Dig Deep in One Place: A Couple's Journey to a Spiritual Life explains the actual recipe that the Twelve Steps of Alcoholics Anonymous are and how they can assist anyone in the transformation of their lives. The title of our book explains how we have lived our lives together moving through our relationship, marriage, codependency, addiction, and health issues to happy, joyous freedom. The Steps are way to rise above fear and live a happy and peaceful life. We have no desire to tell anyone how to do the Twelve Steps but to begin to scrape away the mystery surrounding them using our own practical experience to show how unbelievably simple it is to change from negativity to freedom. "Dig Deep" tells the simultaneous stories of this couple's pilgrimage using two views of the same events. The book tells of the depths of depression, addiction, codependency, fear and the miracle of recovery. It is filled with tears and laughter. The truth is The Twelve steps are not self-help--but helpfulness to others. The mere reading of this book will fill everyone with hope! Hope is not the promise of a good outcome; it is the realization that somebody truly understands and there is a way out of any difficulty you may have. Doing the Twelve Steps will stop you from forging the chains that bind you. Free at last!

DIG DEEP IN ONE PLACE

A Couple's Journey to a Spiritual LifeBy BILL FIFIELD SANDY FIFIELD

Balboa Press

Copyright © 2011 Bill and Sandy Fifield
All right reserved.
ISBN: 978-1-4525-3885-3

Contents

ILLUSTRATIONS by Bill Fifield................................................................xiForeword.....................................................................................xiiiPreface......................................................................................xvIntroduction.................................................................................xviiPART ONE WHAT IT WAS LIKE...................................................................1Chapter One Point of No Return..............................................................3Chapter Two Childhood Memories—Bill...................................................13Chapter Three Air Force Brat—Sandy....................................................21Chapter Four Our Life Together..............................................................29PART TWO WHAT HAPPENED......................................................................41Chapter Five Arrival at the Temple, Bill—July 28, 1992, 6:05 p.m......................43Chapter Six Resistance—Sandy..........................................................51Chapter Seven Let's Start Digging, Bill—Steps 1-6.....................................61Chapter Eight Discovery of Denial, Sandy—Steps 1-6....................................69Chapter Nine What Can I Bring?, Bill—Steps 7-12.......................................83Chapter Ten Faith is Action, Sandy—Steps 7-12.........................................93PART THREE WHAT IT'S LIKE NOW...............................................................105Chapter Eleven Let's Dig Deeper—The Twelve Traditions.................................107Chapter Twelve Twelve Concepts of World Service.............................................119Chapter Thirteen Love, Light, and Joy—Recovery and Art................................131Chapter Fourteen Passing it On—The Circle of Recovery.................................143Afterword....................................................................................159Gratitude....................................................................................161Resources....................................................................................163Author Bio...................................................................................167

Chapter One

Point of No Return

"More is not enough." —Bill

July 28, 1992

Bill weighed 285 pounds when we dropped him off at Harmony Foundation treatment center. He was bright red and sweating like a butcher. His kidneys were shutting down, and his liver was protruding out his side. His blood pressure set a world record, and even with no signs of intoxication, he blew a .045, drunk by anyone's standard.

So how did it ever come to this? Going back in time to Christmas 1991, we can trace the final steps to this inevitable conclusion. We were not invited to the traditional Christmas get-together with Sandy's family; instead we were invited to dinner with Sandy's mother and stepfather—just the four of us in a public place, a nice restaurant. We were baffled, but we went anyway; we wanted and needed the gifts that would be given. We brought presents too. In our complete delusion and denial, we had decided to give portraits of ourselves to our friends and family. Although we couldn't see the truth at the time, this portrait was terrifying. Bill had gained weight despite, or maybe because of, the blood pressure meds he was on. He looked like he might just burst if pricked with a pin. Sandy looked baffled and scared. Neither of us had light in our eyes, but we thought we looked great! We made every effort to appear and act normal, and managed to escape the scene with the gifts and without having offended anyone too badly, but even we were starting to sense that there was something very wrong.

After Bill's birthday on January 11, the "holidays" were officially over, and we could get back to normal. Well, our normal anyway. We continued to try to prove that all was okay in our house. In February, we bought a 1985, new to us, Subaru wagon. As we drove to Denver in Bill's old International Scout to pick it up, it got later and later, and soon it was completely dark. Sandy drove the new Subaru, and Bill was to follow in the Scout. What a terrifying drive for both of us. We had both been drinking all day. Bill's night vision was nonexistent as he stared out into a wall of headlights that stretched across the windshield. Sandy couldn't find the lights, heater, defroster, or windshield wipers in the new car in the dark. It was dangerous for us and all those around us. Still, we were okay! Everything was fine! We had just bought a new car.

Early in April 1992, an old friend from Minnesota called Sandy's mother to say, "Bill has been calling me during his blackouts. Something has to be done about his drinking, or he will kill himself or someone else very soon." This friend had been sober for five years. During a conversation to plan a family wedding that was taking place in Telluride, Colorado, in late June, Sandy's mother confronted her with this information, asking, "What is really going on with Bill and you? Is everything okay in your house? Can we trust him to behave at the wedding festivities? Do we need to stage an intervention?" Sandy broke down and told the truth. She said, "Yes, we need to have an intervention, but not until after the wedding." Now there were two events being planned for that summer—one just as much a beginning as the other, as it turned out.

Now, how did Sandy behave with this secret information? She had to withdraw from attempt to control battle with Bill that she had been engaging in prior to this decision. That behavior included constantly asking, "Have you been drinking? How much?" She had to control her own drinking, lest she tell the secret about the intervention to take place three weeks after the wedding (July 28). She still drank with Bill, but he was vaguely aware that something had changed. He would look at her and inquire, "What's going on?" It was extremely difficult for Sandy to keep the secret. There was still the wish that it really wouldn't be necessary to have an intervention, that everything would somehow magically get better on its own. Sandy continued to plan for both events.

We decided a camping trip to the Utah desert would be fun before the wedding. We would make it a full week of celebration, including the wedding. As it turned out, it was our last hurrah with drugs and alcohol.

The first full day started with drinks all around as we packed the Subaru in the rain. That summer, we needed to go to the desert to have any summer at all. We argued and drank all the way to Grand Junction, Colorado. We arrived drunk, tired, and hungry, found a motel, and ventured out for some food. The first restaurant was so busy that, after an hour and more drinks, it became obvious that our food order had been lost, so we left. After threatening an employee at the next restaurant, we decided to return to the motel to eat some of our camping food and drink the rest of the vodka and rum we had brought. We finally passed out after an emotional and hurtful argument. In the morning, filled with fresh resolve to have a great time, we replenished our booze and beer supply and were on our way to Utah, where we planned to camp along the Colorado River near Moab.

Drinking beer all the way, we finally found a campsite that was located deep in the tamarisk and high above the river. The only access to the river was down a twenty-five-foot mudslide. The tamarisk was dark and creepy, and there were spiders and bugs all around. We didn't like it, but again we were drunk, tired, hot, irritable, and hungry, so we had to set up camp fast. After a quick meal, many more cocktails, and a loud argument that echoed off the canyon walls, we passed out in the tent with the agreement that we would buy no more alcohol the next day. We were sure that we could make do with the supply we had left.

Awakening with vicious hangovers, we found a new campsite on an open bend of the Colorado River, a beautiful spot. We pitched our tent under a small tree where we could see the river flowing. There was an easy-to-get-to small, sandy beach. We spent the day setting up camp, drinking, swimming, and sunbathing. By early afternoon, we were out of booze, even the beer, and we were starting to feel the effects of withdrawal from alcohol and dehydration. Bill was shaking and sweating a dry sweat, and neither of us felt well. We vaguely sensed that this was more than just another hangover.

We somehow made it through an extremely strange and long, hot night. After a violent windstorm that sounded like a freight train coming down the canyon, slammed into our tent, and nearly rolled us into the river, a large group of young campers arrived after midnight to set up camp next to us. We were jolted awake to lots of noise and activity. We, of course, thought we were about to be attacked. In the morning, we broke camp in a hurry to get to Moab and find the liquor store, a difficult thing to do in Utah.

We restocked with beer, vodka, and rum, and off we went to the grocery store for ice, dry ice, mixers, and some food. For our next night, we decided to visit Arches National Park and then camp at Dead Horse Point State Park. Dead Horse Point was a natural spot to corral and catch wild horses in the 1800s, but some horses had been left by mistake to die of thirst. We felt about the same way even though there was a gorgeous view of a horseshoe bend in the Colorado River. We looked longingly down at the river far below and thought, The Subaru has four-wheel drive, and the map shows a four-wheel drive road leading to the river from here. Let's go! We pass a large sign warning, "POINT OF NO RETURN, CHECK BRAKES HERE." Sandy tapped the brakes, and off we went, straight down the side of the mesa. The only other vehicles we saw were huge, high, four-wheel drive Jeep touring cars whose occupants all looked at us like we were crazy, and well, we were. Three hours later, we reached the river bottom. The car was overheating and pushed to its limits, and so were we.

After checking out several potential campsites, we found a private one close to the river, but it was in the tamarisk and a mess. We sat in the river with fresh drinks to cool off. Then we worked to set up camp and cook some dinner. As the sun went down, the air was suddenly filled with mosquitoes. Our only defense was to head for the tent with dinner and all our booze to wait out the night. We drank until we passed out to the hum of predatory insects bouncing off the tent all night. Just the thought of leaving our refuge for any reason was terrifying.

With sunrise, the mosquitoes were gone, so we packed up and headed to Telluride for the wedding. First we stopped in Moab for more vodka, rum, and beer. We had promised to be on our best behavior for the wedding events, so we stashed the vodka and rum in the Subaru and promised each other that we would not touch it until after the wedding festivities. Beer and wine were approved, and there were plenty of opportunities to drink those without being noticed.

Arriving in Telluride in late afternoon, we had a lovely room provided for us at the New Sheridan Hotel that looked out on the main street of downtown Telluride. Bill immediately disappeared into the bar for a couple of shots of vodka. The rest of the family was already there and checked in, so after a quick shower and a change from camping grubbies to resort clothes, we went to dinner with the whole family. Since no one was really paying attention to us, we were able to sneak enough extra wine to maintain our blood alcohol level, but not appear drunk.

The next day, Saturday, the wedding day finally arrived. The event was to take place on Hastings Mesa northwest of Telluride. It was a beautiful mountain property complete with wildflowers in profusion, plenty of aspen trees, and lots of beer and wine. With old friends and new, both of us behaved nicely, with no problems. We even got away with snorting some cocaine someone had brought. The beautiful afternoon wound down, and we were off to Ouray, Colorado, where the tab had been picked up again at the Beaumont Hotel for the family. We had another dinner with lots of wine, and we were off to bed. It was an old hotel with paper-thin walls and transom windows above the doors. The night started off peacefully, but soon the tranquility was broken by snoring—Bill's snoring. Some said it sounded like a bull elephant in rut, extremely loud. Sandy didn't hear a thing. She had learned long ago that if she passed out before it started, she could sleep through the din, but everyone else in the hotel gathered outside the door to marvel at the sheer volume of noise coming from our room. We guess that the family and other guests must have gotten some sleep because they didn't drag us out of the room and murder us. We all met for brunch Sunday morning, with plenty of Bloody Marysfor everyone. We endured some kidding because of the snoring, and then we were free from the family at last.

Now the real reason we had stashed the vodka and rum became clear; alcohol sales were illegal on Sunday in Colorado in 1992. We congratulated ourselves on our foresight and drove off to the Orvis Hot Springs in Ridgeway, Colorado, where we planned to spend the night, soak in the clothing-optional hot springs, and drink all afternoon. The results were predictable: another endless argument, and we eventually passed out to wake in the morning and drive home to Conifer.

Sandy was back to work the next day thinking, Well, everything went great. Maybe we don't need to have an intervention after all. Bill did behave at the wedding. It almost seemed like the good old days. But there he was when she arrived home, passed out drunk on the couch, dead to the world. It continued to get worse instead of better. Plans for the intervention progressed.

Intervention day arrived. Bill had been told that we were invited to a "party" hosted by our friend from Minnesota starting at 4:00 p.m. at a small cabin in Allen's Park, just south of Estes Park, Colorado. We started out early at 10:00 a.m. We were both nervous for different reasons. Bill was anxious to get to the "party" so he could drink openly, and Sandy had to figure out how to stall until 4:00. We couldn't get to the "party" before the appointed time. After stopping at liquor stores in Conifer and Evergreen, Sandy decided that she just had to stop at a casino in Blackhawk to gamble for a while to kill some time. The drinks we ordered tasted like water and had absolutely no effect on either of us. We fed the slot machines for a couple of hours and finally started again for Allen's Park. Because the drinks at the casino had no effect, we had to stop again in Nederland to buy just a little more booze for the "party."

The directions to the cabin were confusing, especially since Bill was looking for lots of cars indicating a party, but all the participants of the intervention had hidden their cars. Bill was getting suspicious, asking, "Where's the party?" again and again. Just then our friend from Minnesota strolled out of the woods wearing an outrageous ten-gallon Stetson hat with feathers all over it. He said, "Come on in the cabin." We stepped into the front room, and there sat the only six people left in our life who would still talk to us and one total stranger.

The stranger opened his mouth and said the words that would change our lives forever. Looking directly at Bill, he said, "We know what's been going on. These family and friends are scared to death that you are about to kill yourself or somebody else with your drinking." He continued, "They want to know if you would be willing to go into treatment today for addiction."

Bill opened his mouth, and out came, "Okay." There was a stunned silence.

One of the participants jumped to his feet and said, "Now wait just a minute, we have been terrified of this moment for months. We have written letters to try to talk you into going into treatment, so you're going to sit there and listen to them."

There we sat for over an hour while they read their letters of love and concern. Bill still agreed to go to Harmony, but he was starting to shake and sweat. The stranger asked if he wanted another drink before we drove to the treatment center in Estes Park. Bill said, "No, I'm done."

Chapter Two

Childhood Memories—Bill

"You can't get into heaven carrying a bag of garbage." —Bill

I don't know why I got to spend so much time with my grandparents as a kid. Maybe my folks were having some kind of difficulties, but I just loved it. First I spent time with them out on the farm and then in the tiny town of Fountain, Minnesota, where Grandpa retired after he gave his farm to the boys (my uncles). I loved helping Grandma pick corn and raspberries in her outrageous garden, cooking loose meat hamburgers, and the very special way she fixed the corn. I have never tasted anything like it anywhere. She would cup my face in her hands, smile, and call me Billy.

I remember fishing with Grandpa, sitting on the banks of the Zumbro River, using bamboo poles and red and white bobbers. I never seemed to catch anything and there was not much talk, but I remember being surrounded by his love and caring. It was the same parked in rocking chairs on his tiny porch greeting passersby. You could tell who did or didn't interest him by his turning his pocket model hearing aid up or down. It sounded like feedback from a rock star's guitar. I remember going to the post office with him. When he retired, he bought a brand-new baby blue Chevy pickup. Now, the post office was only on the far side of the adjacent block. Don't forget, he was deaf, so we would peel out of the driveway, spitting gravel everywhere up to the stop sign on the corner. With me hanging on for dear life, we burned rubber around the corner to the right; one more right, and there was the post office. There were always a few of Grandpa's cronies there. He would always introduce me and make sure I was included. Then we would repeat the performance back to the house. It's a sweet, sweet memory.

I always meant to go back home and tell Grandpa how much I loved him, but what I got to do was go back and carry his coffin. It broke my heart. It took years to forgive myself. So years later when Grandma was living with my folks and Mom called saying she wanted to see me, I responded at once. We sat together while she embroidered a dishcloth for me. She had pro wrestling on the TV because she thought that's what boys liked to do on weekends. "Uff da and my, my Billy," she said while patting my hand. What an awesome woman. She seemed to have been born brimming with spiritual principles. Her whole life was filled with giving. There is no telling how many babies got booties and blankets and how many folks she kept from going hungry. Three days after we got home to Colorado, she died. Thank you, God, that I got to tell her I loved her and how much she meant to me.

(Continues...)

Excerpted from DIG DEEP IN ONE PLACEby BILL FIFIELD SANDY FIFIELD Copyright © 2011 by Bill and Sandy Fifield. Excerpted by permission of Balboa Press. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
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