The Potato That Told Me I Was Dying By Chelsea Mandler

I never should have agreed to take care of my father. I was too young to be responsible for a man with seven brain tumors, lung and kidney cancer. He lived for 11 weeks, but the toll it took on my body felt like 11 years. I drank all day and would steal his anxiety medicine. One of the hospice nurses could tell, but my dad died before she could confront me.

His health deteriorated fast, and my biggest concern was that he would fall. He was starting to experience seizures due to the mass in his frontal lobe. Twice, I had to ask strangers to help me pick him up and put him back in the car. 

One night, I could hear him choking when I went to use the bathroom. The caregiver I hired said I should say my last goodbyes. I stayed by my dad’s bed, removing as much froth as I could from his mouth because he was literally suffocating.

 After my dad died, I was in bad shape: I drank all day, obliterated, and I amassed a serious amount of debt. I did not turn in a $1,040 tax return for three years. I was not even close to being above water.  Sadly, I chose to sell my house before it was foreclosed on, and I brought my eight cats to live next to a busy street in Ventura, California. 

I remember buying a gallon of Gallo white wine and one potato at 8 a.m. I recognized the checker, and she recognized me. My ruse was as follows: the checker would see the potato and believe I was going to eat it for dinner and then enjoy my wine. Of course, I already had one drink, and the chance that I would ever eat that potato was close to none. 

Driving through the grocery store parking lot in my baby blue topless jeep, I started to remember the 12 steps. They were glued to every surface of my childhood home. This too shall pass; nothing changes if nothing changes. I spoke the language.

 The first step was the only one I did not understand. Yes, I know I am an alcoholic, but my life was not unmanageable. I didn’t know what that meant until the one potato slipped out of the bag, rolled behind my chair, and, for a brief moment, I recognized the absolute insanity.  My life was unmanageable, and I had no idea what to do next. 

My cats started jumping out of the window and onto the top of my neighbor’s van, then onto the street. The same neighbor knocked on my door to let me know my cat had been in an accident. Of course, I had downed half a gallon of wine and begged her to take my cat and I to an animal hospital because my car blew up on the freeway a few days earlier. I spent the rest of my money paying for my cat to have surgery in the middle of the night.  

One day, I woke up and declared with all my being that I would never live like this again. I would rather drink bleach than live like this anymore. And I almost did. But I feared the burn, and I knew that I had not tried to get help.  And I was unsure what would happen to my cats.

The date was September 30, 2002.  It was the last day I would receive my $1,760 check from my dad’s inheritance, and I knew I was not making enough to cover all my bills. As I drove past the many employees leaving for home, they waved at me, and I waved goodbye, really meaning it. To them, it meant I would be back tomorrow. To me, it meant they would never see me again. I physically could not function any longer at work or at home. Halfway through my third drink that evening, I began to yell at the top of my lungs for God to help me. I knew that if I didn’t get help soon, I could die from my own accord, or from an alcohol related health issue, or a drunk driving accident. 

I remember being wasted and intending to go to an AA meeting, only to stop at Taco Bell to binge eat three tacos, a burrito supreme, and an extra-large nachos. I would not make it to the meeting that day, but the idea was stuck in my head. Anxiety poured out of my body. My stomach hurt, my mind felt fuzzy, and I was drenched with stress. The mail terrified me, as I was delivered collection notices in red and pink envelopes daily. My credit cards were maxed out, and I started to sell my clothes and my books to buy booze. Creditors called me, and I stopped answering my phone. 

Finally, I called my best friend for help. I framed the situation like I was having a nervous breakdown. She called her mother, and her mother agreed to let me live at her house. It was a plus that Jenny’s mom was an eucharistic minister who often cared for people who were down and out. But when I arrived, I had to admit to Jenny’s mom that I was in trouble because I had been drinking 24/7 for three years straight. 

I could not bring my cats to Jenny’s mom’s house, so I was forced to take them all to a no-kill shelter, and I never saw them again. I sobbed as I handed them over to the shelter. A stranger stopped me and asked me if I needed a hug, and I actually hugged her. But nothing could make me feel better about losing my cats. 

For 25 days, I stayed sober. However, the first time I was alone, I picked up where I left off. Shamefully, I downed some Gold Schlager and then drunk dialed a few friends. They always knew I was drunk but never said anything. My voice slurred, and I sounded dumb. 

After moving in with my best friend’s mom, I got a nice restaurant gig, but my hands would shake during the lunch shift as I poured soda into people’s glasses or merely held a pen in my hand to take their order.  I was beyond sick; I was slowly dying. 

At work, the busboy, Juan, confronted me and stated,” I saw you racing in your car today. The Holy Father spoke to me and told me that you are not on the right path and that he has other plans for you.”

My face was already bright red, but his words hit me hard, and I muttered,” Okay.”

That was the last thing I wanted to hear. Yet, I could not deny the eeriness of his timing because I had just downed peppermint Schnapps before my shift.  

So I was like “shut the f up, Juan” in my head. But I knew I must reek of booze, and it was starting to show. Other people made comments like “don’t spend all your tips on alcohol,” and other subtle hints that dropped like truth bombs in my mind. 

When I first moved in with Jenny’s mom, I started to go into withdrawal. Chills ran up my spine even in a warm bath. My legs grew restless, and I paced back and forth, a kind of unfamiliar dread settling in. I did not know that I would end up like this: shivering, anxious, hearing voices in the dark that were not there. I would awaken from sleep to the horror of my life in the backdrop. 

Once again, I was back to the withdrawals, and they were in full force. I could not manage the symptoms and needed to go to the hospital to detox. I stayed there for three days. When the doctor finally came to my room, he stated, “You are too young to be going through this.”

“I know,” I admitted, and he was right. But I was there, and I was experiencing Delirium Tremens, and it was crazy scary. 

He ordered me Valium, and when I took it, I finally started to fall asleep. But I had a nightmare where this demon snake man was yelling at me, and I was driving in a car with a woman I resented, and she kept driving into a swamp. When I woke, I wondered if they had given me the right medicine. It felt more like LSD than a benzodiazepine. 

I walked home after my discharge. I felt so much better. This is often called a pink cloud in recovery, and I was on one. I remembered a dream I had about a halfway house. In that dream, I asked if they were accepting new people. 

“Do you have insurance?” a woman asked from behind the desk. I said no, and she told me to wait there. 

The room was full of this bright, 70s-brand orange furniture. And in the middle of the room, a radio played. It sounded like a thousand angels at once, bringing me closer to God. Then I woke up.

So when I returned home, I decided I would drive to the halfway house just to see if it was orange. I didn’t know the area very well, but I could tell by the boarded windows that this neighborhood was unsafe. Still, I kept driving until I reached The House of Hope, and that is when I saw two of the most beautiful, bright 70’s brand orange recliners sitting outside their gate. My dream had come true.

I walked into the office and told the staff about my dream. They all seemed shocked. But there were no open beds. I was told to keep calling back, and I did. It took only five days for a bed to open, and I moved into the halfway house as one of the only white women there. I kept tapping my feet together, thinking, I’m not in Kansas anymore.

These women were wonderful. Even though most were felons or prostitutes who had lost their kids to the system, when they were sober, they shone. Former users now wore bright smiles and formed alliances within the group. Everyone helped everyone else.  At night, we would watch movies and the girls tended to each other’s hair. I talked my roommate into putting my hair into corn rows but it didn’t suit my face. Regardless, I was welcomed to the group with open arms.

The House of Hope required a 90-day stay and also offered sober living. The days passed, and I was being taught how to function as an adult. They had rules, and we rotated positions. My favorite position was being the cook. And everyone was impressed with my cooking.

One day, my roommate and I went back to the House of Hope early to fire up the barbecue. But instead, we caught the food on fire. The blaze was gaining traction, and I turned to my roommate and said, “I guess we’re not having chicken anymore.” 

She replied,” You’re mother fucking right we aren’t eating chicken,” and while putting out the fire was serious, I found her response hilarious. She was not one to use expletives. But the house was about to burn down so her reaction seemed legitimate. That night we ate soup.

During treatment, a volunteer nurse came to give us all AIDS tests, and while I was statistically unlikely to have AIDS compared to the women who shared needles and walked the street, I had a meltdown for seven days. No one could calm me down. I thought I would be God’s example of what not to do because I was sure I would test positive.

The day came for the results, and I pushed my way up to the front, passed all the other women, and entered the room where the nurse stated my test was negative. I felt embarrassed about my tantrums and how I selfishly took up the staff’s time to console me when there were 18 other women who really needed help more than I did. 

Finally, I completed 90 days, and I was a different person. My hands no longer shook. I did not wake up in horror, drenched in sweat. Redemption never felt so good. I got a job as a nanny for two families and continued attending 12-step meetings. 

What was once a story about a rolling potato had now become a story of victory. I did not know what life held for me, but I knew I could do anything one day at a time, and that is what I did. I learned that I could overcome anything after this horrific ordeal, and I managed to find joy in the small things again.