A Year of Living Dangerously

You always hear those stories about people who smoked 12 packs of cigarettes in a day, and then woke up one day and decided they didn't want to smoke anymore. BAM! -- They quit cold turkey and never had another cigarette. I used to hear such stories and laugh at the obsurdity of it all. That was, until I had a similar experience.

One year ago today, I found myself with the worst hangover of my "adult" career, which is a bold statement considering I've been drinking since about the age of 17. I woke up to find myself in the Emergency Room of Cedars-Sinai Hospital in Los Angeles. Sadly, I wasn't there to hang out with LiLo or Britney in the psych ward, nor was I sipping fruit juice with Pamela Anderson after our most recent face lifts and nose augmentations. No, instead I was literally woken up on a gurney in the Emergency Room, where I had spent the night -- no wallet, no keys, no money, no mobile phone, no dignity, and no self-respect. Just me and the clothes I had from the night before. I had vague recollection of the prior evening's events -- enough to piece together that I had managed to fall (not sure if I tripped or if I fell of my own volition), and dislocate my thumb. I remember the pain and agony of the ER doctor trying to relocate my thumb using only a local anestetic, figuring the alcohol coursing through my veins would suffice to numb any other pain I might feel. I remember my brother at my side, and then I remember being left alone on the gurnee to sleep until morning, at which point I would be sent to a specialist.

After sleeping for what felt like only minutes, I woke up feeling like death. My face had been plastered to the vinyl of the gurnee, surrounded by a pool of my own saliva. I was sure I had sleep lines all across my face, but I didn't care. I was transported by a cute orderly, and for the first time in my life I didn't make any attempts to flirt. I remember being wheeled outside, only to have the bright LA sun penetrate my eyes like two hot pokers -- making me feel like relief would only come once my head exploded.

I spent part of the morning sitting in waiting rooms, seeing different specialists -- all trying to figure out what the best course of action was with my thumb. Additionally, I was baraded with the usual small-talk questions, when in actuality I had already come up with the solution to my thumb -- cut it off and send me home! Finally, a plastic surgeon (hand specialist) was able to squeeze me into his busy LA schedule, for an afternoon surgery preceeded by lunch at the Ivy. This meant that I had to sit in one of the consultation rooms until my scheduled time. The nurses had taken away my only source of life at that point; my bottle of water. There I was, left waiting to go into surgery. Nothing in my system except for last night's alcohol, completely depraved of food and sleep. At that point in time, I was willing to sacrifice my thumb for the comforts of my own bed, a greasy brunch, and a gallon of water.

With my surgery complete, I found myself back at my brother's apartment still doped up on pain medications. Over the course of the next few days, I quickly discovered what my one night of drinking had really cost me. I was now without the use of my right-hand (I'm right-handed), which made everything a chore. Things that were once easy now became a test of will. I won't go into the specifics of it all, but there are certain activities you take for granted when you have the full use of all ten fingers.

I initially gave up drinking because I was on great pain meds. I had no reason to desire Mr. Alcohol; I had Mr. Vicadin by my side. I told myself that I would stop drinking until I was able to fully function. It took nearly 5 months until I was back to being fully functioning with my thumb. In that time, I had an opportunity to do some soul searching. I discovered that I was letting my desire for alcohol run my life. I would not classify myself as an alcoholic, but in the past I had made some not-so-wise decisions -- decisions and indescresions that could have ruined my life permanently. I saw my incident with my thumb as a reminder that I was using alcohol as a crutch to deal with certain aspects of my life. It took hard work to learn to deal with things without my usual glass of wine, or a stiff drink at the bar. But in the end, I'm glad I made the decision to stop letting alcohol cloud my judgement.

When you tell people that you've stopped drinking alcohol because you dislocated your thumb, they look at you as though you've just told them you've stopped eating food because you burned your tongue. In most cultures, non-drinkers are the social lepers of society. I've been met with weird looks, lost friendships, and judgement galore since my newfound days of sobriety. However, I won't sugar-coat it for you; I won't dilute it with gradure or false pretenses; I won't make it sound like it's been easy. The truth is -- I miss drinking! Nothing sounds more appealing than a magnum bottle of Shiraz, a cigarette, and dark chocolate. Mine is not a story of heroics or piety, but simply my journey towards being unclouded in life. Will I ever drink again? My only response to that is -- never is a long time. Until then, I take my life one day at a time -- making the best decisions for me and my life, with the hopes that some day I'll be stong enough to have my wine and drink it too.