Romy raids refrig redux

Life in Missouri is slow, so it's time for the now frequent Romy raid update. Last night I went to my home group and forgot to hook the bungie cord on the refrigerator door. I came home to one very illin' dog who had cleaned out two small strip steaks and a few mini chocolate eclairs, or so I thought. All night, although she normally sleeps at the foot of my bed, she lay in the bathroom on the tile, huffing. I got up periodically to check for symptoms of bloat, but this morning she was, although still about as fat as a pot-belly pig, looking for more food.

I saw her looking in bed, in fact, and found a half-eaten slab of cheese stuffed between the mattress and the headboard. That seems to be where she stashes what she can't accommodate on her binges. Thank God, with the hardwoods refinished, she didn't purge, as well. Oh, the small things to be grateful for.

It rained like heck last night and today dawned gloomy, gray. The air is damp but the squirrels are out raiding the feeder and when I walked Ms. Romy this morning, they ran overhead on the phone lines as if taunting her.

Today I woke up thinking about a good friend I had who is no longer attending meetings. We had a rocky start to our friendship but eventually we became inseparable. For a variety of reasons, she's no longer in my life. But from time to time, I miss her and today I came across this that I'd written about her when I was doing an open poetry reading in Phoenix.

If Clinton has a Sexual Addiction . . .

then my friend Anne must have a food addiction. I first noticed it when she told me she had 14 Tollhouse cookies in her cupboard. "14?" I asked. "Sure" she replied. "I always know exactly how many cookies I have left."

Then she said she often drives to Arizona Mills mall, about a 30-mile round trip, for carmel apples. Once, in Prescott, my home, I learned she was more familiar than me with the sweets Prescott offered. Then, I myself was almost seduced when she introduced me to her favorite chocolate chip cookie dough.

But this story she told me clinched it. She needs help. She went to Karsh's bakery because she likes their frosting. None of the eight-inch round cakes had the frosting she liked. They did, she learned after interrogating Karsh's staff (and she's just the woman to do it), have a full sheet cake with fudge icing. "I'll take it," she'd said. Just so they didn't suspect it was for her, she had them write "Happy Birthday" on it.

I know the story's true, because Anne gave me a pair of coveralls she'd outgrown and in the right front pocket I found a receipt. It was from Karsh's and it said "sheet cake" right on it.

Anne is no longer in the rooms, choosing self medication over recovery. I've talked to her several times over the past few years after we drifted apart, and her wall of denial is as thick as adobe.

And she is not the only friend I've lost back to addiction. It is a cunning adversary. Over the years, when my friends have died from overdoses or suicides, I take my phone book and a red pen and write "deceased" through their names so that I never forget that is the fate I await if I make the decision to use.

Last night was birthday night at my favorite meeting and two people took cakes with 27 and 30 years. It was inspiring to hear them talk about the simple things in life that they today have so much gratitude for--rebuilt families, the ability to hold a job, the lack of resentment toward former situations and people. As always when I attend a meeting, I hear exactly what I need to hear.

I miss my beautiful friend Anne, and I grieve for my family member who still rails through the world in his battle with the bottle. I've learned, although we are very close, I can't help him into the rooms. I can't nag him, suggest he go to meetings, nothing. I can only listen and say, from time to time, "I love you."

I recently watched my best friend since 8th grade come back from a nasty relapse. Thank God, he didn't have to lose everything again as he did when he hit bottom the first time. I know he's grateful, but I worry that he won't go back to meetings, which are our insurance against relapse. We learn, as the years go by and we see the members fall away, that we can't do it alone. Ours is a disease that tells us we don't have a disease. We need others to remind us.

These relapses are our "yets." It hasn't happened to us "yet." But our literature reminds us, and we must never forget, that it is only a daily reprieve we have from our natural state, which is altered. I heard in a meeting the other night and it hit home--it's no surprise when someone uses, it's a surprise when they stay clean.

Today, I thank God for my daily surprise.