Diary of an Alcoholic Housewife

by Brenda Wilhelmson

  “It’s seven fifteen,” she said. “The eclipse is happening right now.”

  “Shoot,” I said.

  “That’s okay,” Vivian said. “Let’s hold hands and chant ‘Om.’ Thousands of people are doing it all over the world.”

  We held hands in the restaurant and chanted “Om” three times.

  After dinner, Vivian drove us to a labyrinth in the backyard of a Catholic church. We pulled into the parking lot and looked at the dark clouds floating across the eclipsed moon.

  “This is going to be perfect,” Vivian said. “Here.” Vivian pulled out a little brown vial that looked like the kind of glass container I snorted cocaine out of. She unscrewed the lid and sniffed it. “Mmmm. Give me your wrists.”

  Darcy and I offered up our wrists and Vivian rubbed essential oils on them. The oil smelled good.

  “Okay now, close your eyes and relax,” Vivian said. Darcy and I closed our eyes. “Imagine you are sitting by a stream and the stream is crystal clear.” Vivian then asked us to pick our favorite tree and picture ourselves sitting under it.

  “What kind of tree did you picture?” Vivian asked when our creative visualization was over.

  “I pictured an oak,” Darcy said.

  “Yeah, that’s what I pictured, too,” Vivian said. “What did you picture, Brenda?”

  “A weeping willow.”

  “Really,” Vivian said, looking at me with interest. “I actually almost picked that.”

  The three of us got out of the car. It was freezing. Vivian, who was the only one to have walked a labyrinth before (Charlie and I didn’t know what to do with the one in Budapest), told us to watch the ground in front of our feet as we slowly snaked our way to the center. We began walking and she told us to clear our minds, be silent, and observe our thoughts. When we got to the center, we were to pause and wait to feel something before walking back out.

  As I walked the labyrinth, I quieted myself and waited for profound thoughts. What came was an overwhelming sense of gratitude, and I found myself meditating on the words “thank you.” It was incredibly spiritual.

  The three of us arrived at the center and Vivian held out her hands, one palm up, one palm down. “Let’s stand in a circle around this rose quartz rock here,” she said. “Put your hands out so your palms hover below or above the next person’s.” We stood around the rose quartz with our palms hovering inches away from each other’s. “Do you feel the energy?” Vivian asked.

  “Mm-hmm,” Darcy and I nodded. My palms tickled.

  “Now take off your rings, place them on the rose quartz, and ask for healing,” Vivian said.

  We did that, put our rings back on, and silently began walking out of the labyrinth. Vivian unlocked her car and we got in.

  “Well?” Vivian asked.

  “That was incredible,” I said. “I feel so peaceful and happy right now. Thank you, Vivian.”

  “I feel cold,” Darcy complained. “Can you start the car and get the heat going?”

  Vivian started her car.

  “You want to go somewhere and get something hot to drink?” I asked.

  “I don’t have any money,” Darcy said.

  “I’ll buy you a drink,” I said. “Let’s get some tea.”

  “Let’s go to Whole Foods,” Vivian said. “They have really great tea there.”

  I bought Darcy tea, and she didn’t say thank you. She didn’t thank Vivian and me for dinner either, and she didn’t thank Vivian for driving out of her way to pick her up. Darcy sat in a chair sipping tea looking sorry-assed and self-absorbed. I know she’s going through tough times, but I don’t want to be around Darcy right now.

  [Monday, November 10]

  There’s a gourmet kitchen boutique in town that offers cooking classes, and Kelly and I attended one this evening. The chef du jour showed us how to make cassoulet and pumpkin crème brulee. Kelly and I were getting hungrier by the minute as we watched him cook. When he finished, we were handed bite-size cups of the cassoulet and a tiny aluminum foil tin of pumpkin crème brulee. It was dinnertime. Kelly and I looked at each other and started laughing.

  “I can’t believe this,” I said looking at the paltry amounts. “How can they charge us thirty bucks, host the class at dinnertime, and not feed us? I’ve taken other cooking classes and eaten fabulous meals at the end of them.”

  “We should go to McDonald’s,” Kelly snickered. She picked up the comment card we got when we walked in and nodded toward the chic-looking woman who owned the shop. “She’s going to hear from me,” she said. “By the way, how’s your dad?”

  “It looks like he’s got cancer on his lungs,” I said.

  My father had started seeing an oncologist at Evanston Hospital after he found out he was terminal this summer. I wanted my dad to see Dr. Benton at Northwestern because he wanted to start my dad on hormone therapy and get him CT and bone scans right away. But my dad hated Benton because he gave him an honest answer when my dad asked how much time he had left.

  “Your father won’t see Dr. Benton,” my mother said after I asked her to convince my dad to switch doctors. “Chevron wasn’t doing anything, so we went back to Dr. Barren at Swedish. He’s the reason we found out your father has lung cancer. He did a CT and bone scan.”

  “Why’d you go to Barren?” I shouted.

  “What does your father have to lose?” my mother asked.

  When my dad was first diagnosed with prostate cancer, a woman from my mother’s church recommended Dr. Barren. Barren told my father he could cure him. He told my father he was the only doctor who could. He told my father not to have his prostate removed or have radiation—which every other oncologist and urologist was recommending.

  “You’re going to Svengali,” I shouted. “The guy is bad news.”

  “He’s the only one who thinks he can cure your father,” my mother snapped. “At least he has your dad on hormone therapy and did those scans.”

  “Dr. Benton would have scanned Dad and had him on hormone therapy months ago.”

  “Your father didn’t like him, and he doesn’t want to go to Northwestern,” my mother said irritably. “He doesn’t want to go that far.”

  “You don’t pick the doctor who’s closest,” I said. “You pick the doctor who’s best.”

  “One of your father’s friends from the harbor told him to see Dr. Barren, too,” my mother said defensively. “His wife is a nurse and she worked with Dr. Barren for years and thinks very highly of him.”

  “Put Dad on the phone,” I said. When my father picked up, I said, “I’m worried about your choice of doctors. When a doctor says he’s the only one who can cure you, that’s bullshit.”

  “Dr. Barren told me I did the worst things for myself,” my dad said, his voice shaking. “He told me, ‘You had surgery. You never should have had surgery. You had radiation. I told you not to have radiation. Radiation feeds cancer, makes it grow. That’s the bad news. The good news is you’re back with me and I’m going to get you going on these hormone pills and hormone shots.’ Real nice, huh? I did the worst things for myself.”

  “That guy is a quack,” I said. “He’s full of shit. Why don’t you go back to Dr. Benton?”

  “Because that guy told me if he saw cancer on the bone or CT scans, I had three to five years to live,” my father shouted. “How would you like that? I hear him telling me that every night before I go to bed. I’m not going back there. At least Dr. Barren thinks he can do something for me.”

  “Mom said Dr. Barren thinks the lung cancer is unrelated to your prostate cancer,” I said. “She said Dr. Barren is sending you to a surgeon who removes lung cancer when he’s not working as a cardiologist. Shit Dad, you want a specialist, someone who does nothing but lungs. You don’t want some part-time lung doctor opening you up.”

  “I don’t feel good about that either,” my dad said. “But Dr. Barren says he can help me. What the fuck? What the fuck am I supposed to do? I’m so fucked up!”

 
“I’ll find you a specialist at Northwestern.”

  “Evanston,” my father said. “I don’t want to go into the city. I don’t want your mother to have to drive all the way downtown when I’m dying in the hospital.”

  “Fine,” I said.

  As good as a martini sounds right now, I’d be ineffective in this cancer nightmare if I were drinking.

  [Tuesday, November 11]

  Charlie never asks about my father. He doesn’t seem to give a shit. Charlie works, brings home a paycheck, and wants to get laid. That’s it. He rarely strikes up a conversation, and I can’t remember him ever sharing anything personal with me. I’ve stopped talking to him, and I don’t think he’s noticed.

  [Monday, November 17]

  After making phone calls the last few days to find a good pulmonary doctor for my dad, I made an appointment.

  “You’re going to see a pulmonary specialist tomorrow,” I told my father over the phone.

  “Hmm,” my dad said, sounding concerned and depressed. “Is that what you’d do?”

  “Yes,” I said. “You don’t want to screw around with this. The doctor wants to see your X-rays, he’ll probably schedule you for a needle biopsy. We’ll figure out what to do from there.”

  “Let me think about it and I’ll call you back,” my dad said. He called back a little while later and said he’d go.

  I sat down at my computer to work on a story I’m writing for the Chicago Reader, profiling the Healing Rooms of Zion. The Healing Rooms is a little storefront operation where evangelicals lay hands on sick people and ask God for healing. I’d thought about asking my father if he wanted to go, but I doubted its effectiveness. A Healing Rooms client I was featuring was dying of cancer, and she’d experienced no breakthroughs. I’d gone as a client myself to see if the Healing Rooms could get rid of my sinus infection before contacting them for this story. I’d wound up calling my doctor days later and getting a prescription for antibiotics. I asked the Healing Rooms healers about their less-than-stellar track record and they told me that doubt or a blockage in either the healer’s or patient’s connection with God could prevent healing.

  The phone rang and it was Fay. There was a lot of noise in the background.

  “Where are you?” I asked her.

  “Where are you?” she shot back. “We’re at Fiona’s for breakfast, all except you.”

  Fiona was having the book club over to have breakfast and donate books to a charity. I’d had it on my calendar for weeks but completely forgot. I didn’t want to go. I needed to work on my story, and I was worried sick about my father.

  “I’ll pop by for an hour,” I told Fay.

  I brushed my teeth, washed my face, and went to Fiona’s looking unkempt. I didn’t care. Tina was telling everyone how stressful it was working with an architect to come up with the perfect plans for her new house. Shelly was yammering on and on about the new granite countertops she was installing and how difficult it was to select a new faucet.

  “I want a brushed silver finish, but the sprayer that matches the faucet only comes in a shiny finish.”

  I wanted to scream.

  [Tuesday, November 18]

  My dad saw the lung doctor today. My mom called after his appointment, which I wasn’t at, and told me, “We really liked the doctor. He’s a young guy about your age. He has long hair. He looked at the X-rays and said it could be the prostate cancer or an infection. Whatever it is, his lungs are pretty spattered with it. Your father’s scheduled for a needle biopsy on Thursday.”

  [Thursday, November 20]

  It’s my sister’s birthday today. I’d planned to mail her a birthday card, but never got around to it. I’m terrible with cards. Paula and I usually celebrate each other’s birthdays by going out to dinner, so I called her to wish her a happy birthday and get a dinner date on the calendar. But as usual, Paula and I couldn’t agree on a date. I’d bought Paula a silver and turquoise cross pendant for her birthday when I was in South Beach with Abby. When it became clear dinner wasn’t going to happen any time soon, I told Paula I’d drop off her present at our parent’s house so she could pick it up on Thanksgiving. Charlie and the boys and I are spending Thanksgiving with Charlie’s family.

  “I can’t talk to Dad,” Paula said. “He gets upset and yells at me. It seems like he doesn’t want to talk to me. I called him this morning and he was getting into the shower and said he couldn’t talk. I called last week and he picked up the phone and right away he said, ‘You want to talk to your mother?’ So screw it. Just let me know if there’s anything I can do to help.”

  I’d called Paula a couple of weeks ago when our father went back to Dr. Svengali, hoping to get her on my bandwagon and push Dad to see Dr. Benton. I’d called her yesterday as well to tell her about Dad’s lung consultation.

  “You got him to see a different doctor?” Paula had said irritably. “That was quick.”

  “He’s got to get on this,” I said.

  “You couldn’t get him to go to Northwestern, though, huh? I mean, like you said, it’s a better hospital.”

  “It’s a step in the right direction,” I said. “The lung doc he saw is affiliated with Northwestern and Dad said he liked him.”

  “You talked to Dad?”

  “Uh, yeah.”

  “Oh.”

  Later, I went to a meeting. As I was leaving, my cell phone rang, and it was Eliza, a young woman I’d met at a meeting a couple weeks ago. She was sobbing hysterically. Eliza called me earlier this afternoon. She told me she’d been living at the shelter for seven months, got on a waiting list for a subsidized apartment where she’d be monitored, but when she became friends with another young woman at the shelter named Dashawna, she moved in with her instead.

  “We jumped the gun,” Eliza told me earlier this afternoon. “Dashawna said she knew some good people we could move in with and save money for our own place.”

  Those “good” people were a woman and her two twenty-something-year-old sons, one a registered sex offender.

  As Eliza cried hysterically, I stood near the doorway of the meeting I was leaving and pressed my cell phone closer to my head.

  “You need to calm down,” I told her. “I can’t understand you.”

  In between sobs, Eliza choked out that she was calling me from a gas station near my house. “I need a place to stay tonight,” she cried. “Can I stay at your house?”

  “Uh, hmm, um, yeah, sure,” I told her. “I’ll pick you up in a few minutes.”

  Shit, I thought to myself. I hadn’t given Eliza my cell phone number. I’d only given her the number to my house. She must have talked to Charlie. I called Charlie.

  “What the hell’s going on?” Charlie yelled.

  I told Charlie.

  “I don’t want you bringing this into my house,” he growled.

  “I’ve got to help her out,” I said. “It’s just for one night. It’ll be all right. I think the pie house is still open. I’ll take her there and calm her down before we come home. She’s going to her sponsor’s house tomorrow. Put the kids to bed and don’t tell them anything. They won’t see her until morning. Put sheets and a blanket on the living room couch. She’ll sleep there.”

  Eliza was still sobbing when I pulled into the gas station. She plopped her 250-pound butt onto my car seat, and we drove to the pie house.

  “Are you hungry?” I asked.

  Eliza nodded; her chest heaved as she tried to stifle sobs.

  “I’m going to buy you some dinner or pie or whatever, and you’ll stay at my house tonight,” I said. “You’re going to be okay. Tomorrow, we’ll get you to your sponsor’s house, and you two will figure things out.”

  Eliza nodded. We pulled into the parking lot of the restaurant and sat there for several minutes, so Eliza could compose herself enough to walk into the restaurant. At the table, we sipped coffee and Eliza ordered dinner.

  “I fucked Germaine, one of the guys I’ve been living with,” Eliza said. “
Now I’m pregnant, about a month-and-a-half pregnant. I’m working two jobs, and I’m the only one working in the house. I’m paying for everything: their food stamps and everything public aid don’t cover. I’m supporting everyone and not saving a dime. My sponsor gave me nuts, oatmeal, rice crackers, a bag of stuff to keep in my room so I have something to eat. Now my wallet’s missing along with my ID and Social Security card. My bank was supposed to send me a new ATM card because mine was missing, and I called the bank today to find out if they sent it. They told me they sent it two weeks ago.

  “I came home from work today, and Germaine was outside. He said, ‘Hey, what’s up, nigger?’ I told him not to call me that. It’s disrespectful. He started screaming at me. I walked into the house and as we were walking up the stairs to the apartment, he pushed past me and called me a white bitch fat ass. He went into the apartment and slammed the door in my face.” Eliza started crying again. “He wouldn’t let me in. He locked me out. I’ve been locked out for hours and no one will let me in.” She began sobbing. “He’s been getting ugly and scary ever since he found out I was pregnant.”

  “Here,” I said, sliding a glass of water in front of Eliza. She drank some water and began calming down. “How do you feel about being pregnant?”

  “I’m happy I’m having a baby,” she said, brightening up. “I know how to raise kids because I raised my nephew for three years while my sister was in jail. My whole family is happy for me and wants me to move back home. They’ll help me. I just don’t have the financial part of it worked out.

  “I’d like to move back home to be with my mom,” she continued. “My mom’s dying of AIDS. She’s been clean for twenty years and they don’t know how she got it because she was diagnosed with HIV when I was seven and the last day she got high was the day I was born. My mom only slept with two guys, my dad and this other guy. I’m not sure which one is my dad, but the other guy is dead, so I don’t care.”

  The waitress came by and set a hamburger and fries in front of Eliza. Eliza took a huge bite of her burger and, with her mouth full, said, “When my dad found out my mom slept with someone else, he got so mad he slept with three other women and got them all pregnant. I have two older sisters by my mom and dad, and I have two younger half-sisters and a half-brother by my dad and those women. I didn’t even know about my younger sisters and brother until I was in junior high and high school. I found out about one of my sisters after I fooled around with her. My dad felt really bad about that. When he found out we were fooling around, he told me we were sisters.”