If I Die Before I Wake (6 page)

Still holding the pills in my closed fist, I made the phone call I swore I wouldn't make. I had no idea what I would say if anyone answered. When I heard Jack C.'s deep voice, all I could do was weep, sobbing into the receiver. Patiently, he waited until I could squeak out a few words, and said, “Well, why don't you come over here?” He only lived a few blocks away. Fumbling with buttons and zipper, I bundled up and trudged through the snow—because between the shakes and stomach cramps, I knew I couldn't drive.

Unaware until I arrived at the house that it was Christmas Eve, it struck me as strange that Jack had told me to come over when he obviously had company. I hesitated at the end of the driveway full of cars and stared at the house, decorated in blinking lights with a wreath on the door. When I would have turned to leave, the door opened. Jack motioned me inside. His four grown boys were there, three of whom I discovered were also in AA. One by one, they left the room until I was alone at the kitchen table with Jack and a half a cup of coffee that I could barely get to my mouth without sloshing all over myself and the table.

My arms crossed, hands tucked under each armpit to keep them from shaking, I stood and paced back and forth as I poured out my pain to this virtual stranger. He listened. He waited. When I'd exhausted myself, he shared with me some
of his story, including how he got through withdrawal. Then he said, “It's not forever. This too shall pass.” “When?” my mind screamed. Jack didn't seem to notice. He smiled, rose, reached up to a shelf and pulled down a box, which he handed to me. It was tea. For God's sake … tea? How was tea going to help?

Jack drove me home as I clutched the bag of items he called the withdrawal emergency kit. The last thing he said to me was, “If you think you're going to drink or drug, call me first.” I nodded. Inside, I unloaded the items and stood staring at them. I didn't believe herbal tea, honey, Epsom salts, and hard candy would help, but it was worth a try. If all else failed, then I'd consider the pills.

Purposefully, I set forth the plan Jack had laid out for me. In the bathroom, I lit some candles I found in a drawer, placed them around the tub filled with hot water, bubble bath, and Epsom salts, stuck a chunk of strawberry candy in my mouth, and lowered my ravaged body slowly into the water. It felt like heaven. It was the best I'd felt in days. Staring into the flickering flame of a candle, I began to question the choices I'd made that brought me to that moment in time. Tears welled up in my eyes. I let my body slide beneath the water. Why couldn't I just let go … end it all? Running out of air, I popped up quickly, drew in a deep breath, and considered what was going to happen to me. What would I do when the owners of the house came home? Then I remembered something Jack told me. He said, “Don't worry about tomorrow, or the next hour, even the next moment. All the worry in the world won't change one
thing. All you have to concentrate on is the moment and not putting anything nasty in your mouth.”

It was a long night filled with hot baths, herbal tea loaded with sugar and honey, and candy, but finally I slept. It was a deep sleep, the sleep only those exhausted with life can understand. By morning, I did feel better, but I looked like hell. Jack invited me over for breakfast and to spend Christmas day with him and his family. It was time for some damage control. I did the best I could with what clothes and makeup I'd brought with me and made my way to Jack's house, even though everything in me told me to turn on my heel and run away. The truth was, I'd run out of anyplace to run. If I didn't like it there, I could always say I was sick and leave.

As soon as the door opened, I felt the warmth from the kitchen, smelled bacon cooking, and wondered if I would be able to eat. Jack and his boys were busy cooking, setting the table, and talking to each other. They seemed so normal that it was hard for me to fathom any of them ever being an alcoholic … being like me. They welcomed me, ushered me to the table, and set a plate in front of me. Jack fixed me a cup of tea, the same stuff I'd been drinking all night, and some toast with butter and jelly. I picked at it, eating slowly, ever mindful that it might not stay down.

After breakfast, we retired to the living room. I wanted to light a cigarette, but hesitated until I saw one of the boys pull a pack out of his pocket. I began to relax a bit. To my horror, one of the boys said they were going to open presents. Talk
about feeling out of place! I got up to leave. Jack insisted that I stay. He handed out gifts, and to my amazement there were some for me. I didn't know what to think, do, or say. I couldn't imagine where or when they had gotten the gifts, but the gesture touched my heart in a very special way. As I tore the paper away, I didn't even care what was inside—just that people I hardly knew had gone out of their way for me.

——

The money I make for house-sitting and cleaning pays the rent for the converted garage, but soon I will have to find work or be hungry and homeless. I've been both from time to time and know how to survive on very little—but I've had to do some pretty disgusting things sometimes for money. No way could I do those things sober.

I can't sit here in this filthy apartment all day. Unloading the car will have to wait until the place is clean. Thank God the shakes and vomiting have stopped. I still don't sleep much, and the alcoholic itch nearly drives me crazy at times—it feels like I have crabs all over my body. Jack says it's because my nerves are coming back to life. As I scrub the toilet, I think of all the old, filthy toilets I've cleaned, both mine and those of others. I wonder if there will ever be a time when I'll live in a nice house with new stuff that really looks clean after I work so hard. Finished, the toilet as good as I can get it, I sit at the kitchen table, pull a pouch of tobacco and papers from my purse, and roll a cigarette.

It reminds me of sitting in my first husband Jim's dad's room so many years ago. I'm not much better off than he was. It doesn't matter, though. This is my life, and it will probably not get any better. One cave or another … it makes no difference.

AT THE TINY WOODEN KITCHEN TABLE
that I've shoved in one corner so I have room to cook, I pull out the candy tin in which I keep the cigarette butts I steal from ashtrays outside public buildings and strike a match. It's a wonder I haven't got hoof-and-mouth disease or something else, smoking other people's butts. I push the thought from my mind, draw in the hot smoke, and let it out slowly. I'm going to have to make another butt run again soon. I almost got caught the last time in front of the grocery store. A woman walked up, and I acted like I was putting my cigarette out. I still wonder if she knew.

As much as I hated living in cities, sometimes I yearn for the anonymity of them, for a place where no one knows me, where I don't have to deal with the stares, the whispered comments, the people in the nicer stores watching me like I'm going to steal something. Looking at the small amount of cash in front of me, the realization of how dire my circumstances have become hits me. I've got to get a job. I know I could go back to working in the bars, but I also know I'll drink again if I do. I talked about it in the meeting tonight. The only advice they had for me was to pray about it. Are they insane? That's the dumbest thing I ever heard. If there is a God, why would he give a damn where I work?

Two weeks. I've got enough money to last two more weeks; then I don't know what I'll do. I could call Tom. He would help me; he always helped me. No! The price is too high. I've got to do this myself. God, I need a drink. Will I ever not need a drink? I envy those people at the meetings who say the desire to drink has been lifted from them. I think about alcohol every day, fight the urge, and attend meetings each night so I won't end up in a bar. Yet instead of getting easier, it's getting harder.

Jack and some other ex-drunks took me to a speaker meeting the other night. Neva G., whom I'd met before and thought was nothing more than a dried-up old windbag, told her story. She'd been sober over twenty-five years. Her words struck a note in my heart. It took everything in me to hold back tears, partly because of her story and partly because of my shame for some of the things I'd said and thought about her. I remember
saying to one girl, “Jesus Christ, what did she do … jump off the Ark and start a meeting?” We laughed. That night, the words came back to choke me.

Neva smiled coolly as I approached. I hadn't been very nice to her, but I needed her help; I needed to know how she finally got over the constant urge to drink. I put my hand out. She shook it. I asked the question on my mind. “How?” She studied my face for what seemed like long moments, and said, “I turned my will and life over to a God of my understanding each morning, and it finally left me.” I don't know if I rolled my eyes, or if the expression on my face told my attitude about that particular step, but she said, “Do you pray?” I didn't respond. She said, “Do you know any prayers?”

Each meeting began with the Serenity Prayer and closed with the Lord's Prayer. I never said them, had never memorized them, and had no intention of doing so, but I nodded. The only prayer I knew by heart was a child's prayer, and I don't even know where I learned it. You can bet it wasn't at my parents' house. It played through my mind: “Now I lay me down to sleep. I pray the Lord my soul to keep. If I die before I wake, I pray the Lord my soul to take.” I wasn't about to admit to this woman that at age 35, that was really the only prayer I knew.

Neva said, “How your sobriety goes, and for that matter how your life in sobriety goes, will be contingent on your spiritual condition. You know, you don't even have to believe. You just have to try it. I began by reading three prayers out loud each morning.” I must have looked skeptical, because when she continued, she said, “You know, Barb, you will experiment with
insanity and death before you will experiment with spirituality,” and she turned to leave.

——

A low growl from Angel tells me it's time to fix something to eat. It will be dried soup and crackers again. After pouring hot water into the Styrofoam container, I wait three minutes, dip out most of the noodle soup into a bowl, add crackers to the remaining broth, stir it until it cools, and pour it into the dog dish. It's a good thing she's so small or I wouldn't be able to feed her. Neva's words haunt me as I eat. Is she right? Should I give prayer a try? What's the worst thing that could happen?

Immediately, past prayers, unheard prayers, prayers that never worked, memories of my dead kids, my mother, even my childhood dog, Pedro, make me question what she said. My second thought is simply, what else do I have to lose? The only thing I have left that I really care about is my old dog. Before I clear the table, I look up at the white ceiling tiles and say, “Okay God, if you're up there, if you put a job in front of me, any job, I'll take it.” Now, we'll see what happens.

To clear my mind, I strip off my clothes and step into the miniscule bathroom off the kitchen for a shower. I wish I had a bathtub so I could soak in some Epsom salts and bubble bath like I did when I was at that house at Christmas. No matter; even if I had a tub, I couldn't afford the Epsom salts or bubble bath.

With no television or radio and major insomnia, the nights are long. My landlady had a rummage sale last week, and I spotted
a box filled with ballpoint paints, barely used, and a quilt ring. I bought the whole box and a white sheet for three dollars. Carefully, I cut the sheet into squares, drew pictures on them, and now I'm painting them. Jack said I needed to get a hobby. It keeps me from thinking about drinking. If I ever get all the squares done, I'll sew them together and call it my sober quilt … that is, assuming I'm still sober.

——

Angel is my alarm clock. At six o'clock every morning she's up and ready to be let out. It doesn't seem to matter to her that I didn't doze off until the middle of the night. It's a good thing this morning, because I'm supposed to meet Jack for breakfast, and it will be another long day of looking for a job. The job prayer flashes through my mind. I laugh it off, throw on some clothes, feed the dog, and trudge through snow the two blocks to the local coffee shop. I can barely wait for a steaming cup of coffee. One of the things I'll buy when I get a job is a coffeepot.

The aroma of fried bacon, eggs, and warm bread embraces me as I step into the cozy cafe, stomp the snow off my boots, and hang my coat on the wooden hall tree by the door. Several people whom I know from the meetings smile and wave. I spot Jack, who is sitting with a man I'm not familiar with, near the back of the room. He's probably another ex-drunk. I can't believe how many of them there are in such a small town. I can't wait to sit down. Jack's going to buy breakfast. Thank God, or it would be a long, hungry day.

Jack introduces the man as Dan, we order, and begin to chat. When Jack asks if I'm going to look for work today, the man says, “Are you looking for a job?” The hairs on the back of my neck stand up. “I know a woman,” he continues, “that might be looking for someone to help with her mother. You should give her a call.” He scribbles a name and phone number on a napkin and hands it to me. Before I can respond, the food arrives. It's not something I would choose to do, but the thought of making money, of what I could buy if I had a job, drives me to ask the cafe owner if I can use the phone after breakfast. She's been great about letting me give her phone number out when looking for work, since I don't have a phone at home.

My heart pounds as I punch in the numbers. I really need this job. A woman answers. I ask about the situation. She says she doesn't need anyone at the moment, but she'll take my name and number. I hang up, knowing she'll never call. No one is ever going to call. I sowed my wild drunken oats all over town, did disgusting things, left a man whom everyone thinks of highly—why would anyone want to hire me … except the bars, for obvious reasons? Defeated, I drag myself home, put on my old robe, crawl under a blanket on the couch with Angel, and cry until I fall asleep.

For three days, I hole up in the garage, only getting dressed in time for meetings. At the meetings, I try to shut out the voices of those whose lives are getting better. I just can't listen to any more candy-coated stories about how much better their lives are … who cares? My life is shit. I begin to question why I'm even here, why I'm sober, why I don't go
get a job at one of the bars and drink until I die. Who would really care? I tried to talk to Jack about how I've been feeling. He suggested I go get a physical. A physical? I can't afford to take Angel to the vet, let alone a doctor who would give me a prescription I can't pay for.