRIs, CAT scans, irradiations, isotopes and ray guns they had to use. I held on tighter to the bed for fear I would fall out and disappear in an electro-magnetic pulse that would blackout the city.

The doctor said I’d done just fine, fabulous, in fact, which I guess meant I hadn’t bitten anybody’s finger off during the procedure. What I had was alcohol poisoning leading to a practically full system crash. My blood had become an unidentifiable alien sludge. My pancreas was not functioning, my kidneys ached, and my neurological system was sending bolts instead of impulses. I was truly one sick man. My wife Beverly had been told I might not make it out of there. No wonder she was so haggard and drained when she came into the room.

How are you feeling? At this juncture she must have been feeling anger or fear. I didn’t detect any sympathy or empathy. Should I have?

My wife and I both drank prodigiously at many social functions. The problem was, I didn’t stop after the party was over. I continued it in my vehicle, bedroom, home office, wherever I could stash something.

Why there was not intervention earlier, I can understand. My wife was powerless against my well-trained forces of denial. Denial is a great ally to the weak. Denial says to others around you, Leave me alone. I am fine. I’m smarter than you. Whether you are addressing another human being, or a recalcitrant object, it’s always, Why won’t this bolt thread right? What’s wrong with this hammer? It’s never that maybe you should check yourself. Denial, access denied.

It can begin when you are very young, and take you through your entire life. Denial is your raft in the heavy seas. It is your tent to protect you from heat, cold, upheaval of any type. It is a long tunnel, and in this one, when you are seeing the light at the perceived end, it may just well be that damned train.

Inner and outer directionality are two important pieces in the puzzle of life. The inner-directed person tends to do their homework, their research, depend on logic before presenting an idea or instituting a course of action. The outer-directed person uses emotion to elicit responses. He wants to know if he is doing the right thing before he acts. Will he be loved, respected, showered with the adoration he so richly deserves?

A balanced life should contain elements of both. I suggest a 2:1 ratio of inner over outer. The more inner direction we have, the more likely we are to achieve our goals without outside interference, if you will.

Two days later, it was time to go home. The doctors were reluctant, but there was not much more they could do. They and my wife seemed to know more than I did. I was either unaware or denying how sick I was. I needed assistance getting into the car as I was dizzy, weak and generally in pain.

Once home, Bev helped me from the car and up the formerly easy two-step climb to the porch. It seemed like ascending Everest.

She propped me up and ferried me down the hallway to my waiting bed. Ah, familiar surroundings. My books, my faithful television remote, and fresh clothes were provided, along with a new addition, adult diapers. Hello geriatric Land of Oz. I had begun to leak from every orifice I owned. Particularly bothersome was the blood from my teeth, gums and occasionally my nose. My head was surrounded by paper towels lest the bed become fully blood soaked. The long encampment had begun.

Many things had to happen during this time. Bev took over all of the household duties. I surrendered my car keys (doctor’s orders), my wallet, keys to the mail box, and all household income. She had unwittingly taken on a tremendous task.

Our success or failure depended on two factors. The first was my participation in the program of medications and routines to make me stronger. The jury was still out on whether or not I would improve or if the affliction had already traveled toward a sooner than desired conclusion. The second factor was Bev’s performance as head of household. My wife is a very capable and strong person. Her experience of a tight, though dysfunctional upbringing, steeled her to be independent. Our marriage has been like a roller coaster with no flat run. It was either fight, or have a great time. She was unusual in her 100% inner-directed strength. I believe her given name was actually The. Overall, a perfect candidate for the tough job ahead.

She arranged numerous medications with no mistakes and made sure that I took them when necessary—not easy when you are dealing with a dozen various pills and liquids daily. Some medications were to stabilize my blood. There were vitamins, liquids to remove ammonia from my brain, of which I had enough to fill a bottle of Windex. There were compounds to increase bowel movements, others to induce constipation. She knew what they all were; I had no idea.

She arranged numerous doctor appointments that filled up our calendar. She fought with them about scheduling; none of the specialists were close by or had appointment times that were convenient. I needed help now. The only break in routine was going to the doctors. It was a long dark winter and any respite from the house was welcome. Bev did her best to accede to my demands. I had developed quite a sweet tooth. Perhaps this was a homeostatic adjustment to the lack of alcohol. Her trips to the store were frequent, if only to load me up with junk food. The people at Little Debbie’s cakes and snacks could have offered me stock options as time went by.

A third factor emerged—who was going to pay for all of this? We had both lost our jobs and unemployment was running out. Bev took on the Social Security Administration in a quest for information. It was going to be up to the doctor’s diagnosis and prognosis to decide if I was sick enough to qualify for insurance and benefits. My liver could tell you that I was.

Medical bills began to arrive and as I looked at the Business Channel daily, I saw the national debt clock was past 14 trillion dollars. Oh shoot, I could probably beat that in five years. As the days slowly passed, I had time to reflect on what put me in this current reality. In our lives there are incidents, some a mere flash, others ongoing, that direct us along our path. As I went backward in time, I began to see the ingredients in the mixing bowl that made my eventual addiction a foregone conclusion.

It is December 2010.

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CHAPTER 2

In The Beginning

Y OU SAID IT was WHAT?

We cannot create food and drink, really. It has always been there. It creates us.