When I was a little boy I had an imaginary playmate, Cappy. Being the youngest of eight children, and there being a three year gap between my next oldest sibling, a girl, Angel, and me, and being raised in rural Iowa, I had no one to play with. Angel and I, having very little in common, essentially ignored each other, like a cat and dog, because when we did acknowledge each other, we fought.

The name Cappy came from me, and was a derivative of my own name, Curt, or Curtie, as I was sometimes called by my older siblings. Angel would call me Curtie to get my goat. “Curtie, stop making farting noises with your armpit, or I’m going to tell Mom.”

Cappy and I played in the sandbox, with toy trucks and tractors, making engine noises, and shouting to each other. “Dump it here!” We played with sticks and mud, like mudguppies. We built a raft together out of a cut up telephone pole and tried to float it on a cow pond. When it sank because it was too heavy, I rescued Cappy. We had a tree swing, but no one to push me. Cappy did.

So, Cappy, was/is my double. I don’t remember when Cappy first appeared, he just sprang up like Iowa morels after a rain. And, at the age of 77, going on 78, Cappy is still with me, like a shadow. He’s my closest friend and confidant. Don’t get me wrong. Jesus is my spiritual advisor, Cappy is my bud.

I know this is sort of a stupid topic, and I’m squeamish to talk about it, except that in recently reading a Richard Russo book, his main character, a captain in the local police force, had an imaginary friend, or alter ego, Cap. I took note immediately, and thought, “How ironic, and so similar to my imaginary friend in name and character. If Richard Russo, a Pulitzer Prize winning author, can write about an imaginary self, so can I.”

Truth be known, many men, and women too, I’m told, have imaginary friends they talk to, and it’s healthy. It’s called talking to yourself. Ginnie does it all the time. I’ll hear her in the next room and think someone is there with her. No, it’s just Ginnie talking to herself, or her best friend. “Why can’t Curt pick up his clothes?”

So Cappy has been with me my whole life, through thick and thin–at times hardly noticeable, at others, like the weather, a major force. I say hi to him every morning when I step in the shower. “Ah, the water feels great, Cappy. Good morning!” One time I was driving to Libertyville with Ginnie, and almost missed a sharp turn. I slammed on the brakes and shouted, “No, Cappy, no!” Ginnie asked, “Who’s Cappy?” I couldn’t explain. She didn’t pursue it.

When I almost died of alcoholism 37 years ago, Cappy was with me. It was 2:00 in the morning. I was so drunk in my own home, I tripped and fell through the glass top of my coffee table, cut myself to smithereens, and almost bled to death. (I’m called coffee-table Curt.) I passed out around the toilet stool, dying in my own filth. When I came to, in a pool of blood, I knew that all I would have to do to end it all, would be to close my eyes. It was peaceful, there was no pain. It was tempting. But there was this voice, “Give it one more try.” It was Cappy.

I took Cappy’s advice and I’m glad I did. I’ve been clean and sober now 37 years, and never looked back, except to recount my story to help other addicts.

Fast forward to today. As many of you know, I’ve had cancer, recovered from it, but have been struck down by side effects. I’ve had to fully retire because I can’t work anymore, and I was recently told by a pulmonologist that I may never recover from this shortness of breath. It’s disheartening. But there’s this voice inside that keeps saying, “Give it one more try.” Thanks, Cappy. God bless you.

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Have a good story? Call or text Curt Swarm in Mt. Pleasant at 319-217-0526 or email him at curtswarm@yahoo.com. Curt is available for public speaking.