Several weeks into his expedition, the Scientist was overcome by a tremendous storm. He hunkered down in his tent to ride out the squall. After several days, the storm passed and the Scientist emerged to discover all of his gear had been carried away and destroyed by the winds. His GPS, maps, and compass lay scattered and broken across the arctic landscape. Nothing remained.
The Scientist tried in vain to find his way back to civilization. He wandered around in circles for weeks, lost in the vast icy tundra.
Finally, desperate and on the verge of starvation, he hit his knees and cried out, "Please God! If you're real and can hear me, I need your help! Get me out of this and I'll never doubt your existence again!"
At that very moment, something caught his eye... There, standing on a distant hill, framed by the northern lights, stood a magnificent Eskimo; a fur-covered miracle of salvation.
The Scientist bowed his head and let out a sigh of relief. After a moment, he raised his eyes to heaven, "Never mind..." he said. "I'll just ask the Eskimo for directions."
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You will hear this common parable told in the rooms of recovery, far and wide. Every drunk and junky arrives out of the wilderness of addiction by way of our own private Eskimo; a savior sent by God to deliver us into the refuge of sobriety. As with the Scientist, we rarely recognize God's hand in our salvation. That realization comes much later.
My favorite aunt, Sherry, was a character. Short and tough with a cropped haircut, she embodied every stereotypical trait of a lesbian middle-school gym teacher (which she happened to be). I loved her dearly.
Sherry was the unfortunate product of a broken childhood. She experienced unwarranted abuse at the hands of my grandfather, a hope-to-die alcoholic. As a result, Sherry turned to alcohol herself at a very young age; a desperate attempt to combat the piles of pain stacked against the walls of her fragile psyche. She soaked her memories (and liver) in ethanol for nearly 40 years before finally hitting rock-bottom. At the age of 52, Sherry gave up the fight and crawled into the rooms of recovery.
Years later, at the height of my disease, I moved into Sherry's house. She needed help paying her mortgage and I needed a place to stay. We shared many occasions of laughter, conversation, heart-break, and tears during our time together. She was my closest confidant and friend.
Toward the end of my tenancy with her, I began to notice a drastic change in Sherry's physical appearance: Radical weight loss accompanied by a pronounced abdomen. She looked like she was smuggling a volleyball under her t-shirt! "Eh..." I thought, "Potbellies just come with the territory when you get older, I guess."
Soon after, Sherry asked (nay demanded) I move out. She cited my excessive drinking as a stumbling-block for her recovery and handed me my walking papers. I have to admit, the unceremonious eviction from a dwelling I had called home for the past four years left me angry and resentful. I begrudgingly obliged.
A few weeks later, I got a phone call. Sherry had cancer. My aunt had ignored some major warning signs (not the least of which was her bulbous belly) and by the time she went to the doctor, it was too late. The surgeons opened up her abdomen, took one look at her cancer-riddled organs, sewed her back up, and sent her home to get her affairs in order. There was nothing they could do.
Now it all made sense! Sherry knew she was sick, that's why she wanted me out. Granted, I'm sure my drinking contributed in part to my eviction, however, I'm convinced to this day that my aunt understood the horrors to come and wanted to save me the pain of bearing witness to her disintegration. She wanted to protect me.
Alas, Sherry was an ornery sort who would not go gentle into that good night. If the doctors wouldn't help, she'd find her own path to remission. Out of sheer desperation, Sherry employed a "Holistic Doctor" in hopes his voodoo would present a cure. That quack siphoned $10,000 from her bank account and insisted we avoid acknowledging her cancer in any way, shape, or form. Of course, it didn't work. In as such, Sherry never drew up a will and we were forbidden to say our goodbyes. I still have resentment toward that man.
So began her rapid descent into a slow and hideous death. I received the call when she was admitted to the hospital for the last time. I was first on scene and last to see her in a conscious state. Mine was the last face she would see prior to slipping into a coma.
Sherry hung onto life for three days, enough time for all her family and friends to gather at her bedside. Over a period of 72 hours, I watched my aunt wither away, writhing in agony, suffering the most torturous death imaginable. She was a registered organ donor, however, by the time she died all that was left was skin and bones. Nothing left to harvest.
My aunt had given up the bottle a decade earlier, yet the disease still managed to hunt her down and take her life. I will never forget the horror of those three days.
My aunt had given up the bottle a decade earlier, yet the disease still managed to hunt her down and take her life. I will never forget the horror of those three days.
On the last night, as I stood over Sherry's wilted frame, watching her struggle for each labored breath, I felt a tap on my shoulder. I turned to find myself staring into the black face of Death. As if straight from a Dickens novel, it unraveled its bony finger, pointed at Sherry, and hissed, "Behold, your future..."
An icy chill ran down my spine. I had been granted a glimpse 30 years into my future and my future was bleak. It was all too much to handle. So, I did what I was best at doing... I went out and got drunk.
Little did I know, Aunt Sherry was to become my Eskimo...
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