As midterms got closer, the music got a little softer, but the drinking never seemed to slow down. Girls sobbing in the front lobby, their eyes smudged black with mascara. Guys lying facedown on the sidewalk, passed out, their pals swigging beer beside them, texting. Once in a while, the elevators would smell of vomit.
My life was lonely beyond measure. There was the occasional visit from an out-of-town friend or a McGill parent in town for graduation, or someone checking on a troubled son or daughter. Once in a while, I would have a meal with Professor Dan Levitin, musician and producer turned neuroscientist, author of This Is Your Brain on Music. Dan lived alone with his dog Shadow. I liked hearing about his new pal Sting, his old pal Joni Mitchell, Rosanne Cash, Tom Waits. He was a moderate drinker, a lover of puns, and had great taste in restaurants. He was also single. After a while I felt awkward seeing him. With regret, I let our friendship wane.
One night before Christmas, François came up to me, looking concerned. “Madame, I think you are very, very lonely. I think you are the most lonely woman in the world.”
“No, François, I am not.”
François looked unconvinced.
“I am just very busy.” I picked up the pile of papers on the banquette.
“Oui, madame.”
The geographic cure was not working. I knew it, and others were beginning to suspect it as well. That New Year’s, Jake and I wrote out our resolutions for each other, as we always did, signing one another’s promises. This year he looked up from his own list and interjected as I wrote mine: “No more than two drinks on any one occasion,” he said. “And no drinking alone.” “Don’t you think three is more realistic if it’s an evening out?” I bargained. “Three over three hours,” said Jake. He didn’t look convinced. And so I wrote: “Given the genetic predisposition to alcoholism in our family, I do resolve to do the following: to limit my drinking to two drinks in social situations, three over three hours; no drinking alone, ever; nine drinks total a week. If I have broken any of these rules within six months, I promise to get help.” Jake and I signed each other’s sheets, and dated them: January 1, 2007.
Jake wasn’t the only one worried about my drinking. My son had noticed a big change, and was vocal about it. My sister was quiet, but I could read her silence. Our mother had had a serious drinking problem. Me? I was beyond worried. I decided to take action: I called an addiction doctor, and booked his earliest appointment. Sadly, it was March.
Most of all, I wanted to go home. This was not an option, or I didn’t see it as one. At Martlet House, we had closed a very successful year: a record year of fund-raising. I was proud of my association with McGill and with this achievement. In two weeks I was taking possession of a beautiful light-filled condo in an historic building. In nine months, the major fund-raising campaign was going public. I was in the middle of helping to recruit a cochair for the campaign. I was on deadline and I took it seriously.
So, I did the only thing I could think to do: I started a drinking diary. My sister suggested rewarding good behavior with stickers. I ducked into a toy store and bought the first ones that jumped out at me: monkeys. Perfect. I would get this damn monkey off my back.
Of course, as I learned much later, this is how the ending always starts.
You know you’re drinking too much, so you decide to keep a tally. And if you’re like most, you keep this tally hidden. In your wallet, or your underwear drawer. Last night you drank four. Or was it five? Tonight, for sure, you will do better.
This is how it begins. You set some rules.
Maybe you switch from red to white (less staining on the teeth).
Or maybe it’s no wine; only beer.
No brown liquids, only clear. (Vodka doesn’t smell, does it?)
Only on weekends.
Never on Sundays.
Never, ever alone.
The problem is: The rules continue to change. Your drinking doesn’t.
You take up running or swimming. (In my case, it was power-walking. People who power-walk can’t be alcoholics, can they?)
You start to wake at four in the morning. (Doesn’t everyone wake at four in the morning?)
You promise to do better tonight, to drink less.
Only you don’t.
In fact, the only commitment you seem able to keep is the diary. It tells a story, and the story is starting to look scary.
Worse still? This is only the beginning of the end.
Like many a drinking diary, mine started off well. For a few days, the monkey stickers began to accumulate: I had kept to my limits. Of course, I kept the diary hidden. (What vice principal pastes monkey stickers into a journal?) But it wasn’t long before those stickers petered out. Alcohol is a formidable enemy: once you name it, it digs in hard.
I said this to the addiction doctor in March. He nodded. “How do you feel about alcohol now?” he asked. “I love it.” He frowned. “And I hate it.” “Be careful,” he warned. “Alcohol is a trickster. And using alcohol to cope is maladaptive behavior.”
One spring evening, I had dinner with the eloquent dean of medicine, Rich Levin. He was newish to McGill, having moved with his wife from New York, and he had had a difficult day.
Rich was a martini drinker, and he ordered one, then another.
“Why did you come to Montreal, Rich?”
“I came here for the waters.”
I fell for it. “The waters?”
“Turns out I was misinformed.”
I looked puzzled.
“Casablanca.”
“Another drink, Rich?”
“Never, my dear. You know what Dorothy Parker says.”
The next time I saw him, Rich pulled a gently used cocktail napkin from his pocket and handed it to me. There were Parker’s words, emblazoned beside a martini glass: “I love a martini—but two at the most. Three I’m under the table, four, I’m under the host.”
That night, I pasted the napkin into my diary. Beside it I wrote: “I am bullied by alcohol. I am hiding behind it.” I knew the jig was up.
Days later, on Father’s Day morning, I learn that my cousin Doug—childhood confidant and best friend—had been killed by a drunk driver, on his way home from his mother’s eightieth-birthday celebration. His young daughter, the youngest of four, was in the front seat. She survived but was severely injured.
It was a sunny Sunday morning, and I remember thinking: “What else do you have to lose to alcohol before you give up?” I had already lost a big part of my childhood, now my cousin—and I was losing myself.
I pulled out a bulletin board and tacked a piece of paper with four handwritten words at the top: “The Wall of Why.” As in, why I needed to give up drinking. Or: why I needed to avoid dying. The diary was no longer working. In fact, it had never worked. For the first time, I was terrified this habit might kill me.
I spent an hour filling the board with images and words I loved. In that condo, I had very few photographs—one of Nicholas with his arm around me, after winning bronze at a rowing regatta; one of Jake casting a line off the houseboat deck; one of my dog Bo. There were so many faces missing. I took out my fountain pen and wrote the names of others on pieces of white paper, pinning them carefully to the board. Then, I added several pieces of prose—Annie Dillard, Simone Weil—and some poetry: “Love after Love,” by Derek Walcott.
Then I got down on my knees and said