May Articles Online
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Lost & FoundA mother faces the truth about raising her children while drinking.
I thought of myself as a good mother. Didn't I stop drinking while I was
pregnant with my twin daughters? I didn't even take any drugs when I
gave birth. I didn't have a program, I was dry as a bone, and my feelings
bubbled up into rage and tears, but I wasn't drinking, was I? Of course,
I started drinking again as soon as I decently could. Wasn't beer supposed
to be good for your milk supply?
Sure, I drove drunk once in a while with them in the car, but nothing happened. I got across the tracks
well ahead of that train—literally.
I once drove right in front of a train in an industrial area of San Francisco. But the
train was going very slowly. The whistle's blast was my first inkling that my
babies and I were in danger. Then there was the time I was lying in bed hung-over and two energetic
2-year-olds burst into my room and started jumping on my bed, as if it
were a trampoline. Sarah lost her balance and landed on my stomachhard. I grabbed her, raised her high
in the air and then threw her on the floor. I will always remember the look
on her face when she realized what I was about to do. Fortunately she
landed on carpet and wasn't badly hurt, but she got the message: Whatever you do, don't make Mommy mad.
I swear I feel that fear in her to this day. She says she doesn't remember, but I remember.
Then I lost Lynn by the side of the freeway. She was about 2. I was home,
hung-over and tired. She was awake but still in her fuzzy, pink footed pajamas. "Parque, Mommy. Parque!" She
pleaded, using the Spanish word for park that our Salvadoran babysitter
had taught her. The park was next to the freeway, around the corner from
our house. I couldn't leave her sister home alone and I was tired and irritable, as I so often was when I was
hung-over. "We can go outside, but just in front of the house," I offered.
She grabbed her security blanket and trundled down the steps next to
me. We stood together in the morning sunshine, on the sidewalk next to
the low picket fence that separated our front patio from the sidewalk. The
phone rang. I thought I would just run up the stairs, grab the phone and
be right back. Whoever it was must have been fascinating, because in
my hang-over haze I forgot all about my daughter. When I looked down the
stairs, there was her security blanket, neatly draped over the fence, but no
Lynn.
I screamed her name as I ran up and down the street. She was nowhere to
be seen. One of my neighbors emerged from her house two doors down. I
told her some version of what happened. She took charge. "You
go that way," she pointed, "and I'll go this way." She started around the coner. and that is where she found my
baby—in her fuzzy pink pajamas with the feet, standing at the southbound
on-ramp to the 101 freeway, staring across six lanes of traffic at the park.
My neighbor brought her home.
None of these episodes, where I injured or endangered my children,
got me sober. It took something much more ego-driven. To hit bottom, I had
to fail an exam that I needed to practice my profession. I drank all the
way through school, even though my husband had mortgaged the house to
pay the tuition. The day I flunked the exam, I called my newly-sober sister
to whine and wail. She had dragged me to meetings and showed me the
way, by her own example. I got sober, too, and my Higher Power let me keep
my kids. But the journey was just beginning. My sobriety date is September 11, 1986—Sarah and Lynn were 3
years old. I passed my exam and got a job a few months later. My life with
my children began to both challenge and enhance my sobriety.
For instance, when she was 12 years old, Sarah came to me one morning, with a worried frown. "Mom, my
face feels funny, and I can't taste anything." By mid-day the whole left side
of her face was paralyzed, the corner of her mouth drooping, her eyelid sagging. We took her to the
pediatrician, who looked her over and then said, "It's Bell's palsy." Palsy? Wasn't that
some weird disease out of the Bible, like leprosy? How did my daughter get
it, and what did this mean? The cause wasn't known and there wasn't really
any treatment. "The safest thing is to watch and wait," said the doctor.
"But she is supposed to go to summer camp tomorrow," I cried. "This is
her first time there, she hardly knows anybody except her
sister." My mind raced. My child's life was about to be ruined. Her face
would be paralyzed forever. How could she adapt to the new camp when her face
looked weird? The pediatrician said if her eye wouldn't close at night while
she slept, she might have to wear a patch. Would the other girls make fun
of her? How could this be happening?
Right away I took on all fault. What had I done to bring this on my
child? What retribution had I called down upon this innocent young girl
by my past and current bad behavior, this same young innocent whom I
had thrown on the floor when she was a baby? Guilt and rage engulfed me.
I called my sponsor, Bonnie. For many years her mother had been seriously ill and she had taken care of
her, from home to IcU and back. She knew how to cope with a crisis and
stay sober. "Why don't you try writing a letter to God?" she suggested. I
tried it. My letter began: "Dear God, I hate you for what you are doing to my
child!" I went to a meeting and shared my rage and despair at what was happening. at the close of the meeting,
as we stood in a circle, the speaker said, "Lord, help the member whose
child is having trials." I went home a lot calmer and helped Sarah pack.
The next day Sarah went to camp, and the day after, the camp nurse
called: "I am watching over Sarah, and she doesn't know. Her eye closes
at night while she sleeps, so there is no danger of infection, and she won't
have to wear a patch." I cried, realizing my child had guardian angels watching over her. I only had to let her go,
and she would be safe. The other kids and her sister all tried to help her
have a good time, and she loved the camp and went back every summer
for several years. She recovered completely. I didn't have to drink, out of
either anger or guilt.
All I had to do was stay in conscious contact with my Higher Power, praying only for
knowledge of his will and the power to carry it out, and let him act through other people to take care
of my daughter and keep me sober.
We never know what is going to make us crave that first drink. In sobriety I have lost my parents to
cancer, had cancer myself twice and seen my children have frightening medical problems. My husband even had
a serious accident on his motorcycle and I didn't need a drink. Instead,
the craving came on one of the happiest days of all our lives—the day we
celebrated our daughters' graduation from college.
My husband and I had booked several tables for lunch at a posh restaurant. We invited our family
members and the friends who had helped us raise these two little girls
to become accomplished young women. The time came for us to toast the
wonderful people who had loved us and them for all these years. The
waiters swiftly passed out champagne flutes and poured champagne. My sister and I were the only ones who had
sparkling water instead.
In my drinking days, I loved champagne. It symbolized success, the
good life and happy milestones. That day as everyone raised their glasses
I felt sad that I couldn't have champagne like everybody else. My sister
caught my eye. She winked and raised her sparkling water. I remembered all
those meetings she dragged me to when she was first sober and I was
still on Step Zero, and I winked back. We toasted the new graduates and
the whole village of people who had helped my husband and me raise them.
Today, the girls are young women, out on their own. One morning recently at a Big Book meeting I
shared how my daughters have been living in Buenos aires for two years
now. They have nice boyfriends, good jobs and a congenial group of
friends, both americans and argentines. Their boyfriends' families love
them and treat them like daughters. But what about me? "They're 8,000
miles away!" I cry. The other aas chuckle as I rant. "What if they settle
down? Get married? Have kids? It's a long trip to go see them!" even as I
am sharing, I realize how lucky I am.
My husband and I are both close to retirement. The seasons are reversed
in the Southern Hemisphere. We might wind up spending spring and
summer in San Francisco, then another spring and summer in Buenos
aires—a tough life, but someone's got to do it, right?
Thanks to AA, I can be grateful that my children are happy, even if
this is not how I imagined life would be. The program of alcoholics anonymous has given me tools—the Steps,
especially Steps eleven and Three. I pray for knowledge of God's will and
then turn my children over to his care. Then we can all be happy, joyous, free
and grateful!
Kathleen C.
San Francisco, California
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