TANKED: Dry Mermaid of the Persian Gulf

I’d conquered time and water in the 50-yard freestyle, repeatedly, over the course of an 18-year swimming career. Surely, I could prevail against the liquid now threating to take me under in the desert.

“It’s time,” I said.

Allan was driving out of the parking lot at Burjeel Hospital. I’d purposely waited until we were leaving to make my pronouncement. He wouldn’t be able to look at me while dealing with Abu Dhabi traffic. I didn’t want to see the sadness or relief in his eyes.

“For what?” he answered, pushing up the lid of his baseball cap. A few strands of white curls poked out around his ears. Allan’s hairline had receded in the 19 years we’ve been together, but what’s left still stands straight off his head. He looked like Einstein but dressed like a teenage boy in converse sneakers, snug designer jeans and rock n’ roll t-shirts.

I think he was worried about what was going to come out of my mouth. Perhaps I was on the verge of declaring our impending departure for Bishkek, Kyrgyzstan.

“Time for me to stop drinking.” I dropped my head down toward my bloated stomach.

Allan pulled the car over in a Lebanese Bakery parking lot. He turned to give me his full attention. His normally ruddy complexion had gone pale. Even though it was a boiling hot day at sea level in Abu Dhabi, I felt like I was dangling off the face of Everest with altitude sickness, frostbite and shame.

“My blood pressure is high. My liver hurts. I’m sick, Allan.”

My own words impaled me, but I couldn’t cry. Even the water-making machine inside of me was broken.

I could see tears in Allan’s eyes, though, as he struggled for words. On a typical day, he’d be effervescently chatting up a storm. He loved to tell stories of working with famous film directors. He even smiled when talking about growing up poor in Montreal, Quebec. Allan is ebullient when taking out the trash. Upon meeting him for the first time, my father turned to me and said, “How can you stand his constant happiness?”

Now Allan was sad, and speechless. I was sure he was holding back a “Thank God!” or “Finally!” But he wouldn’t want me to feel worse than I already did.

“Wait here,” he said. “I’ll get you a Manakish.”

He wanted to buy time, in addition to the traditional Middle Eastern flat baked dough that we both loved.

I sent a text to my boss that I am running a little later than anticipated.

No prob. He responded. We had a rock solid work relationship and friendship, but I wasn’t going to tell him — or any of my colleagues — what was going on with me. I didn’t want them to think, even for a second, that I was a weak heathen. Or to serve as proof that Americans are reckless lushes.

Allan returned with two za’atar Manakish. We ate them in the car, as if everything was fine. Two North Americans parked in a white van in a parking lot in the Middle East. If the scene had been inversed — two Middle Easterners parking a white van in a parking lot in North America — we’d be under suspicion.

“Any thoughts on how you’d like to handle this?” Allan said.

“None.”

“Help from a professional?”

“Wouldn’t know who to call or ask.”

“So cold turkey, as they say. By yourself.”

“With you.”

“Of course.”

“Can you take me to work now?”

“Unless you’d rather rest at home.”

“Nope. I wanna pretend things are normal. Just get David from school at 4:30 and then pick me up at 5 p.m. at KU. I don’t want go home in a cab. I’ll be thinking about Spinney’s.”

“I’ll cook chicken soup for a dinner.”

“Let’s watch a movie. The three of us. Together. On the couch, with blankets.”

“I’ll bring a DVD from school,” Allan said.

“No James Bond,” I requested. “Those fucking martinis. How about Finding Nemo?”

We both laughed.

Also amusing was the image of our family cozied up under blankets on our small couch in Mangrove Place condos, on Reem Island, in Abu Dhabi, United Arab Emirates — while one of us tried to go without alcohol for the first evening in a long, long time.

“Get of Lawrence of Arabia,” I suggested. “He wasn’t a big drinker.”

During my time in London, I’d run into Peter O’Toole in a Tube station. I’d seen those blue eyes in person. Less than a foot from my own.

“You can do this, Nancy,” Allan said when we pulled up at Khalifa. “I will do everything to help you. Anything.”

“Did you know it had gotten this bad?” I asked.

“Yea,” he said. There was nothing more he could add without escalating the situation. I grabbed his hand. We couldn’t hug in a public place — even in the car. We were parked at the main gate where KU students, faculty and staff were coming and going.

“Should we cancel our trip to the Seychelles this weekend?” he asked.

“No,” I answered, although I didn’t know how I’d fly without alcohol, let alone navigate life on land. “It’s your birthday trip. We’re going.”

“I can do this,” I added, although I was afraid for what the next few days would bring. I’d researched, many times, the symptoms of withdrawal. I was going to feel extremely bad for an extended period of time. I was going to be very, very angry — about all things I’d been covering up with alcohol as well as the sudden loss of my panacea.

Sometime in the future, I would feel better. But that day was a long way away. I reassured myself with the knowledge that I excelled at difficult things. Rising up at the end of my race was my signature move in the pool.

I’d conquered time and water in the 50-yard freestyle, repeatedly, over the course of an 18-year swimming career. Surely, I could prevail against the liquid now threating to take me under here in the desert.

“See you at 5,” I told Allan.

I got out of the car and walked onto a campus full of people who’d never had a sip of alcohol in their lifetime.