Broken Roads

by Ira Wagler

  I remember the monsters of fear that snarled from the darkness. Don’t even try. You’re not strong enough. It wasn’t the thought of not smoking for a day or a week or even a month. That wasn’t what seemed so hopeless and overwhelming. It was the thought of not ever smoking again. Of giving it up forever. That was what was so brutally hard to look at in the face. The thought of never again waking up and sipping that first hot cup of strong black coffee and lighting a moist cigarette, dragging great draughts of delicious smoke deep into my lungs. Don Williams immortalized the ritual in his signature song, “Some Broken Hearts Never Mend”: “Coffee, black. Cigarette. Start this day like all the rest.”

  I was in a strange place in my head that summer. A strange road. Unfamiliar. I don’t remember being scared much. Quietly desperate, I’d say, would be more like it. Large and fearful shadows loomed on every side, and they were closing in. A jungle. That’s what it was like walking through. Or maybe wilderness would be a better word. It was a desolate place and dark, in my head.

  It seemed like I was out there, stumbling through unfamiliar terrain. There was a new door, up there ahead. Beckoning. Calling. Beckoning. I knew a choice had to be made soon. And I knew the right one would be hard. Still. I was drawn to the new door by some magnetic force. Come. Step through. Make this choice. Do it. There had to be a resting place—there had to be. I could shield my eyes with my hand and see. Way out there on that other mountain, there it was. That place of peace I was looking for. I could see it. Out there, over the valley. Which could mean only one thing. That valley had to be walked through. I could see it and sense it. But still. What you know has to be done is the hardest thing to do. Often, that’s how it is. And there I stood in the wilderness, in the jungle. Alone. Well, I sure felt alone.

  And one day at work, I got to talking with some customers who stopped to pick up a few things. I’d known this particular couple for years. We chatted about this and that. And then one of them looked at me sharply. “How are you doing?” she asked. I guess she wouldn’t have had to ask. She could tell. I was swollen and heavy, my face was bloated, and my eyes were puffy. Maybe she was just being polite. Or maybe she genuinely wanted to know. I figure she did. “I’m not doing all that great,” I told them. And I didn’t shrink from why. “The whiskey. It’s getting to me. I love my scotch. And my vodka. Not an evening goes by that I don’t drink. And yeah, I’m still taking my Superfood vitamins. That’s probably one reason I’m still standing. But I’m kind of lost here. I have to do something about the whiskey. I’m not sure what or how. I’ve tried quitting before. Nothing has ever worked. You asked, so I’m telling you. That’s how I am right now.”

  They stood there and looked at me, and something lit up in their eyes. And then they told me their stories. Way back when, they had both been exactly where I was. Hard-drinking bar hounds. And they had both quit, cold, decades and decades ago. Independently, before they even knew each other. Neither of them had touched a drop of alcohol since they’d sworn it off. And standing there talking to me that morning, they didn’t spout wise, trite things like people do when they’re preaching at you. They just told me what they had seen and lived. What had happened and how. I listened and I heard. Even at that moment, I sensed it was pretty amazing that two people such as this would show up in my life and tell me what they were telling me. These people had actually done what I knew I needed to do. Still. It sounded scary and a little hopeless. It would be a hard road. I listened as they talked. And I pondered their words in my heart.

  It wasn’t magic, the things my friends told me that day about how they had quit drinking. It didn’t go like it always does in those nice stories that end with a sweet little moral lesson. I didn’t swear off the demon rum by my mother’s grave, and I didn’t go home that night and never touch another drop. I simply absorbed the stories and thought over what my friends had said. Processed. Calculated. They had done a hard thing and made it stick. I wondered if I could do that hard thing, too.

  That little incident made such an impression that I couldn’t shake it from my mind. In the next week or so, I mentioned it to a few close friends. And it all fell into place, kind of on its own. I remember when it was one year since I had touched a drop of whiskey. I was astounded at how fast the time had whooshed by. And right then, I was focused on that milestone. One year. It was a big deal. The first full year on this broken new road. I had seen strange and beautiful things in that time. One year. And then I headed on out for the next one. Today is all I got, I thought to myself. It’s all I’ve ever had, and it’s all I’m ever gonna have.

  And looking back over the long and lonely slabs of years that made up my journey to where I am today, I stand amazed at how many times it happened. How many times I despaired because of the hard road that stretched before me as far as the eye could see. How many times I felt lost, how many times I strayed far afield and could not find the way. And then, when it seemed like there was no door to open, here came a stranger or a friend, stepping from the shifting shadows. Here. This is the way. The right road. Walk this path. It has happened over and over. I don’t know why I even get surprised anymore. But I do, because my faith is weak. Still. Lord, I believe. Help my unbelief.

  And life goes on, as life does. Once in a while, as the day ends and night flows in, there comes a time when you feel pensive and your mind wanders to places it doesn’t often go because it’s just too hard. But you go there anyway, and you see the blurred face of someone you cared for more than anything, and you wonder why life went the way it did. And you feel it again like you mostly don’t these days because you won’t let your heart go down that path, not often, because, well, just because. Still, you sit there and absorb it one more time, the bitter sorrow of a loss so deep, you can’t express it, you can’t write it, you can’t possibly speak it like it was. And you feel it all the way down, how alone you are.

  Once in a while comes such a night as that. Now that I have a clear head.

  There were times when I was about as unsupervised and unaccountable as I could have been. You always hear wise, trite things about accountability. How you got to have it to walk right with God. Well, I didn’t have it. I’m not saying accountability is wrong. I’m all for it. But I am saying there are times when most of us slog along without it.

  I remember how it was right after my marriage blew up. My world was bleak and desolate. And when you’re stuck in such a world, you simply absorb the desolation around you. You feel it, taste it, hold it close to you. Trace it all the way down to its roots and then slowly start pushing it back. Working your way out. And that was me in those days. When I didn’t feel like going to church, I didn’t go. As Thomas Wolfe would say, Was all this lost? Or to rephrase Wolfe, Was all that a sin? To stay away from church when I otherwise could have gone? If you are sitting under preaching or teaching that such a thing is a sin, you are in bondage. I don’t know of any clearer way to speak it.

  I go to church regularly. Chestnut Church, out on Vintage Road in the country. There, I “assemble with believers” because I want to, not because it would be a sin if I didn’t. And there at Chestnut Church, Pastor Mark Potter faithfully proclaims the gospel every Sunday. Patiently, persistently, joyfully, he proclaims. He keeps insisting that the church is a hospital, not a country club. And there is one particular refrain the man has hammered hard over the years, like a blacksmith at his forge. About addictions. Pastor Mark preaches like he always has. And he says, “When you are a child of God, nothing can ever make you not be. Nothing. And so it’s safe to bring your problems to God. Tell Him. He’s your father. He’ll never get tired of listening. And if there are things in life too hard to face, if the pain is too intense, if you drown reality in alcohol or drugs, well, bring that to Him, too. Try to stop. Tell Him you want to. And try. If you fail, try again. Talk to Him again. And try again. And again. And again, and again.”

  In the summer of 2017, I was drinking as heavy as I had in a long time. Hard. Every day. And there we
re a few Sundays when I woke up and the last thing I wanted to do was go face anyone at church. I didn’t feel guilty or anything. I just didn’t feel good. Well, as you don’t, when you’re all bloated and sluggish. And so I just stayed home those Sundays. Slept in a bit, even though my sleep was extremely broken in those days. And by late afternoon, I was ready to head out and start the process all over again, to dull some of that intense inner pain. And I did, like clockwork. Every day.

  And I often thought about it back then, hearing the good pastor’s words about talking to God and trying again and again. Yeah. A fat lot of good that’s done me. Talking. Or trying. Over the years, I have tried and tried and tried to quit drinking. I even stopped cold a few times. The longest I ever quit was just over two years, back in 2006–2007. It was one of the last-ditch things I did to save my marriage. Quit drinking. It saved nothing. And after my world blew up, the lure of the whiskey, those shades of delicious amber fire, drew me right back to the bottle.

  It’s all so easy to rationalize, the reasons why. I have seen hard and broken roads and so much sorrow and loss. Plus, I write. Writers drink to dull the pain of what they have seen and lived. And relived, in the writing. The real ones do, anyway, the ones I like to read. (Or they did, back when they were alive. Thomas Wolfe drank heavily, right up to his extremely unfortunate and untimely end.) That’s the crutch I used. And I settled in my cups, pouring vodka and scotch on the rocks from bottle after bottle, day after day, year after year.

  What is right and what is wrong in a time like that? I don’t know. I do know that Pastor Mark never told me I was sinning. He told me I was God’s child and that nothing could make me not be. And he told me to try again. Not directly, not by getting in my face. But in his sermons, he told me. Try again. And again after that. And again. And again. It got so that I barely heard him when he spoke those repetitious words. Yes. It was nice that he thought God could or would help. But it just was what it was with the whiskey and me. We were connected for life, I figured. And sure, it was a choice. I never claimed or thought anything else. But it was a choice I didn’t feel much motivated to change.

  People around me could tell there was something going on inside me and that it wasn’t going all that great. Nobody said much. Not until two close friends told me, separately and privately, “You are not well. Your eyes look bad. The whiskey’s getting to you.” The weird thing was, those two friends didn’t even know each other. They still don’t. That jolts you, to hear two voices saying the same thing from two completely different places like that. And you hesitate in midstride. You have to at least hear what was spoken to you. Is it true? Be honest with yourself. And right there it is, one of life’s hard and fast rules. Be honest with yourself. I fought hard not to be.

  Somehow, a few slivers of light penetrated my brain. Just enough so I drew back from that destructive door I was hell-bent on walking through. Stop. Make sure this is where you want to go before you step through. I mulled the thing over in my head for weeks. And I saw it. There. That other door is the one you want, not this one. And I wasn’t real sure how to get from the wrong door to the right one. Or that I actually had what it took to open the right door once I got there.

  I didn’t set out on a big, majestic quest or anything. I just turned from the wrong door and stumbled along aimlessly, without a lot of hope in my heart. And then, one day, the right door inched open. And from somewhere, there came a mustard seed of faith. It was almost lackadaisical, how I chose to step through that door. I just decided one night. I was going to quit drinking until I got a better handle on things. That was it. There were no promises. No vows. Not to God. Not to myself. Not to anyone else. Just a simple, almost offhand decision.

  And in the distance, the dragon of fear stood to block my passing, belching all the fire and smoke and noise and rage that only such a dragon can. I clutched my sword and tried to look brave. It was hard not to turn and flee.

  The first few days were the fires of hell. Being dry, I mean. And the first few weeks, as well, in waves. The thought was constant, gnawing in my head. A drink. I need a drink. After work, it was all I could do to wrestle my truck straight home, instead of heading to the bar. Somehow, I hung in there. Almost immediately, the weight started washing from me. More than a pound a day. And that’s what kept me on the right path early on, I think. The weight. I was ashamed and beyond weary of being a big fat slob. I was done being embarrassed at how I looked in polite company. Never again. That’s what I told myself. That’s what I thought. I never want to be this slovenly again.

  Forty-five days. That’s what my counselor told me years ago, when I was thinking about putting the bottle down for a season. Forty-five days is how long it takes for your body to break free from the physical effects of drinking. After that, you’re clean. After that, you’re free, if you can stay that way. So that’s what I focused on there at the start. Lord, let me have forty-five days of freedom. Let me get to that place. And then let come what may.

  The days moved on, then the weeks. And after six weeks or so, the pounds slid off a lot harder. I looked at the situation. And I thought to myself, If you’re gonna get down to the weight you want, you’re going to have to starve yourself. I don’t see any other way. And we all know what happens when you quit starving yourself. All that weight will come roaring back, the same as if you had never lost it. That’s what happens.

  And so I was open to another road. And just about then, a good friend nudged me online. “Here,” she said. “I’ve been walking this path over here, and it works pretty well. You should try it. I think it’s exactly what you need.” The path she pointed to? Intermittent fasting.

  It was almost as lackadaisical as my decision to quit drinking was. I checked out the links she sent. Researched things a bit. Fasting is very much the “in” thing these days. It’s trendy. But does it work? That was my only concern. And then I decided to do it. I went to eating one meal a day. It was no big deal. I’d never been a big eater. The alcohol was what had made me all bloated and heavy. So it was very simple for me to cut back to one meal a day. And the thing about that one meal is, there are no limits. For that meal, you can eat whatever you’re hungry for, and as much of that as you want. Which is exactly what I’ve been doing for a long time now. Eating as much as I want of whatever I’m hungry for, once a day. I always finish off with a big old bowl of ice cream topped with butterscotch. That’s the kind of “diet” I can wholeheartedly endorse.

  I love it. The weight I lost before has stayed off, mostly. Plus a little bit more. Not that I weigh myself much. I’ve been shrinking where I need to shrink. My face is thinner than it’s been in decades. I’m wearing jeans that had been stacked in the corner, never to fit me again. But they are fitting. My winter coats are getting baggy. I figure to make this a long-term lifestyle. Although, like the alcohol, the less I think about it or plan, the better it will go, I figure, too. I feel great. Actually, I feel fantastic. Better than I’ve felt in decades. And I feel it, breathe it, when I wake up every day.

  Each morning is a new high.

  Back to the Present

  The day after Christmas, 2018. Up north and north we drove, me and my Jeep. Going to where Dad was. The phone rang soon after I hit the road. My older sister Rachel.

  “Are you on the road?” she asked.

  “Yep, I am. Heading on up.” And she thanked me for going up there like I was. “It’s OK,” I said. “I want to go. Maybe he’ll leave before I get there. If he does, I’m fine with that.”

  And halfway up Route 15, the phone rang again. My brother Titus. I answered and we spoke. He thanked me, too, for going to where Dad was. “I’m going to talk to him,” I said to Titus. “I’m telling him it’s OK to go.”

  Titus agreed. “I think you are the man to go see him,” he said. “I’m glad you’re going. Tell him I can’t come. You are representing me, too.”

  “That’s a great idea,” I said. “I’ll just tell him I’m here for all the boys. They can’t
come right now, so I’m here for them all.”

  We chatted a bit more, and Titus wished me well. “Keep us updated,” he said.

  I promised I would. Amish Black rolled on north into New York, then west toward Buffalo and the Peace Bridge.

  I thought about a few other random things, too. I remembered what my Amish friend Levi had told me not long ago. His elderly mother had passed a few months before. He told me how the stress of caring for her had rolled off like a vast burden breaking free. “You don’t realize,” Levi had said to me. “You don’t realize how stressed you are until someone like that passes on, and you no longer need to care for them. Physically care, I mean. Emotionally, you always care—don’t matter the circumstances.”

  And I thought about what Levi had said, and I thought about how much care Dad had required over the past number of years. And Mom, too, before she died in 2014. She had to be cared for like a baby. Fed like one, too. And the vast bulk of that burden, whether it was fair or not, fell on one family. My oldest sister Rosemary and her husband, Joe Gascho. It was their family and their clan who took care of Mom and Dad in their final years. After Mom passed, they moved Dad’s little house over to the farm of Rosemary’s oldest son, Simon, on the southwest corner of the old community. And that’s where Dad stayed when he was in Aylmer. Which was the majority of the time.

  He took a tremendous, tremendous amount of care. And he was more than half-cranky much of the time. Old people get that way. I’ve wondered often, watching both my parents live into their nineties, Will there ever come a time when the Amish take their old people to live in an assisted-living facility somewhere? I think they should. Not knocking any part of the care Dad got, not at all. But still. The stress had to be intense. It just had to be. I guess I forget a little bit how nonnegotiable that whole issue is for the Amish. You take care of your own for as long as they are here. Period.