Walking on Broken Glass - Christa Allan [83]
I loved his generosity and kindness and protectiveness. And I loved knowing alcohol could give Carl what I couldn’t … my body. And I loved knowing I, Leah, did not have to be there.
We both had what we wanted.
35
It was the week of lasts.
Last breakfast, lunch, dinner at Brookforest.
Last painting of a ceramic thingy in outpatient therapy.
Last group therapy where I listened to Doug snore, Theresa pass gas, and the U2 boys’ goofiness de jour.
Last family group therapy where I hoped Carl and I would not be the sacrificial family whose secrets would be spilled for the greater good. Last time I had to call my father two days before family group to reassure him his absence didn’t impede my recovery. Last time I had to remind him he’d better send the staff the food he’d promised to cook them or they’d find a way to have him involuntarily admitted on the psych floor.
I decided to attend the Serenity group meeting before I checked out to talk to Rebecca about being my sponsor. I remembered her from the first AA meeting I’d ever attended in my little alcoholic life. She’d raised her hand to remind everyone not to be slobs. At other meetings there and as I got over myself, I made an effort to meet other women. Rebecca didn’t hold back when she thought people were full of themselves or manure, as the case might be. She’d told one man whose self-pity party seemed to expand every meeting that if he wanted to be a martyr, he was in the wrong place. I liked that honesty and assertiveness. She was just as honest about her wrecked cars, buried wine bottles, and broken marriages.
Drinking coffee before one meeting, I told her I was afraid to leave Brookforest, afraid I wouldn’t know how to function without the safety net.
“I’ve heard all the AA party lines about fear being false expectations. Let's face it, we’re human and fear can paralyze us. You can’t deny what you feel. You just don’t have to act on it.”
“So, I don’t ignore it? What do I do with it?”
“Well, you do and you don’t,” she laughed. “Don’t you love how AA brings clarity to your life! I guess what helped me figure it out was when I heard, ‘feel the fear, and do it anyway.’”
“I don’t know. Doing what terrifies me even as I know how terrified I am? That doesn’t sound much better.”
She tossed her coffee cup in the recycle container. “My father planned for almost a year to take me and the kids to Disney World. Only he died of lung cancer seven months after the diagnosis. At first, we decided to cancel the trip. But when my six-year-old asked if Granddad would be sad if he was waiting in heaven to see us on vacation, but we weren’t there—that settled it. We went.”
“Did I miss the fear part? I’m confused.”
“Sorry. Long setup. The story should come with a warning.” She pulled on the white knit headband she had wrapped around her wrist. “Fast forward. We’re there. The kids are in line to ride Space Mountain, and they’re wiggly, hopping excited. Me? I’m about to have a stroke. I hate even a plain vanilla roller coaster. This one's the Double Chocolate Brownie Overload of roller coasters. The whole ride is dark. Enclosed, roller coaster, dark. I didn’t want to tell the kids what I said to their granddad at that point. We’re next. I’m scared. Terrified. Then AA brain takes over. My dad died, and I’m afraid to get on a roller coaster? What's the worst thing that's going to happen? If I’m still afraid when I get off, I haven’t lost anything. And what lesson am I teaching my kids? Be controlled by fear?”
“Well, how was it?”
“We screamed, screeched, and laughed the entire ride. When it ended, we ran back in line to go again.”
“Leaving here is my roller coaster?”
“You got it. And it could be the ride of your life. Don’t run away from it before you even run to it.”
Being a sponsor means commitment to