by cliff simon                                              

I read an article today that took a distinctly positive, hopeful and refreshing view of the challenging Pandemic era we are all living through. It made the case that over the course of time, there have been periods where the known world appeared to be devolving towards a calamitous end for any number of reasons, and just when it seemed to be the most hopeless and bleak, the closet to a perceived Armageddon, whether it was America after Herbert Hoover’s disastrous presidency or Europe after the 14th century plague, both civilization and the Earth itself not only survived, but thrived. It thus engendered decades, even century-long periods (in the case of the plague) of exponential growth into what we may see in retrospect as enlightenment emerging out of the murk. And with the realization of that change came a sense of contentment, accomplishment and even gratitude, besides a release from the fear of impending doom. Reading this, I was, as usual, reminded of my life, which for this story, I will begin, as my Christian friends say, in the year of Our Lord 1996.

It was my third year living in Santa Fe, New Mexico, a glistening city infused with light, an area inhabited by Native Americans, Hispanics, and Anglos, surrounded by art and music from all three cultures, with clear blue skies every day and a night sky populated with as many stars as a Jew from New York could ever imagine. For my husband Julian and me, two artists, it was really like heaven on earth.  I was satisfied and happy with a business painting cakes (which then was unique), and entertaining the locals with published stories about baking cakes for some famous people. Whenever I was at the supermarket shopping for sugar and eggs, I would run into one of my clients or someone who had read a story I’d written. I had every reason to be happy. And yet, mellowed each day by my nightly dose of wine, I was anything but.

On Dec 7, 1996 I felt a tingling in my rectum. By the time the middle of February rolled along, my entire body from my waist down was numb. I was unable to tell the difference between the gas and brake pedals and I had been to eight different doctors who had no idea what was causing it, though each made valiant attempts to provide an answer based on their specialties which ranged from conventional medicine to various alternative healing techniques. They used diagnostic tools that included, but were not limited to, X-rays, MRIs, muscle testing, herbal therapy, acupuncture, chiropractic, and neurologic tests.  A supposition one of the doctors made late in the process was that it could be a tumor pressing against my spine.

During those two months a couple of things changed besides my aforementioned symptoms worsening. One was that as each day passed without a diagnosis, I grew more and more frightened for my life. The second was that I decided to help myself feel better by drinking more, except that for some unsettling reason, drinking was no longer getting me drunk. The medical communities didn’t have a clue about what I had, and I was denied the other kind of (alcohol-induced) numbness I desperately wanted to help me avoid dealing with the numbness I didn’t want.  I was scared to death, literally, and when I look back on it now, what I remember feeling most was a mixture of total isolation and spiritual abandonment. No one and nothing could help me.

I was not a believer in God or gods.  I think I might have wanted to have one at my service, but none had ever shown up in my life to save me, even though I had given them ample opportunity. One night, I was so pissed at my no-show deity, that as I sat in my little room in my beautiful city, furious for being targeted with this curse, I screamed out for any divinities to make themself known. "If you’re there," I said, "just show your fucking self to me. Show me that you’re there."

Aware of my pending mortality and distressed by warnings about my excessive drinking, I searched for a copy of the Big Book of Alcoholics Anonymous a friend had long ago left for me at my house. Finding it, I filled the bathtub with hot water, thinking it might help my poor desensitized body, and took the book into the tub. Instead of reading it from the beginning, I turned to a section in the back, a series of short autobiographical stories by alcoholics dating back to the late 1930s. I like narratives.

The stories were about people I had little in common with. Most of them drank way more than I ever did, all of them seemed to have a lot more money and better jobs than I, most were married to the opposite sex. They were different, and I had nothing to relate to. Yet, for some reason, in the middle of the first story, I found myself crying uncontrollably and I couldn’t stop, because in that moment, without being able to take in the totality of what it meant, I saw that my life could change. These people were telling me that their lives did, and that’s what I never believed or thought was possible. I was just always sure that my life could not change.

Until I took that bath.

I do not believe in miracles. Back then, the only miracle I would have wanted anyway, would have been a cure for whatever creepy vicious thing I had. And at the outset of my tears, I immediately understood that something---some thing--- had made itself known to me. To this day, after 23 years of talking to “it,” the only thing I am certain of is that after that night, I changed for the better.

And as it turned out, I received a call a week later from my neurologist, a woman to whom I owe my life to for discovering that my affliction indeed could have killed me had I not started monthly injections of Vitamin B12, the magical red liquid that saves me twelve times a year. Also, during that week I started going to AA and learned how to stop drinking. But better than that, I was given a roadmap for how to live a good life. This story is neither an AA endorsement (which I would be very happy to give you should you ask) nor is it really about me (though everything I write is essentially a version of my story), but rather to illustrate that in our darkest moments there is always reason to have hope. Now, when the gloom and doom newspapers and TV shows report depressing stories of the virus, of people mired in hatred towards each other, or science ignored and leaders mis-leading, it’s good for me to remember how empty and terrified I was in December of 1996. I was hopeless, and just two short months later, everything was completely different.

In every spiritual and religious tradition I have encountered, an essential teaching was that when things are at their darkest and most frightening, it is the best time to feel blindly hopeful, positive, and even filled with glee and laughter. Some call it faith, but I prefer to think of it as a great ending to a really long, bad day.

Cliff Simon has designed hand-painted cakes since the late '70's, in New York, San Francisco, Austin and Santa Fe. Presently he teaches Scenic Design at UAB, designs at regional theatres and continues to bake, paint and write, the medium that has always helped him better understand life. Learn more at http://www.cliffcakes.com