100 days
100 days sober, the longest it’s been since I was 16 or 17. Life is much better for me this way and I often wish I would’ve done this long ago but I know now what had to lead me here.
Life’s problems still exist, but now they’re “kosher” problems, the ones normal people deal with, the ones I didn’t create while I was drinking… not to say I don’t have unsolved problems due to my past drinking.
My emotional stability has noticeably changed. I’m learning not everything deserves a reaction. As a friend put it, “imagine a couple dogs, one is yapping away at any noise, mailman, squirrel, you name it. Then there’s that older and wiser dog, who lays peacefully while unwarranted chaos erupts around him. But at the end of the day, he’s been around long enough to know what’s worth barking at.” I want to be that old dog. My patience too has grown in amazing stride. In late June, I stopped harvesting perfectly ripe wheat for a few days so my dad and uncle wouldn’t miss out on all the “fun.” After all, wheat harvest is a family ordeal and always has been. Old me would’ve cut all the wheat that I could, as fast as I could, because I lacked patience and regard for the truly important things in life.
I’ve found inner peace. I find peace through helping other alcoholics, going to 12 Step meetings each day, working on farm projects, doing service work at 12 Step locations or elsewhere. A few weeks ago, I volunteered at the food bank and helped load/unload a pickup bed full of day old groceries. Even more recent, I took my pickup, chainsaw, clippers, a ladder, and trimmed up a couple trees that were taking up parking spots at the 12 Step meeting location. Those put me on the pink cloud immediately. Humility and gratitude, those are the real gifts.
I’ve got keys to two separate meeting locations and now open/lead a meeting on Tuesdays. It feels good to be trusted, to be relied upon, and to be useful.
About a month ago, I gave a ride to a guy and his girlfriend (both of whom were alcoholics I had previously met in treatment) to two 12 Step meetings on two consecutive days. They didn’t have a car so I of course obliged as their house was on my way. As I arrived, I noticed the boyfriend, we’ll call him Matt for confidentiality sake, had glossy eyes, “maybe he smoked a little weed,” I thought. “I’ve been drinkin Jake,” he said as he got in the truck. The smell of stale beer could’ve given it away had he not.
The girlfriend, we’ll call her Alison for confidentiality sake, had been diagnosed prior with cirrhosis of the liver and the two were now living together. A match made in heaven, I know.
We got on our way for the 30 minute drive to the meeting. Alison sat in the back seat catty corner to me, and started reminiscing on her childhood as we passed a small nearby town with a towering grain elevator. “As a kid, I went up there once!” And “that’s my cousin’s house, we used to play in that yard all the time!” During the meeting, I noticed her hands shaking from alcohol withdrawals. The next day was about the same, I picked them up in the morning and we headed off to another meeting. After dropping them off and saying goodbyes, I headed back to the farm. Little did I know that’d be the last time I saw Alison.
Two weeks later, to the day, Matt calls me while I’m driving and says, “Hey Jake…umm.. Alison passed away. Heart and kidney failure due to the cirrhosis” Wait, what?! I almost had to pull over. She was just in my backseat and had gone to two meetings looking for a sponsor, there’s no possible way, she had seemed to be on the right track or at least really wanted to be.
After the normal condolences, I couldn’t help but ask, “when was her last drink?” “3 days ago,” he said. I learned later that those diagnosed with cirrhosis usually don’t drink for 3-5 days before they die because they’re too sick.
That was like a closed handed slap of reality right to my rosy know-it-all cheek.
This thing really does kill but seldom does it get talked about. It might come up in the paper for others, but not Alison. Her family was estranged, she had no obituary, and no funeral. “Jails, institutions, and death” they tell us, and that is damn right. She was 37 years old.
Prior to her death, I started to question my “helping” of other alcoholics who are still struggling. I would ask myself, “why do I set myself up for disappointment just to watch them go back out?” But now that thought has fleeted. I feel grateful I was able to take her to those two meetings. Maybe it added a day or two onto her life, or maybe just a few hours, I sure would like to think. At the very least, maybe her death swayed others at the meeting into staying sober, or helped them forget a thought of relapse which would’ve eventually taken their own life too.
God has a strange way of showing his path for us, but I’m starting to see mine through doing His works, by helping others.