Other people's funerals

'He only writes about himself.'

A couple of summers ago, a friend’s mother died. I remember visiting, while she was still fighting the cancer that would soon end her.

There were pictures of her only child all over the house.

She called him ‘Nicky’. His dad had died when he was young.

When she died, I made plans to attend the funeral.

But Jesus, was it ever a long, complicated journey to reach the funeral home. It wasn’t in Toronto proper, but in the suburban boonies. We’re talking at least two bus transfers and a couple of industrial-sized blocks to walk.

Needless to say, it wasn’t this card-carrying crack smoker’s cup of tea. Back in Hamilton, I had the house to myself. I didn’t even have to walk the dog. So I wracked my brain to come up with excuses to skip it. The thing is ‘Nicky’ was my last friend standing. Once, he even let me borrow $5,000. No questions asked.

Anyway, the best excuse I could come up with was no excuse at all — and just turning off my phone.

While at the time, this did seem a reasonable course of action, I must admit, I did feel a prick of guilt.

And, against all odds, that feeling grew. Nicky had been a stalwart friend for the last 20 years. What’s more, he responded reasonably well to being completely ignored for vast stretches of time.

So, against even more odds, I got on that infernal bus. Maybe if I was quick enough, I’d still have time for a drug session after the service.

That fantasy faded after my third bus transfer, compounded by the fact that I rode the wrong bus in the wrong direction for half an hour before cluing in.

When I finally arrived at the funeral home, I was breathless, irritated and keen to get the farewell tour over with. I presented Nicky with a bruised bouquet, met his friends and had a gander at the deceased.

Aside from being dead, she looked fine to me. In my addled mind, she really did look like she was resting. They did a good job at the funeral home — and I told the staff as much. I also may have made a couple of Nicky’s friends laugh with jokes.

But sometimes, it’s hard to tell if it’s the jokes or the crack smoker that get the most laughs.

Nicky certainly wasn’t amused.

“Now isn’t the time for jokes,” he warned.

Of course. Dick. Does he know how much I sacrificed to be there? THREE fucking buses.

Indignant, I squirmed out early. And, learning from my earlier public transit gaffes, I got home in time for a session.

But you know what’s actually funny? It took me years to feel any remorse for the way I acted — the sheer deviousness of my strung-out mind. I mostly think about it now because someone recently commented that all I ever do it write about myself. They said it in the most passive-aggressive way possible, with just a hint to suggest that I was still behaving like an addict. They were right, of course, selfishness is addict behavior. But recovery can also be seen as selfish. Because it really is the most important thing in the world.

I hope I’ve made it clear that these ‘Confessions’ are about my experience in recovery — not, as my ex-partner calls it, my “fucked up experiences that you don’t even remember right because your brain was fried.”

She’s right. I’m seeking to know myself today.

These entries don’t aim to titillate with tales from the crack den. I won’t write a lot about those misadventures because it feels like I’m still chasing that high — scraping the pipe of memory.

So, forgive me if my recovery strikes you as a little dull. And allow me to recommend other writings for your fix. I’m high on the present.

Anyway, it wasn’t until I got clean that the memory of the funeral returned with a vengeance. It has since joined a cavalcade of reminiscences that occasionally turn my bones to glass.

The thing about addiction is that it makes us blindly selfish. You don’t see the damage you’re radiating — the casualties left in your wake.

You can’t see farther than the end of your pipe.

Ask my ex-partner about that. Or Nicky.

But knowing them, they won’t tell it to you straight. They’ll say it was bad, sure. But they wouldn’t want me to beat myself up. They’d want me to show myself compassion. They’ll say I’ve come a long way. They’d say they’re proud of me.

That leaves me to tell you the truth.

I was not the kind of person you’d invite to your mother’s funeral.