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I was going through an old duffel bag the other day and I came across a funeral card of a recovery friend who didn’t make it. He was the first person I’d ever gotten close to in sobriety who died from the disease, and it ripped my guts out.
That reminded me of how one time I went to a meeting and aired out some tough stuff that I was going through in recovery. It wasn’t drug or alcohol related—it was just bumpy, non-life threatening stuff that comes up in a good, sober life. Afterward, an old-timer came up to me with a very solemn look on his face and said, “Hey… at least you’re not dead. You got that going for you!” Then he broke into a big smile, and so did I. For some reason, that helped.
And then more recently I hit a few meetings where people were just coming back to the rooms of recovery after a relapse, and they shared very harrowing stories of almost dying.
That concept just kept coming up over and over again. It all felt like a big conspiracy by my higher power to remind me that what that old dude said to me is a very low bar for gratitude every day… but it’s true.
I’d ask anybody listening to this or reading it to try to count up the number of times you should have died, or when someone else could have. For me, I can’t even come up with an accurate count. I know I overdosed many, many times and mixed drugs and alcohol in a way that could have kept me from ever waking up.
So I like that general idea of reminding myself how much worse it could have been and how bad it could be. It’s not really a sustainable way for me to stay sober—I think if I whispered to myself every morning, “Wake up, sleepyhead, aren’t you glad you’re not dead?” it would wear off by about day three. I can’t go to that well too often.
But when I need a jolt, it sure comes in handy.
I should probably apologize for putting a new ear worm into your head that you’re going to sing to yourself nonstop the rest of the day… “Wake up, sleepyhead, aren’t you glad you’re not dead!” Consider it a free gift from your friend, Nelson H.
This newsletter is a place of joy and laughter about the deadly serious business of sobriety. So, as I will often do, let me close with a joke:
A TRUE STORY:
An old-timer in the northeast United States didn't like to use the term "pigeons" when referring to the women she sponsored. She much preferred to call them her "babies."
One day, while shopping in a mall, she ran into one of her sponsees, who was there with her husband and their new baby. The sponsor looked at the infant and declared, "My goodness, what a beautiful baby!"
The husband, suppressing a smile, answered, "Thank you, we prefer to call him our pigeon."
(Credit: AA Grapevine, from Anonymous, in July 2005)
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