If I Die Before I Wake (13 page)

In bed, lying back against the pillow with Georgie at my side, I say, “Now I lay me down to sleep, I pray the Lord my soul to keep. If I die before I wake, it's been quite a ride.” I know it's not over. I remember Barbara, a woman from Florida who came to Illinois to visit her mother. She once said that it took everything in her life—every experience, every person, every moment—to bring her to this moment, to the person she is, doing what she's doing. If that's true for her, perhaps it's true for me, too. I wonder what God will have me doing. I may not have a clue about that, but have no doubt about what I shouldn't be doing—and it's time to get into action.

The following morning, I awaken with the anticipation of a child. I slept so soundly that I didn't hear Tom come home. He comes down the stairs to a breakfast I actually cooked—he won't have to eat at the truck stop this morning. “What's the occasion?” he says and smiles. My heart is nearly bursting with love for him. I want to make amends, to say I'm sorry for the way I've been acting. He's hard to apologize to because he doesn't expect it, but I need to say the words. The first of the maintenance steps tells me to continue to take a personal inventory, and when I'm wrong, to promptly admit it.

There are others I've offended, not appreciated, from whom I've withheld my help and affection—even my compassion. My harsh judgment and lack of understanding for others has grown in direct proportion to the pain and anger that I feel. I'd been sponsoring nine people in early recovery before I got sick. Most of them have stopped calling. I couldn't find the empathy I needed to listen to their problems because I thought mine were worse. The things I've said come back to choke me. I have some work to do.

I kiss Tom before he leaves for the day and immediately get out pen and paper. I begin to write it all out. I've learned not to beat myself up for past wrongs, but to do what I can to make the situations better and move forward. I call my sponsor, to whom I've been cool, off-putting, argumentative, and at times rude. She's understanding, and even attempts to justify my actions. I'm not having it. I know that I've done her wrong. As with Tom, I must say the words.

With each phone call, each face-to-face encounter, I begin to feel better. On my knees each morning, I turn my will and life over to the God of my understanding. I am rewarded with the peace that has eluded me for so long. My medical situation has not yet improved, but my attitude about it has changed.

Exhausted from making the beds and cleaning my bathroom, I lie down on the couch. Tomorrow, I'll dust and clean Tom's bathroom. Tom always said that I do everything like I'm killing snakes. He wasn't wrong. We just didn't understand that there was a medical explanation for it—I'd been running on high octane in the form of too much juice flowing out of my thyroid,
giving me a false sense of energy. Now it's time to accept my limitations and focus on what I can do—not what I can't do.

——

Tom said the strangest thing this morning over breakfast—he asked if I still wanted to write a book. I must have mentioned that I did at one time or another. I laughed and said that I would, but I didn't know the first thing about writing. So many people have told me I should write a book about my experiences, and secretly I've always wished I could. But it's so far out of my abilities that I can't imagine it as a real possibility.

Tom comes home with a big box in his arms. It's filled with a used typewriter, ribbons, and paper. “What is this for?” I say, surprised at the gift. “Now, you can write that book,” he responds. I didn't mean it. I couldn't do it. “You'll never know if you don't try,” he says. “What have you got to lose?” He means well. Maybe … what if … no, I'm not that smart. At least I can use it to write letters.

We set up the typewriter in the spare bedroom downstairs. Each day I walk past it. I begin to wonder—why not try it? But what would I write? The only books I've read for years are the romance novels Helen got me hooked on.

One afternoon, sitting at the desk chair, I run my fingers over the keys. I haven't typed since I was in junior high school, and that was only for six weeks. Do I remember how? I insert paper and type, “Now is the time for all good men to come to the aid of their country.” I like the feel of it, the sound of the keys clicking.

It becomes my habit to awaken early, go downstairs, make coffee, and do my morning prayers and meditation. I feel drawn to the typewriter. Tom won't be up for a couple of hours. Heavily sugared coffee, an ashtray, my cigarettes and lighter on the desk beside the machine, I stare at the clean white sheet of paper. It's kind of like looking at a piece of clothing that I will convert into a costume. If I can create something beautiful from a plain dress, perhaps I can do it on paper, too. An idea takes hold. My fingers move quickly over the keys.

My days pass by faster. I'm feeling better and working steadily. The doctor has finally gotten my medication at the right level. Although I'm not making costumes, I've gone back to work half days and accompany Tom into town when there are appointment calls for costumes. Each day, I set reasonable goals to keep the house clean and organized. But the best part of my day is early in the morning, when it's just me, my typewriter, and the romance novel I've been working on for months. It's taking shape.

The phone rings. It's Tom. He's coming home with something special for me. I can hardly wait. He's not one to buy presents for holidays and special occasions, says he hates feeling pressured into finding gifts, but he might show up on a Tuesday in the middle of May with a wonderful surprise for me. I wonder what it is today. I listen for the car in the drive, watch out the window. Half an hour later, he backs into the driveway. There are boxes in the back of the El Camino. He hefts the largest box through the door. It's a personal computer!

Excitement builds as we set the computer up on the desk in the living room. It has a word processor, which will make rewrites a lot easier. I'll be able to delete, move things around, do research, and won't have to thumb through the big dictionary and thesaurus for words and meanings. We work late into the evening, reading instructions and experimenting with the machine. By bedtime, my head hurts.

Excruciating pain pounds in my head by morning. It's the entire right side of my head—my right eye, ear, cheekbone, and down through my neck. Unable to take medication (because if there is one strange side effect or allergic reaction, I get it), I spend the day with the drapes pulled closed in our bedroom, hot castor oil poultices pressed against the side of my face and neck. Over two days of bed rest, only getting up to eat and go to the bathroom, the pain begins to subside.

After a busy morning at the shop, I can't wait to get home to play with the computer. I want to get back to writing my book. I like writing, and it's a good book, as good as some of the ones I've read. I know it will get published—if I ever finish it. But by evening, the pain has returned. I spend more days in bed. This time, I call my doctor, who tells me he wants me to see a neurologist. God, I thought those days were over—but I've got to do something. I agree. A couple of hours later, the nurse calls with an appointment.

Weeks of exams, tests, scans, and lengthy discussions with doctors ensue, reminiscent of the early days before I was diagnosed with Graves' disease. Yet again, my life is on hold. The
doctors' best guess is that I have a nerve problem in my face. One way to cure that would be to cut the problem nerves. I imagine myself taking a bite of a sandwich and it falling out the other side of my mouth. I don't think so. There's got to be a better solution. God and I need to have a little chat about this. I'm not angry, not wondering why, but I need help. I pray for help.

The phone rings early in the morning. I drag myself from the comfort of my bed. An unfamiliar voice asks, is this Barb R.? I know it's someone in the program. “Yes,” I mumble, thinking it's someone who needs help. The man introduces himself and asks me if I would be willing to speak at an AA anniversary party at a hospital near St. Louis. Some people who have graduated from their treatment program are getting together, and they really want a woman speaker. Without thinking, I agree. My sponsor always told me that when I'm asked to do something like that, God is giving me an opportunity, and I will never know where it might lead me. Since I'm still not driving and Tom is not involved in AA, I call a friend in the program and ask if he will drive me.

Two weeks and several bottles of castor oil later, I'm in the car with four men with whom I've shared years of sobriety, driving through a harsh winter night to the meeting. Physically I'm feeling pretty good, but I'm nervous about speaking. Although I've spoken many times over the years, I still get rattled at the thought of it. I recite some quick prayers on the two-hour ride.

Inside the hospital, we locate the meeting room and step inside. It must be the wrong room. There are long tables draped
in white linen and adorned with candles and flowered centerpieces, and people dressed like they are at an awards dinner. A well-dressed man walks up to us and says, “Can I help you?” Apologetically, I tell him we are looking for a group of AA people. “You're in the right place,” he says. Oh, my God, this can't be the place. I'm suddenly aware of my attire: blue jeans, a tee shirt, boots, a winter coat, and the ever-present mohawk hair-do. I have no choice. I say, “I'm your speaker.”

As we follow the man to a table at the front of the room, I can feel people staring. In all my years, in all the places I've spoken, I've never seen anything like this. Usually it's all very casual—some people even look like they're homeless. Someone should have warned me. Well, I'm here. I've got to speak. I might as well enjoy myself, I think, as I eye the steak dinner set in front of me. Immediately after the meal, the meeting begins with the Serenity Prayer and the reading of steps and traditions. I'm introduced. Hesitantly I take the stage, stand in front of the microphone, and say, “You folks clean up pretty good … for a bunch of drunks. I thought I walked into the wrong room.” Laughter fills the room. I relax and begin my story: what it was like, what happened, and what my life's like now.

It's important that I share the story of the crisis of faith I endured when I was diagnosed with Graves' disease, what I learned about myself that is helping me deal with what's going on now. At my close, there is a standing ovation. The chairperson encourages others to ask questions or make comments if they wish. One woman stands and says, “You've said so many wonderful things about your husband, we'd like to meet him.”
Confused, I look at the table of men who accompanied me. “Oh … oh, no, I'm not married to any of them.” I don't know if it's what I said or the way I said it, but the crowd roars with laughter.

On the way out, I'm accepting thanks from so many, shaking hands, when a gray-haired gentleman steps in front of me. He hands me a slip of paper and says, “I think you need to see a friend of mine. He's a specialist at Barnes Hospital, and all he deals with is people who've had eye problems like yours. I think he might be able to help you.” Before I can respond, one of the men who brought me nearly pushes me out of the room. The weather is getting worse, and it's a long drive home.

I stick the slip of paper in my pocket before taking my seat in the car and don't give it another thought. The guys are laughing so hard about the look on my face when we first walked into the room. The driver says, “When that woman asked about your husband, we should have all stood up and said we were your ex-husbands.” They tease me all the way home.

Undressing for bed, I feel the paper in my pocket, pull it out, and tell Tom what the man said. I hate the thought of another doctor, but maybe this one can help me. I don't know. I'm tired, yet I spend a restless night wondering if this is the solution I prayed for.

“
FASTEN YOUR SEAT BELTS
,”
THE FLIGHT ATTENDANT SAYS
.

“It could be a bumpy ride,” I mumble and strap myself in. I have no idea what to expect. The window shade pulled down, I grip the sides of my seat until we're in the air. I remember why I used to drink before I got on airplanes. This thing could fall down and hurt me. At least when I was drunk, I probably wouldn't have noticed.

Irritated at the loud middle-aged couple in the middle and aisle seats next to me—I'm trying to listen to the flight attendant
tell us what to do in case of emergency—I grab the laminated card from the seat back abruptly. They keep talking—too subtle. I consider saying something to them, but I have to sit next to them for the next seven hours. No sense pissing them off right away. Damn, I need a cigarette. I rub the nicotine patch. It's not helping much.

As soon as the server cart pulls up, the man and woman order drinks. The woman unscrews the cap from a miniature bottle of gin. I love the smell of gin, could drink glasses of it straight. I watch as she pours it over ice and adds a bit of Squirt. I've got to get out of here. I should have gotten an aisle seat.

In the closet-sized bathroom, I look up at the ceiling and say, “This is a test, right?” I can't drink … no, I don't want to drink. I'm about to fulfill a dream, and this time, I'm not going to mess it up. I picture the portable typewriter stowed in the overhead compartment. I'm a published author, and one day, I'll be a well-published novelist. Tepid water cupped in my hands, I splash it onto my face, dry off with a paper towel that has the consistency of a newspaper, and stare into my eyes in the mirror. I can do this. I've worked so hard, overcome so much over the past few years to have this opportunity. I won't give it up for a bottle of booze.

——

After Tom brought home the computer that I thought was the answer to my prayers, the nightmare began. The headache pain, so bad there were not words to describe it, returned with a
vengeance. On the second visit to the specialist the gray-haired stranger at the hospital told me about, I am told that some people who have diseases like mine can't look at a computer screen. I'd never considered that that computer could have been causing my headaches.