Life demands something of you whether you can do it or not—that's what I learned from being a dad and failing, and now that's what I'm learning from Alcoholics Anonymous.
I suppose I'm at the stage of making amends because an elegant, older lady from the group has approached me asking for advice and I don't think I have any.
She's in a place where simple truisms like, keep on keeping on, just aren't going to cut it.
We get coffee in a bistro across the street from the meeting. It’s a chi-chi part of town—large, older homes interspersed with reno’s and the local merchants have invested tons of money in the streetscape—kind of like an upscale Greenwich Village.
And this woman looks like she comes from one of those houses—nicely dressed, hair cut and styled—a classy, older lady. So I listen carefully to her opening words.
“I want to talk to you, Dan, because of all the people at the meeting, you seem to be the one who has it all together—including the way you relate to your adult children.”
I almost choke on my coffee. As far as I know, I only said a few words about my two sons and daughter, and that in response to another woman in the group. I probably only said about a dozen words—twenty, tops!
“Did you miss the part where I said I still drink?”
She waves her hand as if shooing away a mosquito. “That’s to be expected—you’re in a horrid situation and as you said tonight, you’re only human. Besides, we’ve all got something.”
“Why do you drink?” I ask her. As soon as I say it, I want to take the words back. Story of my life.
But the woman doesn’t flinch—I have to give her that.
“I drink because I can’t live with the guilt.”
There’s a pained look in her eyes. I want to ignore it, but can’t. Yep, sometimes life does demand something of you, whether you can do it or not.
“What do you feel guilty about?”
“I killed my baby, “ she says—matter of fact, just like that.
“When was that?” I ask, taking into account she’s somewhere in her mid-fifties.
“Thirty years, two months and ten days ago.” She’s about to cry again.
I figure there are two ways this conversation can go—I can tell her the situation is over and get on with her life, or I can sit here and listen to a privileged disclosure I don’t want to hear. And being me, I opt for the latter.
“You had an abortion?”
She nods and looks away. All the world’s pain is concentrated in her face.
What do you say to someone wracked up with guilt—God loves you and forgives you—now, go away and be blessed? She’s lying awake nights pining for tiny fingernails.
I have to say something—but what?
It’ll be okay. I understand. I feel your pain?
Trite and dumb. It isn’t okay. I don’t understand her pain—or mine, for that matter, and I have no idea what’s happening inside her.
When we feel stuff we’re nobody but ourselves—and this empathy idea is lame. No one can feel what we feel—they only think they can.
So, I tell her. It’s short. It’s blunt. When I finish, she wipes her eyes, gets up and thanks me. A different woman walks out the door.
She leaves me with my burdens and walks out the door free.
I chuckle cynically. “That’s about right.”
I should be feeling pretty down, but I’m not. I should be looking for a bar, but that’s not on the agenda either—I stay right where I am.
This lady, whose name I don’t even know, has confided to me the secret of her life. I gave her the little I have to give. It wasn’t much, but it helped. Strangely enough, I feel consoled.
I stand up, drop a ten-dollar bill for the waitress and start toward the door.
I’m a dad. I’m not a god, although some days I wish I were.
I smile and catch my reflection in the mirror.
Peeking out from the top of my shirt is a superman logo—my favourite t-shirt the kids gave me.
On the outside, I look like Clark Kent, but I’m really Superman in disguise.
All I need is a phone booth, or even a booth in a coffee shop, or just somewhere private to change into my secret identity.
The waitress who’s now clearing our table spies my tip and smiles back at me. I wave her over and whisper slyly, “Can you tell me where I can find the nearest maintenance closet?”