by Dina Kucera
I call the doctor and say, “John needs more.” They call it in, and I show up at the pharmacy. Smiling. They go into “Don’t drive or operate things.” I’m thinking, Divine Order.
I take all of those. So now I have to go to the emergency room for fictitious pain. I have to act the whole thing out. I hurt my back. I think my knee is broken. I hurt my feelings. Whatever.
One time I say it is a toothache. Then the doctor walks in, and I say, “I was lifting my mother and I hurt my back.”
He looks at his chart. “It says you have a toothache.”
I say, “That too.”
Then I make a huge mistake (aside from taking the painkillers in the first place): I begin to take them at work. I take a large painkiller when I am almost at work. I walk in and I have never been so happy to be a part of the team. I am beyond thrilled to be here.
I scan and scan, and all the foods are so interesting. The packaging is brilliant. The frozen Jolly Green Giant vegetables are such a striking color of green that I actually think I am in Ireland. The customers are like my own flesh and blood.
Random Man comes to my lane, and the anticipation of what information he is going to give me today makes me think I am going to explode with excitement!
Ballsack says, “I can really see an improvement in your attitude.”
I say, “And I can see an improvement in yours! What color is that shirt? Eggplant? Love it! Eggplant is hot right now.”
Then, as if it couldn’t get any better, I take another large pill when I am almost home. I walk in the door, and thank God, Geo is standing there telling a long story about himself! I cannot wait to hear about the heavy weights! Or about the abnormal distances he is running. Everything he says about himself completely intrigues me! He is so interesting! And the tone of his voice doesn’t sound like nails on a chalkboard anymore! It sounds like Celine Dion singing that Titanic song.
Everything is better. Everything.
It had to end. All of this happiness was simply getting out of control.
Every time I walked into the pharmacy, I said, “This is the last time.” Carly was about to come home after six months in rehab. The last thing she needed was her mother jumping up and down on the furniture. So no more pills.
It sounds easy enough, right? Wrong. I had been taking Klonopin for two years. So I had to spend two days in the hospital to make sure I didn’t have a seizure or a heart attack or a mental breakdown. I got out of the hospital, and I was sick for two weeks. But every day, I just carried on like I was fine, and each day I got a little better. The exact way I felt was expressed by an addict on TV. He said, “Nothing is making me happy right now.” Exactly. But I felt “happier” every day that passed. Today, I am quickly approaching happy.
The pain pills gave me this insane energy. But then I stopped taking them, and I went back to feeling drained all the time. I said to Carly, who is a horrible influence on me, “What if I drank one of those energy drinks?” I had never had one. Carly drank them all day.
She completely encouraged me to try one, and I do not feel I had my own free will in this situation. I drank one, and the next thing I knew, I wanted to build a wooden deck on to the back of the house. I cleaned out my closet. I did all the laundry. I organized all the books on all three of my bookshelves in alphabetical order, like the library. All of these activities took half an hour. My sister, Lisa, said the energy drinks are not good for me. I said they are good for me and I like it and I’m not going to stop. Or sleep.
When the pain pill party ended, some things had to change. It had to happen. By this time Geo had been living with us for eight months. I asked Geo to move out. I went back to my job with the same depressed feelings. All my coworkers were twenty years old. I was forty-eight. From lifting things at work for ten years and lifting Mom for four years, every part of me hurt. Not I-need-a-painkiller hurt, but I-can’t-physically-do-this-job-anymore hurt. Everything was pulled and twisted. The doctor said I had a torn meniscus in my knee. Who cares? I was falling apart. The Green Giant vegetable bag was not that fucking great. My job sucked. Period.
Things went from bad to really bad. I hated having to do these stupid degrading things at work. I hated being spoken to like I was stupid by bosses who were younger than my kids. I hated having to ask a twenty-year-old for permission to go to the bathroom. I was way too old for this shit, but I had to have the health insurance. So no matter what one of my bosses said, I had to suck it up.
It was clear to me that there would never be a convenient time to quit my job as a checker. I would scan groceries until I dropped dead. That was my reality. There would never be a day when John would come to me and say, “Quit that shitty job.” I had waited ten years for some sort of approval to quit scanning groceries. It was not going to happen.
And our health insurance? And John’s heart condition? John will have a heart condition for the rest of his life, so that is how long I would have to check groceries. I would have to check groceries for the next twenty years. I would have to stand on that mat for the next twenty years, smiling, for health insurance. Suck it up.
John’s heart attack drove me to the conclusion that life could end at any moment. And I am working a job that is actually making me physically ill, and I have to do this for another twenty years?
I know most people hate their jobs. But ideally, I think a job should be a place where maybe you’re not thrilled to be there, but some days are okay.
It should not be a place you hate so much your stomach is in knots all day.
It should not be a place where you have to stand on the black mat behind your register because you’ve been told not to step off of it or a twenty-two-year-old will snap his fingers and point for you to step back on the mat.
It should not be a place where you’re constantly told to uncross your arms, smile bigger, and stand up straighter.
It should not be a place where you’re not allowed to go to the bathroom during your period, even as the blood drips down your leg. I said, “I can’t control this.” I was told, “You better figure out a way to control it. Turn around and check groceries.”
I was saying something to my boss one day, and as I was speaking he interrupted me and said, “You talk too much.” And he walked away. But this wasn’t unusual. Things like this are said to menial workers all the time. It’s completely acceptable. There’s a good chance I could remember at least one rude, shitty comment said by a boss for each day I worked there.
Nothing in particular happened that day. Nothing in particular was said. It was a day like any other. I clocked out and told my coworkers I’d see them tomorrow. I do not know what happened to my brain that day, but as I walked out the front door, the sun hit me in the face and in my head I thought, I will never come back. That was it. I had had enough. I worked there ten years. I was done. I didn’t get fired. I didn’t quit. I simply clocked out and never clocked back in. I never went back.
I guess they call it a leap of faith. It was my Oprah “light bulb” moment. I didn’t have any fear or regret. I was solid and clear in my brain. I felt relaxed. I felt happy. I felt completely calm. I drove away and in the rearview mirror I looked at the store and said out loud, “See ya.”
Let me defend myself. I had every job I have ever had in my life for at least five years. I am not a job quitter. I have worked my ass off at every job I have ever had. I know I need to work. I have a family. But I need to work someplace where I’m not climbing out of my skin every day. My adventure into pills was the result of feeling so backed into a corner... like I had no choices in my life... like I had to work this job... like I had to have my brother-in-law lying on my couch.
That does not excuse my behavior. People every day feel that same way and don’t spend months taking painkillers. They also don’t quit their jobs. My life didn’t become unmanageable overnight. It was becoming unmanageable for a long time. I ignored it and turned my head away hoping it would get fixed by the time I turned around. The proble
ms with my job and my brother-in-law existed for a long, long time. Years. But I didn’t do anything to change it. I allowed myself to be consumed by it. I dropped out. I went in the back bedroom and shut the door, lay on the bed, took a pill or two, and stared at the TV. I did this for months. On the other side of the door was Geo, Mom, the girls, John with a heart condition, and my job. All alone in the back room it was just me, the TV, the remote, and the magic pills. I clocked out.
I didn’t feel proud of myself when I stopped taking pills. I felt shame. I felt stupid. I felt I was a bad example. I felt I had let everyone down. I felt depressed. After those feelings sat in the pit of my stomach for a few weeks, I had to walk it off. The only thing to do was keep walking down the road, minus the happy pills. To go ahead and face the day with whatever came up and deal with it.
Change didn’t come easy and it came with a price. But I have never wondered whether I did the right thing. It’s like being in a really bad marriage. You know when you’re walking down the aisle. When I went to work my very first day at the grocery store, I thought, Wow, this is going to suck. But I did what I had to do. I scanned and smiled for ten years.
Making choices and changes often brings explosions. But I am fortunate to have a husband who supported my decision, and when the flames died down, I didn’t have a single regret. Shove my eighty percent PSS up your asses, douche bags.
I say to John and the girls, “I quit my job. I’m going to write a book. We’re going to see some hard times, but I need you guys to support me on this.”
I have been wearing my pajamas for almost a month, and we don’t have any milk. I am for the first time in my life a starving artist, and I think I like it.
Hey, Dad. I get it.
I have put my parents through more painful shit than your whole family’s painful shit all put together. They are so strong. God gave them three crazy fucking difficult-as-fuck-to-deal with daughters. I’m sure he knew they were strong enough to handle it. But sometimes I think he’s asking too much of them. I just want them to know I love them so fucking much. I want them not to hurt when they look at me. I want to be one of those girls who wouldn’t ever even think about hanging out with me. One of those girls who is scared of needles and all the bullshit that comes with it. I just want to be me, the “me” God brought me here to be. Because it’s for damn sure he didn’t put me here to be a junkie.
Carly
Seventeen years old
A Letter From Dad
Carly,
I’ve been knee deep in some of the most pristine waters that one could imagine. I’ve seen snow come down so hard it blanketed an entire city. I’ve seen the Grand Canyon. I’ve seen skyscrapers that seem to reach to the heavens, and I’ve been atop mountains that have made me feel that I’m just a speck in the big picture.
None of those wondrous moments compare to the day God blessed me with the most beautiful daughter a father could have. I broke down and cried with joy. Never in my life did my heart feel so fulfilled as it was that day.
I had nothing to show for my struggles in my young life, but now I had a jewel named Carly.
That day I made a promise to myself with God as my witness that I would always be a part of this little girl’s life. My life never got easier. But each and every day, I pushed forward in the hope that one day something special would happen in my life that would make my kids proud of me. That day has never come. I feel so empty and lifeless at times. Especially when I see other fathers provide so many things for their kids, like a home of their own, a special gift at graduation, a car, or even just a bedroom set they can call their own. My life consists of giving my kids an old used dresser that one of my family members deemed garbage, or clothes they no longer thought were in style, a TV set they were going to sell in a garage sale, or even a box spring and mattress that, of course, didn’t come with a frame.
But as hard as life seems to be, I awake each morning to fulfill that promise I made on the day you were born. My wife needs me, my kids need me, and you know what? The world needs me. Because the one thing I can be proud of is that I have never left the side of the ones I cherish the most. I’ve fought and struggled for each and every thing I have in my life, but I have never ever had to fight or struggle to be a dad. My heart and soul are filled with so many wonderful memories, all because of my kids. I have the one thing in this world I would never trade for, and that’s you... Carly, the jewel of my heart.
I write this to you because I feel the pain you have, I share the tears that run down your precious cheeks. You may be miles away from me, but I’m right there next to you as you read this letter. Feel me there, Carly. Feel the strength of a father’s shoulder. Cry if you must. I hope it helps to know you will always have me to lean on.
Carly, if I could take your pain away, I would. But your pain is yours, and what you do with it will make you into the person you’re going to be. Time heals, baby, I promise.
I assure you God only gives us what we can handle. You may think it’s too much, but things will get better. A brighter day is right around the corner for you, but you have to go find it. Make your sunshine, baby. Make it shine for you.
My heart is with you my dear.
Dad
Every Story Has a Happy Ending If You Tell It Long Enough
Wouldn’t it be great to have an ending where we are all saved and healthy and life is great? I love books that end like that. That’s not how this book ends.
There are four stages of living with an alcoholic or drug addict:
Stage one: Confusion. When I got the phone call that Jennifer was using heroin, I was so confused and shocked I couldn’t speak. She stopped, so I thought that was how it worked. Not so much. When Carly came to me and told me she was using OxyContin every day, I had no idea it was the beginning of what would be the most difficult years of our lives. That first stage lasts for a couple of years. The “this can’t really be happening” stage.
The second stage is, “I will make you stop drinking and using drugs by showing you how much I love you!” This stage lasts until you end up in the mental hospital. I will fix the drug addict. I will never give up on the alcoholic. I will sacrifice my life for yours. Hello, mental ward.
The third and worst stage is, “You mean to tell me I really can’t make her better with love?” This is the most crushing realization of all. It is a sad day when you really, deep in your heart, head, and spirit realize there is absolutely nothing you can do to keep them alive. It feels like you’re drowning. You would do anything to make it stop. But it doesn’t stop. In the end you’re left exhausted and broken.
And then there is the fourth stage and the most important step you can take. It comes on the day you decide to live a life, or not. It comes on the day you realize, “I’m still here, breathing in and out.” You can watch the kids walk into the fire, or you can go to the Olive Garden. You can cry because your heart is broken, or you can go to a movie. You can unravel because it’s all unfair, or you can go to the beach. You can climb in the hole or climb out.
I don’t think it’s possible to avoid any of these stages because it’s not based on simply making a decision. The ability to move on comes from within. It comes from knowing, but you can’t know until your heart lets you.
I can remember the days, the years, and the events with the girls that brought all the walls in. John and I mentally caved in from the stress and heartbreak. There were years and years that we were barely able to lift our heads.
These days, the effects of all the years of tears and laughter have left John and me with an appreciation of the little things. Moses’ smile. Squirt’s enormous dog body. The color of my hair. Arguing about Jon and Kate.
My mom always says, “Tomorrow’s another day.” At least I think that’s what she says. Although she may be saying, “There’s a midget in my room shitting on my floor.” Either way, I know what she’s trying to say.
Every time I have to leave town to do a comedy job, my mom thinks I�
�m going to be on “American Idol.” She says, “What song are you going to do?” Then I tell her that I’m doing standup comedy, not singing on “American Idol.” She still doesn’t get it and says, “Just don’t do ‘Somewhere Over the Rainbow.’ That dark-haired girl will give you a run for your money.” She’s talking about Kelly Clarkson.
My mom and I used to talk and talk. She was the greatest person in the universe to have a laugh with. We would talk about everything and laugh until we cried.
But now, it’s like she’s not there anymore. Her eyes aren’t even the same. I can’t ask her a simple question because she doesn’t understand—and if by chance she does respond, it’s as if she’s answering a completely different question. It’s silence, then confusion.
Mom had never been on a vacation, ever. So we asked her, “If you could go anywhere, where would you go?”
She thought for a minute and then said, “Disneyland. I have never been to Disneyland.” So we decided to take Mom to Disneyland.
We drive in two vehicles because we have to take Mom’s toilet and her wheelchair. I shove them in the back of the Jeep, and it takes three people to push the door closed. Then we set out for Disneyland, the Happiest Place on Earth.
We make it to Los Angeles, but then we get lost for three hours. Every person in our caravan begins to melt down. I look out the window and notice the Burger King has bars on the windows.
We finally arrive at the hotel, exhausted, not one person speaking to another, except for the necessities: Someone bring in Grandma’s toilet. Bed time. Go to hell. No, you go to hell.
After a good night’s sleep, we all make up and drive across the street to the magic. It’s time to go to Disneyland!