I often tell myself, and anyone who’ll listen, that I’m an anticipator, that as a kid I learned to see around corners. I’ve been known to say that I live 3 days, 3 weeks, 3 months into the future, trying to figure out what’s next, as if seeing it coming will better prepare me for what I might feel then. It struck me, as I was running a few mornings ago, telling myself the same old story about “well, of course, I’m an anxious type – it comes from blah, blah, blah" to just STOP. My dad quit drinking when I was 11. He’s been gone since I was 25. I’ve been in recovery since I was 31. How bloody long am I going to use the excuse of “I’m an anticipator because…” to keep me from living in the here and now? They say that slow growth is good growth – if that’s the case, I’m verging on excellence. I don’t tend to think of myself as an excuse maker, but isn’t that what I do each time I say, “I grew up in an alcoholic home, so X,Y,Z?” I’m in no way saying it isn’t important to do the internal work of recovery. I had to get up to my elbows, via the Steps and therapy, to unravel my adult responses to what did or didn’t occur when I was a kid. And, while I don’t claim to be cured, I “have recovered from a seemingly hopeless state of  mind and body.” (BB xiii).  Facing Steps 6 & 7 with intent, as I do in June, means that my defects/ defenses/ dysfunctions will present themselves to me, even those I wouldn’t have identified 4, 5 or 10 years ago. As I wrote last week, “What else?” “What else?” And “What else?” is there to know? When I know better, I have to do better, which includes busting myself when I gain awareness of things that may no longer be true or no longer serve the person that I am today, or want to be. 

A friend died unexpectedly last week – on Facebook one day, and the next, a post that he’d passed. He was my first husband's cousin, and a high school classmate. We weren’t particularly close in these later years, but he was always there, in a funny message, or a text thanking me for "keeping an eye out" for my ex, in the grocery store parking lot, or the park for our many reunions . That is the strange part of those who leave suddenly – here they are and then they aren’t. After my father died, I’d tease mom about “no lingering illnesses!” thinking I’d prefer her to just be gone. But, I think that is probably tougher.  I mourn the loss of an old friend, and I further internalize the fact that you just never know.

And then, this damned disease claimed another of our own this weekend – a fellow I’d known for years who struggled, struggled, struggled with staying sober; the guy in the back of the room who always raised his hand for “Anyone under 30 days?” But he kept coming back, talking about what he needed to do “this time.” I felt for him – it obviously wasn’t working out there, and it was confusing to understand what kept him from a full surrender to the disease. He talked about thinking he could control it. But he couldn’t. I felt for him, and I feel for his wife and daughter. And, I once again, experience  gratitude that the in-and-out dance hasn’t been my path. It must be excruciating. I can't help but think about my friend, dead from a heart attack, who'd likely give anything for just a little more time... 

So, here I am – retired. Monday I was employed and Tuesday I wasn’t, and that’s all I know about that. I don't need any answers today about "what's next." As I settle in to my new reality,  I am more fully appreciating the importance of ritual and ceremony. A few weeks ago, I was adrift with the news that covid had taken away our ability to mark the occasion. Now, having experienced the small but meaningful gatherings, including a surprise (& masked) party that three dear friends brought to the house, I feel fully launched into this next chapter.

There is something to be said about closure. Because of the virus, my old friend's official farewell was for family only, but a small group of classmates, guys from the neighborhood, gathered at his elementary school today, in the field, to share stories and blow bubbles, and bid the life force that was RLJ adieu. Gratefully, one of the attendees spoke of my ex, also of the neighborhood, recognizing that we hadn't been able to gather for him when he passed either. In a very interesting coincidence, I got home to a card I'd sent to the hospital in April when I couldn't visit my ex as he was dying, just now marked "Return to Sender." I don't know what I believe about life and death, but I can tell you that sometimes my loved ones feel very near.

What old ideas or old stories keep coming up for you? How do you acknowledge loss? What about those little coincidences that leave you scratching your head with a "Hmmm..."


NOTE: “I’ve Been Sober a Long Time – Now What? A workbook for the Joys & Challenges of Long Term Recovery” is a 78 page workbook, 8 ½ x11 format, with topics (such as grief, aging, sponsorship) that include a member’s view and processing questions. Available at Portland Area Intergroup at 825 N.E. 20th or online through this blog page. If you would like to purchase online, you will need to go to the WEB VERSION of this page to view the link to PayPal or Credit Card option.   Email me at shadowsandveins@gmail.com if you’d like more information