Dry_ A Memoir - Augusten Burroughs [44]
A few people laugh softly and nod their heads. One man nods his head vigorously as if he knows the pain of being forced off the cheerleading squad all too well. But then, this is the West Village.
Nan grew up in Greenwich, Connecticut, moved to New York when she was eighteen. She got a job as the personal assistant to this very eccentric and notorious senior editor at a fashion magazine. Two years later, Nan was a fashion editor herself. “I was twenty, I was hot, I was like, get the hell out of my way.”
I’m thinking, Me too.
“And fashion, you know, is a crazy business . . . parties, drinking, parties, coke, parties, more drinking. And this was my life, for twenty years. But you know, it was everyone’s life. Or so I thought. I didn’t have blackouts or do crazy things. No drama, no missing work, nothing.”
I notice that her long red nails are chipped. I like that. It says something about her priorities. In rehab, I learned that being sober has to be your number one priority. Then a tiny seed of doubt enters my mind. Does it really say she’s just barely holding it together?
“After a while I realized I was always the first one with a drink and the last one to leave the party. I mean, I knew I was drinking too much. I felt like it was no big deal because, you know, nothing had ever happened to me. And oh, you know. Let me just tell you that time passes. I went on like that all through my twenties and thirties.” She stops talking, takes a sip from the tall Starbucks cup in front of her. “People bitch about Starbucks but I think it’s the best,” she says.
People laugh. Starbucks owes every alcoholic in America a few free rounds.
“Starbucks is my higher power.”
People laugh harder.
She clears her throat, places both arms on the podium. “Okay, right, so last year, I’m in the shower one morning and I’m thinking about what I have to deal with that day. You know, like I have a meeting with Michael Kors, a lunch with the buyer from Bloomingdale’s, etcetera, etcetera; just work stuff.” She takes her pinkie finger and swipes it beneath her right eye. “And all of a sudden, I feel this lump in my breast.” Her voice becomes small, as though she’s just stepped over the threshold into a church or temple. “It was a big lump. It was a mass.”
The blades of the ceiling fan continue to turn, oblivious.
“I think, Well, this is nothing. That’s what I tell myself. Nothing at all. A callous. That’s actually what I told myself. Can you imagine, a callous on my breast? I mean my sex life is just not that good.” When she says this people laugh openly, grateful for the valve.
“But even my powers of denial aren’t that powerful and I gently reminded myself that my mother died of breast cancer, my grandmother died of breast cancer. . . .” Nan starts to cry, she just loses it. She covers her face with her hands and I watch her head bob against them as she heaves her tears out. But then just as fast, she regains her composure, swipes a tissue that has magically appeared in her fist across her eyes. “Sorry about that. So anyway, you know, now I totally know. I go to my doctor, he sends me to an oncologist. They do a biopsy and surprise surprise, it’s breast cancer. More tests, more doctors, more bad news. It’s not just in my breast, but in both breasts—as well as my liver, my stomach, my lungs and my lymphatic system.” She lets out this great sigh.
Somebody’s pager goes off.
“See, it was just like that,” Nan quips. “Your beeper goes off one day and there’s nothing you can do. Your time’s up.”
People laugh as though this were a much funnier joke than it is. The terminal cancer-ridden alcoholic is able to joke about her own mortality thanks to AA, and this lets us off the hook. She knows how we fellow alcoholics hate feelings. I love Nan.
“When he told me I had maybe four months to live, my very first thought was, I’m going to go get sloshed at Old Town Pub. But then I thought, I am not going