We gotcha, P

So far I've written about the aspects of grief that are clean, respectable, but to be honest, I need to tell another story. 

Last week I went to the beach with friends.  Our annual friendcation.  I was doing well.  Faking normal in close proximity for 24/7 until the Friday night.  We went to a local bar and I drank.  I didn't just drink, I DRANK!  Probably the most I've ever had to drink in my entire life, and that's saying a lot since I started drinking back in the 18 year old era of drinking.  I had always been proud to say that I had never drank so much that I had blacked out or that I had gone to bed without taking my makeup off.  Can't say that anymore.  Because I DRANK. 

I should probably say that typically, I am the responsible one.  Always have been.  Part of this is due to my being somewhat of a control freak.  I never wanted to lose control that much.  But it had also never happened because I have never trusted anyone enough to take care of me if I have too much to drink.   I know my friends love me dearly, but this level of trust was different.  If you're my friend or have dated me in the past, please don't take this personally.  This was a generalization on my part.  I didn't trust anyone.  So, what was different that Friday night?  Did I suddenly start trusting? Nope.  I didn't care.  I'll elaborate on this more in another post, but for now suffice it to say, I no longer cared or at least I thought I didn't.  So, I DRANK. 

I remember at one point dancing to the live music and having a good time and thinking I needed to stop, but I didn't...I DRANK.  I can't even tell you what I drank.  I know there was vodka, and fireball, and shots.  And I didn't care.  I DRANK.  One minute I was happy and dancing and then I was numb and felt nothing and it felt good.  So, I DRANK. 

And then, I stood up and tried to walk.  My friends carried me from the bar.  "You got me?" "We gotcha, P." Our pregnant designated driver drove us back to the condo where I pseudo passed out on the floor of my bedroom.  Actually I was in the doorway of my bedroom and although I could hear everything going on around me, I was incapable of responding.  There was a massive internal dialogue going on inside my head.  "Get up! You don't do this! You don't pass out! You don't black out! You don't go to bed with makeup on!  GET UP!"  But nothing. 

Finally, I mustered the energy to try and move.  I should have stayed down.  I was instantly nauseous.  It took every ounce of strength I had to get to the bathroom.  Notice I say bathroom and not toilet.  Yep, that's as far as I got.  I won't go into the gory details but I'm sure you can imagine. 

Once done, my limited energy depleted, I just laid there.  Laid there in my own vomit.  For a split second, I was actually afraid I was going to drown there.  I called out to my pregnant designated driver in the other room.  My friends moved in like a hazmat team.  The same husband who had carried me out of the bar, scooped me up and placed me in the garden bath tub fully clothed.  "I gotcha." He sat on the edge of the tub and cradled my head in his lap as he, while instructed by the wives, washed my hair.  I remember them reminding him to use conditioner too.  All the while they kept repeating "we gotcha, P." 

The men were shooed from the room as the women gathered up clean clothes.  I started undressing and they handed me the clean things.  I said, "I got this!"  They turned to leave the room and down I went, hard.  Right on my left elbow.  Over a week later and the bruise is still there and it still hurts.  "P, you don't got this!" They helped me dress and made sure I made it to bed. 

It took several days for me to recover physically and to process, because that's what I do.  So, here it is, the post game analysis. 

Is that really how I want to die? Drowning in my own vomit?  Maybe not everyone has had time to think what the headline will read when they die, but this has crossed my mind several times in my life.   When I was 19 and had toxic shock syndrome (Yes, you read that correctly), I was in the hospital fighting to live and had very little strength.  Mom was with me and would help me go to and from the bathroom.  I explained the process that needed to take place, slow there, fast back.  It would always take me a few steps to get going but coming back, I'd be running on fumes so we needed to make that trip faster.  Mom seemed to have trouble grasping this concept because every time as she pushed my IV stand (Which we had affectionately named Todd), I would feel it clipping at my heels.  EVERY TIME!   Finally, I joked and said, " I can see it now Young Co-Ed Dead, Run Over by IV Stand." 

Later in life when I had meningitis (Yes, you read that correctly.), one doctor tactfully informed me that I wasn't in the "typical age range" for this illness.  Headline: Too Old to Die From Meningitis.

And then there was the time I had the mass in my colon removed.  That was a rough one.  Lots of complications.  Headline: "No Poop, She Just Popped." 

So, as I reflected on the events of that fateful Friday night, here's what I saw: Beloved University Professor (A little poetic license) Drowns in Vomit in Florida Condo.  Really?  Is that what I wanted people to remember about me?  No.  Even more importantly, is this my parent's legacy?  NO!  I can honestly say, never again! 

Having said all of that, I believe God allowed Friday night to happen, for those events to unfold.  Because I learned several very important things from that evening.  First, I don't "got" this.  Mom used to tell me that the first sentence out of my mouth was " I can do it myself."  As much as I've tried to do this myself, to not bother anyone, guess what? I don't got this.  But thankfully, I learned something else, my friends "got" me.  They were there.  They didn't just leave me to fend for myself.  They washed my hair and even used conditioner!  "We gotcha, P."

And the last thing I learned from that event....The first night back home, I lie in bed and prayed.  I'm sorry, that's not me, that's not who I want to be.  But where to go from here....and in the silence.....a small voice...."It's OK, I've got you."  Someone told me this week that when we no longer have the energy to hold onto God, He's still holding onto us. You see, He's "got" me. 

Yes, I drank.  Yes, it was like a crime scene.  Yes, it was painful and still is.  And yes, it was not one of my better moments.  But maybe it needed to happen because now I know...