by clicking the arrows at the side of the page, or by using the toolbar.
by clicking anywhere on the page.
by dragging the page around when zoomed in.
by clicking anywhere on the page when zoomed in.
web sites or send emails by clicking on hyperlinks.
Email this page to a friend
Search this issue
Index - jump to page or section
Archive - view past issues
Grapevine : April 2011
drunk to drive and played chauffeur. On the journey home, I emerged from a blackout just in time to vomit out the window, and was reminded, again, how much I despised myself. An hour later, lying in my bed en- crusted in my own vomit, I made the call that was going to change my life. "I want to die," I cried into the mouthpiece. "I can't do this anymore." "There's another way," my friend insisted, "and you know it." The next morning, she was by my side at one of her regular AA meetings in Montreal. A week later, it was clear just how much of a toll drinking had taken on my body. My family insisted on a doctor's visit, which led quickly to the ER. My im- mune system was virtually drained, and the lumps that lined my neck were indicators that my lymph node count had skyrocketed. Alone in the ER, I began to plan my funeral, my heart aching for missed opportunities with my little boys. How could I have been so fool- ish? I was blessed with the two most wonderful little people in the world. How could I have chosen the bottle over them? I'd been in and out of AA long enough to know that there is no cure for people like me. I knew that every time you go out, you come back much worse. I sat in that ER convinced my little boys would grow up without me. Suddenly, I became desperate for another chance, just one more chance to do whatever was neces- sary to watch my babies grow up. About a week later, my blood test results showed improvement. My second chance had arrived. The next five months of sobri- ety felt like boot camp. It was hell. I clung to AA, getting to as many meetings as humanly possible, in search of even a tad of a daily re- prieve from the anxiety that was always there. I rarely spoke, hating how desperately I needed the meet- ings, scowling at people to keep them at bay when they dared ap- proach. I was miserable and hurt- ing badly. Still, something about the meetings gave me what nothing else could: hope. In the middle of one particular meeting, as I sat in the back fight- ing off a panic attack, a fellow new- comer burst into tears. She made no sense whatsoever, but on that day it was exactly what I needed. She re- minded me how sick I was, and I An hour later, lying in my bed encrusted in my own vomit, I made the call that was going to change my life. 'I want to die,' I cried into the mouthpiece. 32 April 2011