Anniversary

I was honored at one of my fellowship meetings on the last Saturday of last month. At least that’s the way I look at it.

You see, last month marked my 14th year without any beer or booze or even wine. That may not sound like much to you, but trust me, it is.

Fourteen years.

And I made this last year in the face of some true trials and tribulations. My own illness. Lynne’s problems. Fear. Loneliness, at times. Pain and exhaustion.

Once, just once in this period, I thought seriously about getting drunk. I can’t tell you what brought it on because it would hurt someone I don’t want to hurt. Trust me, though, I was in a place, going through serious troubles that filled me with pain and terror and anger. I was driving my car when this happened. I didn’t think about taking a drink. I’m not that kind of drinker. My thoughts were a bit more serious.

"Screw this sobriety. Let’s go get a quart of vodka and get all f##@*d up!"

That’s what I thought.

Instead, I pulled my car off a highway and onto the road’s shoulder. I closed my eyes and managed to say a prayer to a higher power I’m not sure about and who – if he’s around – has pissed me off. I do that, sometimes. And I guess he (or she) wanted to give me a break. The desire left. Quick.

That may sound like nothing to you.

It ain’t. It’s a big deal. For me, anyway, it’s a real big deal.

It would have been wonderful if I could have sat in the celebratory fellowship gathering a few days ago and thought about making 14 more years. That would have been great. After all, I’ve enjoyed looking forward in my life, thinking about things I might accomplish, trips I might take, new things I could learn. But I can’t do that any longer.

Hell, I don’t know for sure how long I’ll be around. I’m not a pessimist, but trust me. I don’t think very often about what I’ll be doing five years from now or ten years from now or fifteen. But I do make plans for the more immediate future.

I think of writing I’d like to do. I think of taking a trip to St. Augustine with Lynne. The last time we were there was like a honeymoon. I plan to see my mother and brothers some time soon. I hope I get to see a granddaughter I’ve never seen. And so on.

At the fellowship meeting where I was congratulated on my fourteen years of sobriety, I was given a brass medallion and asked to say a few words to the others in the room. In the past, I haven’t made a big deal out of my anniversary. This time, though, I felt like I should.

I hugged my friend who handed me the card. I thanked everybody in the room. And then I thought for a moment. I wondered what I might say. Then I put into words my biggest hope for the future.

"I sure as hell hope I stand here a year from now and celebrate my fifteenth anniversary without booze."

That’s what I said and for now that’s the most important future desire I can have.

Bitter

I’ve had a tough week.

My wife has been ill, and it’s been rough. I can’t say what’s wrong with her, it wouldn’t be right. But I can say she’s been waging a terrible war against her illness and, unfortunately, losing all but a few of the battles.

It’s hard, in times like these, to take the focus off myself. There’s this feeling I have – rightly or not – that I’m the one who needs help right now. "Damn it," I say to myself, "why this? Why now? What about me?"

"I don’t want to die alone." That’s what I say.

I don’t want to.

Then I think about her and try to put myself inside her head. I can’t. She’s been not well pretty much since the day I left my oncologist’s office in the VA hospital, met her in the waiting room, and told her the news.

"It’s not good."

I remember. Her eyes went kind of blank for a moment as if she was looking into a future she couldn’t comprehend. Then she nodded. "Yes," she said. "I get it."

But she didn’t really get it right away. Not all of it. But as time passed, and I had chemo and didn’t get any better, as my immune system crashed and I puked and bled in unmentionable ways, as I grew sicker, she started to get it. She began to understand the future and now it scares hell out of her. I can’t imagine what it feels like to be inside her head.

In the fellowship I belong to, there’s a lot of talk about God’s will. No matter what happens, I’m told, it’s "God’s Will." The words are always said with reverence, said so large that I know there’s no arguing with them.

That’s baloney. God is supposed to be rational, loving, and just. There’s been nothing rational or loving or just about this last week and my wife’s pain. If God’s intention is to teach me how painful it is to watch someone I love suffer, I’ve learned. I don’t need any more training, so stop, already.

Friends ask what they can do to help and the only response I can make is to ask them to pray. What I don’t tell them is that I don’t think prayer is going to help because the God who would do this isn’t about to listen to any pleas from anybody.

So I've had a tough week.

But nowhere near as tough as my wife's. I wish it would end.