11.18.08

On the third Tuesday of every other month, I speak on a Victim Impact Panel to a room full of mostly strangers who received DUIIs. I talk about very personal things. I tell them that I am a recovering alcoholic; that I started drinking when I was 13; that I drank and drove hundreds of times but never got caught; that I and other members of my family behaved irresponsibly by drinking and driving; that our children learn by watching us; and that my 20-year-old nephew died in a car crash after drinking heavily and then getting behind the wheel of his car. It’s painful. I did it again tonight.

I don’t want to do it any more because my heart breaks every time I tell the story. I also don’t want to do it because I have to sit and listen to the dozens of other heartbreaking stories over and over again. Stories about parents who kill their children in car crashes after drinking. Stories about teenage boys who kill their girlfriends in car crashes after drinking. The one story I can hardly stand to hear any more is about the teenage girl who crashes into a small truck after drinking and kills a four-year-old girl and her mother, who is eight and a half months pregnant. My heart breaks for the family that was lost and for the girl who killed them. I can’t even imagine what it must be like to live with that kind of guilt. I think I would want to die.

It’s been almost five years since Daniel died and I have been telling this story on the panel since shortly after his crash. I do it because I can’t stand the thought that his death was senseless. I want to believe that something good can come from it. We all have our coping mechanisms. This is mine. It is also my duty to help the alcoholic who still suffers.

Occasionally, someone in an AA meeting will tell me that he heard me speak on the panel and that it made a difference. Shortly after Daniel died, I wrote an editorial for the local paper telling our story. Tonight a young man came up to me after the panel and said he had read that article. That was more than four years ago and he remembered it. I don’t know that young man’s story but it seemed to me that Daniel had made an impression on him. People like him keep me going back even though I would really rather not.

I said that I tell my story to a room full of “mostly” strangers. There is always at least one person in the room that I know. Tonight it was a man from work. There are more than 300 employees and we do not work closely but we do know each other. He seemed to be avoiding eye contact throughout the panel. But afterwards, he hung back and showed me a chip. He’d engraved a date on it. 11.18.08. The date he is hoping will be the last day he ever drinks. I told him to go to meetings. I told him he could call me any time. He said he wants to change his life. One day at a time. It’s people like him who keep me going back, even though I would really rather not.

Happy Birthday to Me

Today is my birthday. I’m eight. They say that when you start drinking alcoholically, you stop growing emotionally. Since I started at 13, I guess I now have the emotional intelligence of a 21-year-old. (Hey, I’m finally an adult.) 

I quit drinking right before the holidays — the masochist in me. I went to meetings, called my sponsor, read the Big Book, prayed, and remembered that I didn’t want my child to grow up with an alcoholic mother. That’s how I did it. I remember making it through that first year and thinking I was home-free. The first year of anything is telling. A new marriage, a new job. You go through all of the holidays and birthdays and ups and downs of daily life. Once you have a year under your belt, you can look back and say, “I can do this; I did it last year.” But four years into my sobriety, my 20-year-old nephew was killed. He crashed his car into a semi-truck after drinking all day. All I wanted to do was drink. I went to an AA meeting and it was someone’s first birthday. She talked about how good it felt to get that first year behind her. When it was my turn to talk, I broke the celebratory mood with my grief and, through my sobs, I said, “Don’t get comfortable.” Never pretend that the party is over.

Recently, I was having a bad day and I told my Little Darling, “I think I’m just going to smoke and get drunk.” (Joking, of course.) She said, “I can’t even imagine you doing that. It would be as out of character as a kitten weilding a machine gun.” At that moment, I realized that I had succeeded. I wanted her to have a stable, loving, nurturing, sober mother and that is how she sees me. Wow. It’s amazing when life works out the way you want it to — so far.

Of course, eight years of sobriety have taught me that you are not home-free once you make it through the first year. That’s why AAers are always saying, “One day at a time.” That’s the key. If you try to imagine that you will be sober for the rest of your life, it seems daunting (and unfair). So you just say, I will not drink today and that is good enough. I don’t have to think about whether or not I will drink tomorrow or November 4, 2009 or ten years from now. What matters is today. That’s enough.

Recently, I had a health screening through my place of employment. You fill out a questionnaire and they take your blood, weight, blood pressure, and so forth. The questionnaire had all sorts of questions about alcohol and tobacco consumption. I proudly answered zero when asked how many alcoholic drinks I ingest or how much tobacco I consume. When I received my results, I was low risk in every category (except I am six pounds overweight — all those sweets). Other than advising me to eat a little less and move a little more, the report said to just keep doing what I’m doing. It didn’t say, you are healthy, so go ahead and start drinking and smoking again. It said, keep doing what you’re doing. In other words, “Don’t get comfortable.” I won’t. Someone pass the cake, please.