If I Die Before I Wake (7 page)

The morning of the fourth day, I awaken resolved about my circumstances. I'm out of options. I don't care what those AA people say about working around booze. They aren't going to support me. I'm going to march into that cafe this morning and tell Jack my decision. It's my life. I have to do what I have to do to survive. I tried it their way, and it isn't working.

Since I'm going to apply for a job this morning, I take extra care with my hair and makeup, dress in my better clothes, and drive to the restaurant. I hate to use the gas, but it's too far and too cold to walk. Steeling myself for the disappointed look on Jack's face when I tell him what I'm going to do, I jerk the door open. Before I have time to remove my coat, the owner steps up to me, digs in her apron pocket, and hands me a slip of paper. “You're supposed to call this woman,” she says. I look at the number. It's unfamiliar. Maybe it's the nursing home, or the kitchen job at the school, or it could be the office at the refuse place. “You can use the phone if you want,” the owner says.

I make the call. It's the woman who's been looking for a health-care person for her mother … the one Dan told me about. Could I come and meet her and her mother today … in an hour? It will be a temporary position until her regular health-care worker gets back on her feet from a medical problem. Could I? I can barely contain myself.

“I think I got a job,” I say when I join Jack at the table. He buys breakfast to celebrate. I ask if he knows anything about the family. He says they are good people, active in the church, and the mother used to own one of those really nice dress shops up on the square—the same square where I used to drink. My heart sinks. My breakfast becomes tasteless. What if they know who I am, the things I've done? What will I tell them about myself? I have to tell them something. I'm sure if I don't, someone in that little town would be happy to inform them. I have to go. I'll simply tell them whatever they ask of me truthfully, and hope for the best.

On the way to the house, I remember the prayer. Was it possible those people in the meeting knew what they were talking about? It doesn't matter. I probably won't get the job anyway. Some of Jack's wisdom slips into my mind. He told me once that if I think something will be dreadful, it will be; with my attitude, I'll make it happen. Parked in front of the house, I take several deep breaths, let them out slowly, put a smile on my face, and get out of the car. I'm going to get this job if I have to beg for it.

A couple of hours later, I'm flying high. I got the job. I don't know if it's because they really liked me, or because they are desperate for help and need it right away … but I got the job. They were so nice. I told them the truth, told them I go to meetings at night, that I am trying to get my life turned around—and they hired me anyway. Helen, the woman with Parkinson's whom I will be caring for, and I clicked right off the bat. I can do this. I make a promise to myself on the way
home. I won't steal anything. I won't drink alcohol. And, I will take the best care of the lady that I am able to give. I can't wait to get home to tell Angel, to go to my meeting tonight with some good news.

The prayer enters my mind. I push it away and think of the things I can buy with my first paycheck: cigarettes, real dog food, maybe that coffeepot. Finally, a ray of hope in my dark world.

DWIGHT S., A SMALL-STATURED WHITE-HAIRED MAN
originally from Kentucky and chairman of tonight's meeting, says, “Is anyone celebrating a birthday?” All heads turn toward me.

I raise my hand and say, “Hi, I'm Barb, and I'm an alcoholic, and I've got one year.” Among accolades for my great achievement, I get a hug and my hard-won metal chip from Dwight. The previous chips, for three months, six months, and nine months, are colorful cheap plastic, but they go all out for year-birthdays. After what they did for my six-month birthday, I'm a bit nervous about what they have in mind now.

By the time I had six consecutive months of sobriety, I'd pretty much settled into my life. Helen and I had formed a wonderful bond, and I was her permanent day caregiver, which left evenings free for me to attend meetings. The five older men from my local meeting on Monday nights, along with Helen and her family, were my friends—although I still spent time with Cheryl occasionally. The relationship changed after I got sober, and I envied her because she could still run the bars, drink, and go dancing. I cringed inside when she shared stories about the people she partied with, but said nothing. The party was over for me.

Since Angel and I lived a pretty quiet life, I'd been able to pay off some bills and finally got a phone, which turned out to be both a blessing and a curse. Tom began calling, sometimes sober, sometimes drunk. Mostly, I hung up on him. In fact, after a while, when he did call the first thing he would say is, “Don't hang up … don't hang up.” Seeing him was not an option, because I knew it would weaken my resolve. All I had to do was think about looking into those pale blue eyes. My stomach instantly got butterflies, and my heart beat faster. I still thought of him every morning when I got up and every night when I retired. But, as much as I'd admitted to myself I was in love with him, that he was the only man I'd ever truly loved, I knew it was never going to happen for us.

I immersed myself in meetings every night, my work with Helen, and painting my sober quilt. As much as I enjoyed going to the meetings in surrounding towns, my favorite remained my local meeting where it had been just me and the five older
men. I felt safe and comfortable there. I liked being the only woman. I'd never been at ease with other women. I drank like a man, worked like a man, and could swear like a truck driver. Which explains my shock when I received my six-month gift from the men in my group.

——

Jack said, “There's a women's luncheon in Champaign next month.” Before I could respond, he said, “We got you a ticket.” My mind denied what he'd said, but I smiled and accepted the ticket. There had to be a way to get out of it gracefully; I didn't want to hurt their feelings. They were beaming as if they'd given me something I really wanted. Maybe I could lose the ticket. No, they'd buy me another one. I couldn't be obvious.

As the time for the luncheon grew closer, I put my next plan into action. I said, “I don't think I can go. My old car isn't running that well. I'd be afraid to drive it out of town.” In short order, they found me a ride with a woman I could barely tolerate in a meeting. Two hours trapped in a car with her would surely drive me to drink. Again, I smiled and nodded.

A few days later, about to panic, I said, “I don't think I can go. I don't have a dress, and I can't afford to buy one. I know I'll feel out of place if I have to wear jeans.” A huge mistake! A few days later, they presented me with a dress. They borrowed one from Susan F., who to my way of thinking was the worst-dressed woman in AA. It sported huge colorful flowers, green leaves, and since she towered over me by several inches, the length was
unflattering. It was god-awful. At the thought of wearing it I nearly threw up.

The reason I didn't wear dresses, at least according to the therapist I had seen after being released from the mental hospital, was that when I put on a dress and high heels, I felt like a hooker. The problem stemmed from a really tough time in my life when I had had to dress up to entice men and got paid for sex. Of course there wasn't much chance of enticing any man in the borrowed dress. But, still, the feeling remained. The only thing left was to get sick. I'd wait until a couple of days passed before I dropped the bomb.

On the Friday before the Sunday luncheon Jack picked me up for the meeting. The time had come to put my plan into action. Before I told him I thought I might be coming down with something, he handed me a box. A corsage—they'd bought me a corsage to match the dress. I knew they wanted me to feel special. At that moment, if my heart hadn't swollen with love for those men, I would have told him I had syphilis if I thought it would get me out of going. But I was doomed.

I couldn't sleep the night before. What in the world do a room full of women do without men? What would I talk about? How could I wear that dress out in public? Questions whirled through my mind all night. By morning, not only did the dress look bad—I looked like the last rose of summer. I don't even know why I bothered with hair and makeup, because all anyone would see coming was the huge flower garden I had on.

At 8:30
A.M
., my driver waited on the street in front of the garage apartment. I rushed out in the hope that no one I knew
would see me. When I jumped in the car, the driver looked askance and sharply turned her head back to the road ahead. I caught the look, thought about explaining my attire, and then decided I didn't care. It was a one-time thing. I'd get through it. I probably wouldn't know anyone there anyway. And who cared what this woman thought, or any of the others. I just wanted to get it over with.

The woman prattled on for the first hour of the drive about her children, their kids, lives, and the problems she had with them. Tired, so tired of listening to her, I said, “Well, at least your kids are alive.” That stopped the conversation. My head pressed against the glass, I dozed. The next thing I knew, we were pulling into a parking lot in front of a hotel with a big, fancy restaurant. Other women dressed in expensive-looking summer suits and dresses, some with colorful silk scarves thrown casually around their necks and coiffed hairdos, filed into the entrance. My heart sank. Everything in me shouted to get out of the car and run away. There was nowhere to run. If at that moment I'd had a bottle in my purse, I would have drunk it down. Hell, most of my life I'd had to drink to get ready to go out to drink.

Bolstering what courage I had, I walked in behind my driver, hurriedly gave the woman at a table near the door my ticket, and rushed past groups of women chatting in the foyer to find my seat. As difficult as it would be to blend in, I wanted to give it a try. At least at the table they could only see the top half of me.

But that didn't last long. As soon as the meeting started, they called for a sobriety countdown. They began with one day
of sobriety. One woman stood. She looked better than I did. A hot flash began at the top of my head and moved down my body. Sweat trickled down my back. When they called six months, could I stand in all my glory? Dark rings under my arms completed my ensemble from Hell. The chairwoman called out, “six months.”

I hesitated, then stood. Piss on them. I'd worked my ass off for those months. After the applause, I returned to my seat, and the woman next to me said, “Way to go,” and patted my arm. Next, she said, “It took me nearly four years to get my first year.” I began to relax.

In spite of the dress, it turned out to be a wonderful experience. I listened to the women speakers, one from AA and one from Al-Anon, realized they didn't always look the way they did at that moment, that they'd acted atrociously too, and shared stories with the women from my table outside over a cigarette. It had been a long time since I laughed so much.

——

Now I've been sober for a year, and the time has come. Some of the members are taking me out for a sandwich after the meeting. As much as I enjoyed my six-month excursion, the time leading up to it, the ride to Champaign, and my imagination just about did me in. What's up now?

Jack, myself, and several others settle around a semicirclular table in the local fast-food restaurant before Jack says, “The Illinois State Convention is going to be in Decatur this
year. Barb and I are going to be on the planning committee.” I elbow the woman next to me, and whisper, “Do I have to wear a dress?” She laughs, “No, it's pretty casual.”

“And,” Jack continues, “Barb is going to be our speaker at the end of the month.”

I can't do that. I won't do it. He can't make me do it, I think. Yet somewhere in the deepest part of me, I know I'll do it. I want to be sober. I want to sit among these people, to continue to know a sense of belonging that I've never known before. I picture the sign inside the meeting room that says
WELCOME HOME
. That's what it's like for me. It's that place where I'm not judged, where people understand because they've been where I've been, where they don't want anything from me except to help me find a better way of life. Yes, I'll do it if that's what it takes. If I could get through going out in public in that horrible dress, I could do about anything.

TODAY IS SUNDAY
. I awaken with that old familiar feeling of dread. I know it's partly because Helen is in the hospital with a blood disorder, which has brought home the reality that she won't be with me much longer. It's not about the money—although my finances are always a concern—but I love her. As much as I told myself I would never allow myself to have deep feelings for another human being again, to risk the pain of loss, I couldn't help it. She is the epitome of the way people are supposed to be: kind, loving, giving, generous, and nonjudgmental. However, there is something else going on I can't quite put my finger on.

Normally I would be up early, getting ready to be picked up for the 8:00
A.M.
Sunday morning meeting in Mattoon. This Sunday I can linger over coffee and a smoke. I'm going to attend a brunch and speaker meeting in Decatur with Jack and several other members of AA. I was thrilled to be invited, but the more I think about it and try to figure out something appropriate to wear from my limited wardrobe, the less excited I am. I sure didn't mention wardrobe at the meeting last night, especially after the flowered dress fiasco over a year ago.

Dressed in a gray sweat suit, Angel in her sweater and hooked to the leash, we begin our usual trek several blocks to the local park. My thoughts wander over the past year as Angel stops here and there to take in some new, exciting smells. My days have been filled with taking care of Helen, although, at least emotionally, I think she takes care of me. Bit by bit, I've shared my story with her, have told her things I've never revealed in AA meetings. We've laughed together, cried together, and I trust her counsel above that of all others.