Rosemary Keevil - The Art of Losing It: A Memoir of Grief and Addiction

THE ART OF LOSING IT

Copyright 2020, Rosemary Keevil

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, digital scanning, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law. For permission requests, please address She Writes Press.

Published 2020

Printed in the United States of America

Print ISBN: 978-1-63152-777-7

E-ISBN: 978-1-63152-778-4

Library of Congress Control Number: 2020908450

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All company and/or product names may be trade names, logos, trademarks, and/or registered trademarks and are the property of their respective owners.

This is a work of non-fiction and, as such, reflects the authors memory of the experiences. Many of the names and identifying characteristics of the individuals, places and institutions featured in this book have been changed. Certain individuals are composites. Dialogue and events have been recreated to convey their substance rather than written exactly as they occurred.

For my late husband and my two beautiful
and resilient daughters.

I n my bed on a Friday afternoon. I cant seem to sleep off this cocaine. Why did I do that? I gulp some more Btard-Montrachet from the lovely, large goblet on my nightstand and study the familiar green bottle. Still half fullthatll do.

I sneak out to the porch off the bedroom and scan for anybody who might notice me and my wired state. No neighbors? No gardeners?

The Camel Light I smoke offers no relief. I drink more fine wine. A shower will workwill help me sober up and wash off the stink of the smoke at the same time. A check in the mirror reflects paranoia. My God, Im shaking; my stomach and heart are knotted together, pounding, pounding... maybe Im having a heart attack.

I need sleep. Its only one thirty. I have a couple of hours. One of those little blue pills will do the trick.

Two thirty: passed out.

Three oclock: still passed out.

Three thirty: I raise my weighted eyelids and try to focus on the clock radio. I am suddenly wrenched out of my anesthetized state, as if stabbed with a shot of adrenaline. Oh my God! Fuck! Im a half hour late!

Jump up. Check the mirror. Brush teeth. Grab purse, then the four daily newspapers by my doornever know when you might have idle time. Jump into Mazda RX7. Convertible hood is down. Shit! Ill be so obvious with my wild hair flying everywhere. Oh wellno time to close it now. Ram car into reverse. Get out of the garage. Hope for no rain. Check mirror. Paranoia. First gear. Move forward fast. Concentratevery, very hard. Second gear. Third. Fourth. Highway. Concentrate. Concentrate.

Pull up to the curb by the grassy area in front of school. Still a number of kids in blue plaid uniformsrunning, screaming, chattering, doing what young teen girls do. My thirteen-year-old, Dixie, spots me. Separates from her pals. Rushes over, face scrunched in confusion.

She opens the door. Where were you?

Newspapers spill out onto the ground. Ah-ha-ha-ha-ha... Even to me it sounds like a crazed laugh.

Mom! Did you take an Ativan?

Of course not, dear.

Dixie hazards a glance at her friends. Lets just go, Mom.

Earlier this week, she asked me to take her to Surrey on Friday after school for a sleepover at her cousins. The dreaded drive to Surrey can be an hour and a half long in rush-hour traffic.

Mom! Get going, Dixie pleads. Lets just go.

But by the time were on the Upper Levels Highway, there is something wrong with her.

Mom, take me home. Pleeeease, just take me home.

I look at her. At the cars in front of us. At the cars behind us. Cars beside us. At her again. Are people honking? Her eyes are tearing; she is yelling something at me.

Turn around! she cries. Dont take the highway.

I pull over to the side of the highway. Dixie is screaming. Maybe I should go home. I start driving, most gingerly, to the next exit and turn around.

We make it home, and I go immediately to my room and collapse on my bed. Dixies fifteen-year-old sister, Willow, arrives home from a friends and charges into my room.

Mom, arent you taking me to youth group now?

She shakes me out of my unconsciousness. I desperately try to register.

Mom! Im gonna be late. Are you taking me?

Where?

Mom. My youth group in Coquitlam. You promised!

Of course, dear. Ill meet you in the car. Oh, yes, fucking Coquitlamas difficult to drive to as Surrey.

I drag myself into the bathroom, check the mirror... and see a terrified, maybe even insane person staring back at me. I hear Willow yelling to me and manage to maneuver my ravaged body down the stairs and out to the garage. Willow is just getting in the car when I get there. She is putting the family dog, fluffy little Angel, onto her lap.

I choose the Lions Gate Bridge and Barnet Highway routefar less intimidating than the Upper Levels. Somehow I make it to the Coquitlam rec center, where the youth group meets.

Which driveway?

This one, Mom. Dont you remember?

Her friends come out to meet her. I paint a smile on my face as they look at us in the RX7 with the top down and Angel panting away, excited to see everyone.

Nice car, her buddy says.

Yeah, it was my dads.

Its awesome.

Nice dog.

When shall I pick you up? I ask, anxious to get home and back to bed.

Ill call you later, she says. I cant take Angel into the rec center. But remember to bring her back when you pick me up.

As I am driving home, I notice that Burrard Inlet and the mountains are on my left.

If the mountains are on my left, I must be going east. But we live west of Coquitlam, so I must be going the wrong way. Street signs? Crossroad? Where the fuck am I? I need to check the map.

I pull into a gas station parking lot, and Angel immediately jumps out of the car. She maybe little, about twenty-five pounds, but she sure can move. Holy shit! I left her window down. Shes bolting behind the building. Oh my fucking God. Im going to lose Angel.

Angel. Angel. Angel! I scramble out of the car and chase after her. As she runs behind the back of the station, some twenty yards away, I am terrified I will never see her again. As I round the corner, I see her about to go around the next corner. But theres a person coming my way. A middle-aged woman with flowing clothes.

Grab that dog, please! I yell to her. Shes the family dog. If I lose her, my kidsll die!

As Angel is about to run by her, the woman puts her cloth bag down, as if in slow motion, reaches out with both hands, grabs Angel, and picks her up. I cannot see the womans face, as the entire scene is silhouetted by the late-afternoon sun behind them.

Oh my God. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. I run up to the woman, squinting, and take Angel.

Youre most welcome. Hes a cute little thing, isnt he? What kind is it?

Shes a Shih Tzu Chin, I say, short of breath. She likes to take off. I almost had a heart attack. Thank you sooooooo much. The sun shines directly in my eyes, like one of those brilliant lightbulbs used in dramatic interrogations and torture scenes in the movies. I am able to position myself so my face is in her shadow. Still, she can see me better than I can see her. I pray she does not detect how out of it I must be. She could report me to the police.