Coffee Free in Ten Steps
Mad Random Parenting is fueled on hope, resolve and who knows what? Sometimes caffeine seems to be the only thing that keeps me going. When I was told to stop the coffee, I thought I could manage this challenge with no problem. Here’s what really happened.
Here’s what you do when you have to give up coffee. Step One. Stare vacantly at the doctor, smile in disbelief and let him know you are in on the joke. But you’re a busy woman and its time to move on. Step Two. On the off chance that he’s kidding, give him a few minutes to snatch back those ugly words.
He wasn’t kidding.
Okay, it’s not the end of your life. It’s the end of my life, as I know it. That life of racing through the motions, get you together, there’s a shorter way home, I already know that – life. That life that blends joy, laughter, sadness and rage so that it hurries along and pleases me greatly in a comforting haze of scented caffeine.
Sitting across the desk from me, the doctor’s big hand grips a cup of steaming Joe. I am fascinated by how his fingers touch to close the circle, cradling the mug. My tormentor speaks softly. “You have ulcerative esophageal lesions with secondary lacerations.”I repeat the words: “Ulcerative esophageal lesions with secondary lacerations.”
I’m in a frothy skirt made of row upon row of billowing lace. I move gracefully to a private dance. Again I say the words, almost chanting now as I feel their rhythm piloting me across the floor: “Ulcerative esophageal lesions with secondary lacerations,”I whisper.
Fidgeting noises from across the desk transport me back to my chair. He has final words of encouragement: “When we get you set up on the drugs, then we’ll go in to close the holes,” he says, apparently including my own talents in the tricky surgery. He goes on to express pleasure: “Good outcome here, tough esophageal tissue in you. Small price to pay. ”I wonder why he speaks in sentence fragments, and then think maybe it’s the caffeine.
On the way home from the doctor’s office, I stop at Starbucks and buy a double espresso and drink it all. The little cup holds thick liquid, achingly black, no sugar, no milk, and no lemon rind. This is Step Three. Flat-out denial.
The path to a coffee free life is pretty straightforward from here. Step Four is to carefully rethink what the doctor said, segueing right into Step Five, which is fear of what might happen if a bigger price does comes due.
Step Six is to tell your significant other which may also involve Step 6A, as it did for me. It goes like this. Significant Other: “You drink too much coffee anyway, you never sleep, you run around like a crazy person, and I’m not sure you should be driving at night.” That last part may have been a free association that happens occasionally to my husband when his mother’s face floats into the space occupied by my own. I don’t really know because I hadn’t had my coffee.
Step Seven is to publicly announce you are giving up coffee.
Step Eight. For God’s sake, don’t tell your mother or your sister or anyone who will call and want to WORRY about you. There will be enough angst from lapses occurring after Step Seven, and you really don’t have the time.
Step Nine. Buy expensive teas packaged in bright canisters that you plan to reuse. You’ll put in pencils or holiday potpourri, or even those button packets you rip off your clothes, leaving holes that can’t be repaired.
Step Ten. Get over it. You’re done now. If you want to take another step, you can hurl self-righteous indignation at people who have no discipline at all. This is entirely optional.
