Andrew W. is a former neighbor of mine who now lives in the midwest. He used to be a heavy drinker, but now keeps sober by attending Alcoholics Anonymous meetings almost every day. At these meetings, often held in church basements, he and the others trade amazing stories of struggle and survival, small victories and big defeats, hard lives and sometimes hard deaths. Here is Andrew’s first installment of Church Basements. with names and identifying circumstance altered when necessary to preserve anonymity:

Mary came in Sunday with her son, Mark, a tall fair, freckled-faced boy. He had red hair like his mom, who sat beside him. He was new to these rooms, but his mother was a veteran. Her freckles had bloomed into red blotches, and worry lines slalomed down through them. Mark sat silent holding, as we say, onto his seat.

A few meetings later John, a retired Marine, announced that Mary’s son, “the one we saw last week,” had died of an overdose the day after his first meeting. Others nodded knowingly and someone said, “This is a deadly disease.”

AA meetings in church basements are the valley of the shadow of death. Nearly every member has told stories of children, parents, siblings, other relatives or friends, close and distant, whose premature death was caused by “drinkin’ and druggin’.” Most relate stories of their own close calls, lost weekends, months or even years in a black hole where memory is trapped by addiction.

Mary missed a few meetings to mourn and attend her son’s funeral. During her absence one member said, “At least she has other children.”

“Yeah, but they’re out there too,” remarked one of Mary’s friends under her breath.

The picture became clear. Mary attends AA meeting to keep herself clean. She persuades an addicted son to come to a meeting but it is too late. He dies of an overdose. And her other kids are using, too.

The next week she came back, heading a meeting, but did not mention the death of her son. Instead she shared about how much she loves the meeting. “My life is here,” she said as tears welled up. “I’m at home here with people who understand me, are just like me.”

We could relate because it is true that people with addictive personalities are similar, whether or not they are using. Most of us are compulsive, careless and shy. So when people share at meetings others follow, starting out with, “I can relate to what she said,” and then swinging into their similar character defects.

After one meeting I approached Mary and said, “I lost a daughter to drugs and booze. I always used to say, of my four kids she was most like me, but I never realized how true it was.” I handed her my number and said,“Call me if you need to talk.”

“I’m so sorry for your loss,” Mary whispered.

Posted by Jerome Doolittle at March 20, 2008 07:16 PM

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