Island Shelter: Beyond Trauma and Addiction a Recovery Memoir

By Karen Kiaer

Island Shelter recounts the childhood, young adulthood and current life experiences of Karen Kiaer, a woman who overcame great odds to recover from the disease of alcoholism. Daughter, wife, mother, and now grandmother, every woman who struggles with addiction and who self medicates yet continues to pretend everything is under control will learn the valuable insights that helped transform Karens attitudes through painful personal traumas, and out the other end of a very long journey the journey of alcohol recovery.

After losing her husband to cancer, Karen finds herself alone with three young boys to raise, no job, no money, multiple lawsuits, fears of the mob seeking retribution against her husband for non payment of loans, an out of touch, insensitive mother, and a notice that her beautiful island home has been placed on the public auction block. The nurturing tenderness and intimacy of a nine year relationship with another woman may have helped her back to psychic wholeness, but in the end, for addicts, if the relationship is not meant to be forever, the sexual behavior simply becomes another addiction, another way to fill up the hole of separation and emptiness.

All of these things Karen does to escape, avoid, and numb out the stash of fears and pain that has been embedded deep in her cells for decades, like chiggers that fester and brood until someone finally puts a match to them. Her journey shows us how, when faced with adversity and uncertainty, the battle between the higher self and the destructive self is fierce. What helps get her through the cravings and temptations is her love of gardening which quickly becomes a physical and meditative outlet. An art major in college, she had always found joy in the creative process, so painting and pottery become new ways for expressing her creativity in moments without pain.

The good news of all of this is that while we addicts may still have a lot of work to do, we are nowhere where we used to be. This generations cycle of abuse and addiction has been broken. Theres no need to numb out anymore youve learned how to love yourself, all of you, including the bad. And with that love comes peace.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: May 31, 2012
• ISBN: 9781477117798

Karen Kiaer

Karen Kiaer resides in Shelter Island and New York City. She loves to garden, paint, bake clay, and spend time with her family and grandchildren. She is working on her second book, Through My Ancestors’ Eyes.

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Copyright © 2012 by Karen Kiaer.

Library of Congress Control Number:       2012909328

ISBN:         Hardcover                               978-1-4771-1778-1

                   Softcover                                 978-1-4771-1777-4

                   Ebook                                      978-1-4771-1779-8

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.

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CONTENTS

Prologue

Part I

Sense Of Place

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

September Opus

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Part II

Bob’s Smells

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Part III

Palm Springs Mother

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Part IV

Salt And Pepper

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Filling Up

For my sons, Edward, John, and Scott,

who continue to fill my life with golden moments.

PROLOGUE

To My Sons

Dear Ed, John, and Scott,

As you may be hesitant to read this memoir (my childhood’s ugly details as you refer to them), I thought you may be able to take this brief prologue, which is written just for you.

I wrote this memoir because I needed to tell my story, scary as it is. It’s the truth as I see it about my struggle through trauma and addiction, and finally, sobriety and a kind of freedom. I know that along the way, I hurt you. I’m sorry.

I’m an alcoholic. Alcoholism is a disease. I have it, my parents had it, and my siblings have it. Love, trust, and intimacy are its enemies, addiction its master. I’m not sure if the disease was passed on to me in my genetic DNA, if I’ve acted out childhood abuses and old wounds, or if I was just a helpless pawn in a psychic family lottery. I do know that I’ve had fifty years of a profound and complex relationship with alcohol.

Over the years, people asked me, Being a widow, raising three sons alone, working, wasn’t it hard? Yes, it was hard, but getting sober was harder. There is no one cause, one diagnosis, or one treatment. There is help. Understanding my disease came with years of therapy and attending AA meetings. My recovery is ongoing, one day at a time.

The decision to stay and raise you on Shelter Island after your father died was a good one. I believe the bucolic beauty of the sea, woods, wildlife, fresh air, and small-town life supported your growth. I loved watching you work on wooden boats and carpentry projects, scavenge for treasures at the dump, rebuild engines, catch snappers at Shell Beach, and sail out into the bay.

You’ve grown into kind, strong, and able young men. You’ve cast off your moorings, I can see that. Perhaps by telling my story, you can tell yours someday. Until then, good sailing, and may the wind always be at your back.

PART I

SENSE OF PLACE

The wind and the sea lured us here—

accident—a spring trip to the east end,

to secure a mooring for our boat—

Klaria—resting place

We found pilings in Sag Harbor.

Across the bay in Shelter Island,

we knotted lines—

taut for safety.

Waters blue and winds blew,

death arrived and surprised.

Yet, a seed dropped,

labored in the salty soil.

Sons grew with seasons.

My self planted in this protected place.

A horseradish rooted in my garden,

which every spring,

I water, water, and water.

CHAPTER 1

1983

The phone rings. Five in the morning, and it’s still dark. A cold Shelter Island Monday in February. I lean over the edge of the bed, reach for the phone and pull it to me, still half-asleep. A rasped-edged voice tells me, Ron’s in the hospital. He’s got a tumor in his lung. You’d better come here right away.

I set the phone back in its cradle, fold back the blankets, and stumble out of bed, dress, call the sitter. Seven minutes to catch the 5:45 p.m. ferry. Barely notice when the ferryman taps my window for my ticket. I drive off the ferry gangplank onto the Greenport side. I will not panic. I will not panic. Maintaining the speed limit, I drive the Volkswagen west for two hours on the Long Island Expressway to the Glen Cove Community Hospital, where Don had phoned from. He’d ordered an ambulance to have Ron picked up from his apartment in Manhattan, where he’d collapsed the night before. Having no health insurance, Ron had called Don, his brother, knowing that he would admit him to the hospital where he was a doctor. Ron had been complaining of exhaustion and loss of appetite. We both thought the symptoms were due to work-related stress.

I inhale and exhale as cumulous gray clouds gather on the distant horizon. I don’t recall parking the car, walking into the hospital, or finding my way in to Ron’s room in the ICU. When I reach his room, there are two doctors in starched hospital jackets, with steel stethoscopes slung around their necks. One of them is Don. They are standing a few feet from the bed where Ron is sleeping; they speak in hushed tones, scribbling notes with fountain pens. They glance at Ron in the bed, nod to each other and write on matching Lucite clipboards. Standing there, ignored in the antiseptic lettuce green room, I’m stunned. Finally, I unfreeze and make my way to Ron’s bed. Dappled sunlight shines across his face.

His wrists are strapped to steel handlebars. His eyes are closed. I bend over the bars and take his left hand into both my hands and whisper, Ron, Ron, it’s me, Karen. His eyes open. His face and eyes are jaundice yellow and bloated. He recognizes me. He struggles to raise his head up from the pillow. A tube is tapped to an incision in his throat, and another protrudes out of his mouth, looped around the steel bars and attached to two beeping metal machines. Another tube is inserted into his right arm and attached to an intravenous drip. He pulls on his bound wrists, struggles to speak.

Don chooses this moment to introduce me. Dr. Fitzpatrick, this is my sister-in-law, Karen. Karen, this is Dr. Fitzpatrick, head of radiology. I lift my head and turn to Don.

Why are Ron’s wrists tied? trying to keep the edge out of my voice.

The morphine isn’t working, he answers, and we want him to stay calm. He’s a stubborn son of a bitch.

I never liked my brother-in-law.

Remove Ron’s restraints, right now! And for heaven’s sake, give him a pad and pencil!

Don stares at me, blank faced. Then he tells me, "No, Karen, his right lung has collapsed, and we had to do an emergency tracheotomy