If I Die Before I Wake by Barb Rogers Page A

to stop thinking. My mind never seems to stop. I know what peace must feel like: the absence of thinking, questioning absolutely everything. At times, I think it would be easier to start drinking again and get it over with. But not tonight. I'll go to the meeting.
    Half an hour later, I take a seat across the table from old Bob, a down-to-earth, redneck-looking guy who keeps his AA program simple. Something comes over me, and I pour my heart out about all my woes, how unfair life is, and how badly I want to drink. Several people share, some sympathetic. Others talk about their own problems, but throughout, I can feel old Bob's eyes on me. When it's his turn, he looks directly at me and says, “One of these days, you are gonna get on your knees, or you're gonna get drunk.” Not me!
    Day by day I continue the struggle. Angel's doing better. Helen has lost weight, is having trouble swallowing because her body continues to stiffen from the Parkinson's. I am angry, resentful that such a wonderful woman must suffer as she does, little by little losing the ability to enjoy the smallest things in life. I'm pissed that I've come to believe this is it … my life, a piece of sober crap. I'm exhausted by the mere thought of what lies ahead.
    After a particularly hard day at Helen's house and a hot night of very little rest, I shut down. I've had it. I'm going to get drunk. As soon as I leave work today, I'm going to the bar and getting stinking drunk. It's the only thing that ever worked, and it will still work.
    All day, as I bathe Helen, powder her back, brush her hair, do her nails, and help her exercise her neck, the thought of the evening ahead lingers in the back of my mind. Helen asks me if I'm okay. She knows me so well. I assure her I'll be fine. And I will be. For the first time in nearly two and a half years, I will find some relief … in a bottle.
    My resolve doesn't falter as I drive home, feed the dog, take a shower, and get dressed for my evening out. I open the front door to leave. Suddenly, I hear a voice—not from outside of me, but inside my head. It's as loud as if someone spoke next to me. It says, “The day's gonna come when you are gonna get on your knees, or you are gonna get drunk.”
    I fall to my knees in the open doorway. Through the sobs emanating from the deepest part of me, I say, “God, help me! Please, help me! I give up.” An unfamiliar feeling engulfs me. I feel strong arms wrap around my body, and I know—I know that no matter what happens, it's going to be okay. I am not alone.

13
Signs

    UNSHED TEARS POOL IN MY EYES . There is a hush as I look out over a sea of faces. All eyes are on me. I know they are expecting some glorious story about how wonderful it is to be sober. All I have to give them is the truth. Today, it's not wonderful. At this very moment, I want nothing more than to run away, find a dark corner in a bar, and drink. Helen died yesterday. It's the first time I've faced death sober. I've wept until I can't believe I have any tears left, but the pain remains.
    A month earlier, I was asked to speak at this annual AA picnic in Flora, Illinois. Honored by the request, I jumped at theopportunity to tell my story. Now, here I stand, paralyzed. People are beginning to whisper in hushed tones. I've got to say something. After drawing in a deep breath and letting it out slowly, I say, “I'm Barb, and I'm an alcoholic. Today, I stand before you a miracle … because if I weren't here with you right now, there's a good chance I would be stinking drunk.” That got their attention. “I lost someone I dearly loved yesterday. It was the perfect excuse to get drunk. I've used it many times over the years.”
    For the past three years, attending meetings, spending time with other members, and working the AA program gave me direction and new tools to find a better way of life, but Helen had been my rock in an otherwise shaky, uncertain sober world. I told her things I never told another human