Tag: recovery

My mother-in-law Greta used to shower us with gifts like I’d never experienced before. At Christmas, piles of presents carefully chosen, wrapped and scrawled with our names awaited us under her perfectly decorated tree. Opening gift after gift felt almost dizzying. I was used to my parents asking me what I wanted and sending them Amazon links—a light variation on simply shopping for myself. Greta never asked what we wanted but always seemed to know, and then added a few more things on top of that just because.

Now that she’s retired and we’ve all collected more things than we could use in our lifetimes, she’s shifted her gifting strategy to experiences: ballet tickets, cooking classes. They are things we can keep in a way that don’t collect dust around the house. Things we can revisit again and again in our minds, remembering the way we dressed up in velvet and high heels and shared a special holiday outing, or remembering the smell of freshly whisked chimichurri and steak sizzling on a grill. They represent togetherness, memories—things we want to hold onto forever.

Greta treated me to an incredible Argentine cooking class for my birthday this year.

I liked her strategy so much that I wanted to give my stepdad an experience gift for his 74th birthday. I came across the concert lineup at Chateau Ste. Michelle, a winery in my hometown that hosts a popular series of outdoor shows every summer, and saw Jon Batiste was coming to play the week of his birthday—perfect.

I was in awe of Jon Batiste after listening to him on Armchair Expert and watching American Symphony, a documentary that follows him composing his first symphony while he experiences professional highs (winning a Grammy for Album of the Year) and personal lows (the resurgence of his wife’s leukemia). I watched American Symphony for a second time with my stepdad and we both connected with Jon’s unflinching attitude in the face of life-threatening illness. “You have to confront the brutal reality,” he says, “but at the same time, have completely unwavering faith.”

I sprang for great seats—all part of the experience—and my stepdad was thrilled. He even called his brother in Virginia to brag about how close to the stage we were. We arrived when the venue opened and had plenty of time to eat dinner and share a bottle of crisp white wine in plastic cups. My stepdad started singing Bill Withers’ “Lovely Day,” and it was—a balmy, cloudless evening in early June.

“Mom would be so proud of us,” I said. The past five years have been filled with crushing stress and grief. My stepdad is completely devoted to my mom and continues to work a physically taxing job in order to offset the massive cost of her care. Other than working, visiting her and taking care of their house, he doesn’t go out, socialize or do anything enjoyable for himself. He was long overdue for some fun.

With an hour to go before the show was set to start, we bought another bottle of wine—and why not? We were celebrating! My stepdad kept refilling my cup as we waited and chatted with fellow concertgoers. When the start time came and went, we bought a third bottle—not a great call, but not disastrous yet. And a few songs into Jon Batiste’s set, I saw my stepdad making his way to buy a fourth bottle as I stared at him in disbelief and shook my head, “Nooooo!” It’s the last thing I remember.

Before the blackout.

Past midnight, I woke up on the living room floor of my mom and stepdad’s house with my cheek nestled in a spray of vomit. My stepdad wasn’t doing much better. I staggered over to the kitchen sink, washed as much sickness out of my hair as I could, then chugged some water and went back to sleep in an actual bed. When my phone alarm woke me up at 6am, I was still drunk.

I’m thankful we got home safely—we assume security dumped us into an Uber—but I was horribly sick and hungover for the entire next day. I repeated “I’m never drinking again” over and over, and I meant it. I felt ashamed that I missed so much of the concert I’d been looking forward to, and embarrassed that I got blackout drunk at age 37. In my early 20s, this would have been just another night out—something to laugh about with my friends—but as a full-blown adult and mother, I thought I was well beyond that level of poor judgment.

“Mom would be so ashamed of us,” I said as my stepdad drove me to my car after we sobered up.

It scared me to lose control like that. So many terrible things could have happened. I’m lucky the worst of it was feeling sick and full of regret over ruining and missing what was supposed to be a memorable night. If Alzheimer’s has taught me anything, it’s that memories are beyond precious.

I’ve had 160 alcohol-free days to process this experience, and I now give a lot of grace to two deeply hurting people who were just trying to have some fun amidst so much sadness in their lives. Wine gave us a glorious, weightless feeling; we just wanted to hold onto that as long as we could. The problem is that one bottle wasn’t enough to ease the excruciating pain of losing my mom. 100 bottles wouldn’t be enough. Rather than trying to erase the weight of this hellish journey, we need to hold each other up, help shoulder the load.

I put a lot of work into keeping myself afloat and not sinking into depression. I work out, eat (mostly) well, talk to a therapist and write, but I still feel like I’m always teetering on the edge of a cliff, vulnerable to being knocked over the edge by a single blow. Misusing alcohol felt like giving up all my hard work and throwing myself off the cliff. It was not compatible with who I want to be and how I want to live.

Since this experience, I have not once wanted to drink alcohol again. My choice to stop drinking has freed up so much mental space. I no longer have to think about whether or not I’ll drink in any given situation; how much I’ll drink; whether or not I’ll be able to drive; whether or not I’ll feel sick or hungover afterward. I thought I’d miss the social lubrication that alcohol provides, but I haven’t at all. I’ve actually enjoyed going into situations 100% as myself, summoning my own courage to be friendly and talkative and interesting around people I don’t know very well.

I don’t describe myself as “sober” since I do like to take half a cannabis gummy—to relax or to enhance a funny movie, not when I’m sad—a few times a month. I say I’m “free from alcohol” because that’s exactly what it feels like.

I have enjoyed this freedom during a girls’ trip to Las Vegas to see Adele in concert; during a 50-mile bike ride that included several stops at dive bars; at a wedding with an open bar; at dinners, birthday parties and still more concerts where alcohol is flowing all around me. I have no problem if others want to drink and am happy to be the designated driver. I have discovered a new appreciation for sparkling water, root beer, iced tea, non-alcoholic beer and some really tasty mocktails. I have never felt left out. I have never regretted not drinking.

At 37, I know myself quite well. I know what is for me and what is not for me. It feels really great to cut things out of my life that are not for me, making room for all the better things. There are so many better things.

In early September, my stepdad and I returned to Chateau Ste. Michelle to enjoy a Gregory Alan Isakov concert free from alcohol.

Someone blames me for what happened last time.

It was another lovely day. We sat near two-time Oscar-winner Hilary Swank! I remember it all, I drove us home, we weren’t sick. A fun memory firmly in the bank.

Mom would be so proud of us.

I am so proud of us.