May 16, 2013

Bilberry Jam

Posted by Unconfirmed Bachelorette under Alcoholism, Death and Grief | Tags: , , , , , , , , , , , , , , |
[7] Comments 

When my oldest brother died, I handled it. I emailed my boss: “My brother died. I knew it was inevitable. I’m fine. I’ll be in tomorrow.” When the shock wore off, I wasn’t exactly fine. I took a few days off and then went back to work. When my dad died six months later, I had spent six nights with him in hospice. I felt frightened on night two, so a childhood friend stayed with me that night. She brought pizza and magazines and two Clark Peppermint patties. I didn’t like the irreverence. I spent the next four nights alone with him. He died at 6:00 a.m. sharp on that last morning.

I ate a Ghirardelli dark choclate peppermint-filled square tonight that reminded me of that second night in hospice. The night I was grateful when my friend stayed, and glad when she left.

I mourned my father’s passing more deeply than my oldest brother’s. I’ve not yet let myself feel the depth of my grief for my oldest brother. I sneak tiny sips of it when no one’s looking. Not even me.

But my 52 year-old brother who died of acute myelogenous leukemia the same day he was diagnosed, three months after I’d put together an intervention in hopes of not losing him, too. An intervention that led him to treatment, hoping for life, after so much death. Five months after my father died, my remaining brother died. That death I’m feeling. That death has left me shattered. The pieces are too numerous, too tiny. I will never be the same. So why bother trying to put them back together? I’ll be this new me. Whoever she is.

But then again, I’m no different than anyone else. Death is happening all around us. We all have our patterns. Our timing. My family’s timing thus far happens to be April, October, March. Or three in eleven months. Or death, six months, death, five months, death. A death sandwich.

Some days I complete the tasks of my days as if everything is still the same. Some days I’m able to pretend it matters. Or ignore that it doesn’t.

But none of this seems to matter any more.

People piss me off. I have no patience. No tolerance. I don’t care. And I don’t care that I don’t care.

I know I need to work for a living, but I am perfectly content to do this from my bed. Why do I need to be in the office? Around the stupid people who think stupid things matter? Why must I exert my energy, the precious few resources that I have, interacting with all those people who have no fucking idea that I just don’t care about anything that matters to them?

I have all these questions. And I feel so inane having them. I’m not the first person to have been faced with muliple deaths in a short period. I’m not the first to then ponder weighty subjects and find no answers. The reason we’re here. How existence came to be. Whether it matters. If there’s another dimension. If we cease to exist physically, mentally, and energetically when our hearts stop beating.

We all ask the same questions and there are no fucking answers.

We’re born. We work. If we’re lucky, we love. And then we die. We get maternity leave for births. For deaths, we get a week if we’re lucky, and then we go back to work and are expected to hold it together as if nothing ever happened. When all we want to do is go home and work on our beds, pile them up with papers and cats, and just stay there. Occasionally eat an almond butter and jelly sandwich in our beds and leave the white plate smeared with bilberry jam on the floor. Next to the coffee carafe.

I want to stay in my bed and pile the floor with white plates smeared with bilberry jam.

Grief Sandwich

Grief Sandwich

Bone marrow aspirate showing acute myeloid leu...

Funny how these acute myeloid leukemia cells look kind of like bilberries. (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

 

April 26, 2013

On Coping. Or Not.

Posted by Unconfirmed Bachelorette under Addiction, Alcoholism, Death and Grief, Intervention, Leukemia, Running, Sobriety, walking | Tags: , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , |
[13] Comments 
I'm smarter. No, I'm smarter. You're both dumbasses compared to my brilliance.

I’m smarter.
No, I’m smarter.
You’re both dumbasses compared to my brilliance.

I’m on a flight to Chicago. It’s an all weekend work rah-rah session. That means 48 hours with hundreds of lawyers. Lawyers drinking, bullshitting, and pontificating. Each one playing the power role, trying to impress. Needless to say, I’m not in the mood. But I missed the rah-rah session last year because my oldest brother’s memorial service was the same weekend. No way out of it this year. My damn plane was even on time. I plan to hide away as much as possible and spend some time in contemplation.

I haven’t spent a lot of time thinking lately. I’ve been in avoidance mode. I had a post recently on my “About” page expressing alarm at my coping mechanisms of choice: ice cream, wine, and mindless tv. I’ve watched the entire season of House of Cards, all three seasons of Downton Abbey, and now I’ve begun Homeland. I tried a couple of episodes of Game of Thrones. Complete and utter crap.

But I’ve strayed from my point. The poster was concerned about my wine drinking as a coping mechanism. She explained that addiction can be inherited, and that alcoholism is a progressive disease. My first thought was, “No shit.” My second was, “You must not be a regular reader of my blog.” Then I got angry. So what if  I’m sharing a bottle of wine with my neighbor nearly every night. Three people in my immediate family have died in the past eleven months. All the male members of my family are dead. I thought I saved the last one with the intervention. He was sober. Three months sober. And then he goes into the hospital, gets diagnosed with acute myelogenous leukemia, and dies within six days. Fifteen minutes before I get to the hospital. The last time I saw him, I held his hand on the way to rehab and sat with him as I helped him check in. You tell me how you cope with that. How in the fuck does anyone cope with that?

That reminds me of my eulogy when I started off saying how much this sucks and what a cruel and merciless place this universe can be. Afterward, the deacon told me it’s okay to express my anger. Anger is normal. I said, “I’m not afraid to express it. I’m pissed off.” He seemed taken aback. I suppose he’s used to a bit more reverence.

So back to my coping skills. Or lack thereof. Yes, I’m eating too much. Yes, I’m drinking too much. Yes, I should turn off the tv and meditate. But god damn it, this grief is an iceberg.  I know when I break down crying in the middle of the work day, in the shower, while I pet the kitty, when I look at his photos, when I tie my shoes; I know that’s an infinitesimal piece of what lies beneath. How in the fuck do you cope with that? There are years of this ahead. Years. Decades, even.

But the poster was right. Wine isn’t the answer. Or ice cream. Or mindless tv. I suppose I was trying to take it in little tiny slices at a time. I’m trying to control it, lest it control me. I know I need to let it go. Running helped me connect with it, but somehow feel like I wasn’t going to die from the overwhelming pain. It’s been a month (yesterday). I want to stop coping and start grieving. I did some research last week to find a grief support group. I’m on a wait list for one and got a reference for another that might be a fit in the meantime.

And after this stupid trip, I’ll keep lacing up my shoes and head out for a cry. And a run.

 

April 6, 2013

My gift to my brother

Posted by Unconfirmed Bachelorette under Alcoholism, Alzheimer's, Cancer, Death of a sibling, Eulogy, Leukemia | Tags: , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , |
[30] Comments 

Today was my brother’s memorial service. He died 11 days ago on March 25 of acute myelogenous leukemia (AML). He was 52. My brother had struggled with alcoholism for many years. He tried going sober once and it lasted a year. He white-knuckled it: no AA, no counseling, no support. After that didn’t last, he gave up. His family gave up. We resigned ourselves to his fate. Until my oldest brother died last April of alcohol-related diseases: cirrhosis and hepatitis. And then six months later, in October, my father died of Alzheimer’s complications.

I’d decided then I’d had enough, I wasn’t going to lose Steve too, and I organized an intervention. While it was an “ambush,” it was a compassionate, loving intervention. And it worked. On December 28, 2012, he entered rehab and emerged fiercely committed to his sobriety. He did what he needed to do to stay sober: meetings every day, close contact with his sponsor, reading the big book, beginning to work the steps. And then he started getting sick. Sores in his mouth. Cellulitis in his legs. Pneumonia. My brother had oral cancer twice, and both times he got treatment (chemotherapy, radiation, removal of the lymph nodes) and it had gone into remission. We feared it had come back. It hadn’t. But he was back in the hospital in mid-March feeling tired and week. He went in on a Tuesday. The following Monday morning, March 25, he was diagnosed with AML. By 9:00 Monday evening he was dead. Three days before he would have received his 90-day chip.

My niece and nephew asked me to speak at their father’s service today. I’d never spoken at a funeral before. I fretted over it for two solid days. Jotting down memories. Writing stories from those memories. Discarding some and keeping others. Eventually I settled on several stories from our childhood, each of them with a humorous tone. Or so I hoped. I didn’t have a solid opening or closing, but I had some ideas rattling around in my head.

There were a lot of people at the church. I knew my brother was well-liked. He was a really nice guy. A sweet man, with a heart of gold. But still, I was surprised by the large turnout. And it ratcheted up my nerves a bit more. There were several readings done by the deacon, and then he did the eulogy. I thought his daughter was going to do it, but she lost her nerve. So it was up to me to bring Steve back to life, if only for a few moments in the chapel. It’s the least I could do for him. And his children. And his mother.

So when the time came, I took my notes and walked up to the lectern.

“This sucks, doesn’t it?” I began.

“All I’ve been able to think about these past 11 days is what a cruel merciless universe this can be. This sucks. But A and P have asked me to say a few words about their dad, and so I have to look beneath that, and find something more to say.”

This wasn’t in my notes. I’d set them on the lectern and forgotten about them.

I proceeded to tell the story of the moving-box forts, the false bridge-spotting, and the peeing on the car in Canada. I talked about him sneaking popcorn and pizza up to my room when I had to go to bed before everyone else because I was the youngest. I talked about him steering me away from dating his not-so-gentlemanly friends.

I made them laugh. Several times. Nice, hearty laughter filled the chapel. And I made them cry.

“Steve was my big brother. He was a good big brother. But we ran out of time. Still, he will always be my brother, and a father, and a son, and an uncle, and a friend. And I will miss him terribly.”

I made it through with my voice cracking only at the end.

Many, many people approached me after the service and told me how much they enjoyed what I’d said. I felt so proud.

I did it, Steve. I did it for you. I know you liked it. I know you’re proud of me. And you know how much I love you. We really brought down the house today, didn’t we?

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April 1, 2013

Seven Days

Posted by Unconfirmed Bachelorette under Alcoholism, Cats, Death and Grief, Death of a sibling, Grieving, Health, Leukemia, Mid-Life, Sobriety | Tags: , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , |
[29] Comments 
Cinque Terre, ItalyMay 17, 2012

Cinque Terre, Italy
May 17, 2012

I’ve spent my nights since I returned from Houston drinking wine, eating, and watching Downton Abbey with my neighbor. I keep referring to it as Downtown Abbey. My English neighbor corrects me but I’m too tired to remember my error. I keep waking up at 4:00 and 5:00 in the morning and lying awake for hours. I repeatedly open the box of work I brought home and toss the lid back on. Yesterday I was uncharacteristically restless. I began cleaning out closets, cedar chests, dressers, and cupboards at 9:00 a.m. I stuffed four trash bags with clothes and various odds and ends for my cleaning lady. I filled three more with towels and sheets for my mother. I finished at 6:30 p.m., not pausing to eat or rest. Then we put a ham in the oven, along with roasted potatoes and asparagus. It was delicious. Comfort food.

Today I was supposed to work at the office, but I feel too wiped out. I look in the mirror and I see a woman who appears to have aged ten years in a week. I’ll be 50 in exactly 50 days. I’m beginning to look more and more like my sister, who’s 6 years older than me. I don’t like her at all. She’s a cold, cold woman. Seeing her face staring back at me when I look in the mirror is depressing. I’ve spent my day today staring at the computer screen and Googling things like, “Death ages you.” And makes you look like your bitch sister.

So here I am: both brothers are dead. My father is dead. I’m left with my mother and sister.

All the men, dead.

This is so fucked up. Now I can see why women marry their fathers. Or their brothers. It’s comforting. I feel no comfort. The closet-cleaning, drinking, eating, sleeping, and tv are my attempts to avoid my pain. But it’s always there. All day. All night. My chest feels like an anvil is sitting on it. I can’t breathe. I keep sighing. I’ve got bags under my eyes. My skin looks washed out. Ashen.

I  forced myself to go for a Pilates session on Saturday. The instructor kept talking about imagining my breath filling my lungs, gathering the energy in my core. As I slid up and down the reformer, I thought, “My brother’s body is dead. He can’t breathe. He can’t gather energy in his core. I can. But he’s gone. He’ll never breathe again. His body stopped breathing fifteen minutes before I got to the hospital. I didn’t get to say goodbye. I could have been with him all weekend. My brother was dying and I wasn’t there.”

My family has been wiped out in the space of eleven months. Brother. Father. Brother.

Thanksgivings and Christmases are no more. They didn’t dwindle one by one over the years; they were wiped out all at once. I don’t have my own family to take their place. Instead I have three cats. Sally sleeps lying across my neck. I love that. It makes me want to never leave my bed.

And there’s that ache, expanding in my chest again, making it difficult to breathe.

Things will never be he same. I’ll never be the same. I was so lucky a year ago. Blissfully ignorant of this kind of pain. I’ll never be blissfully ignorant again.

Until one week ago, I still had my brother. I was grieving my father. And my brother. He was grieving our father and brother. I looked at some texts I’d received from him before he got sick.

“I miss Dad.”

“Be extra nice to Mom. Remember, she’s going to be 77 this year.”

He was sober. He had a chance for a happy future. Stolen from him by leukemia seven days ago.

 

March 28, 2013

Ramble On

Posted by Unconfirmed Bachelorette under Alcoholism, Cancer, Cats, Death of a sibling, Grief, Health, Intervention, Mid-Life, Sobriety, Stages of Grief | Tags: , , , , , , , , , , , , , |
[34] Comments 

All of my male family members are gone. In the space of 11 months. How do I make sense of this? I don’t. There is no meaning or explanation. Everything does not happen for a reason. It just happens. This universe is random. There is no grand plan for any of us. We are not predestined. My brother did not die Monday because we needed to learn some lesson.

My brother died for no reason other than he had leukemia.

It would be easier if I believed a god orchestrated this. I would have something at which to direct my anger. But there’s nothing. Nothing other than the arbitrariness of this world.

Yes, there are things to be grateful for in the midst of my despair. His agreement to enter rehab in late December gave him three months with his children. They have those three months to remember their dad as he really was. He died of leukemia, rather than an alcohol-related disease. (There is no connection between alcoholism and AML. I checked.) He didn’t kill himself with alcohol.

I thought with the intervention I had saved my brother. I thought I had helped him save himself. I had fantasies of spending time with him when he was feeling better. I wanted to take him for long healing walks in nature. I wanted to help him heal his heart. I wanted to talk with him about all the painful things that happened as we were growing up to help him lay them to rest. I dreamed of being close like we were as we were growing up and in the early days of our adulthood, before the alcohol came between us.

I had dreams that he would finally get some happiness.

But life is not about happiness. It’s not about anything. There is no reason for any of this. Or if there is, none of us know what it is. Will we find out when we die? That’s a nice thought. And it’s quite possible that’s all it is. curse

My words aren’t profound. Countless people have lost loved ones under tragic circumstances. Countless people have shaken their fists and cursed the universe. Or god. Or cancer. Or alcoholism. So what? People will continue to be born. And then each of them eventually will die. Some, like my father, will have long full lives. Others, like my brothers, will die much too young.

(I chose the cat photo not because of my love of cats. Well, that too. But it neatly shows my irreverence for all of this.)

I wonder if there’s another solar system out there where people (or some type of conscious beings) know the day they are born that there is a meaning for their lives. I wonder what it would be like to live knowing what that meaning is. I wonder what it would be like to know exactly how long we all will live and why we are here. Some of you might be thinking, “Regardless, you should live like today is your last day.” But I can’t really do that. I have to plan for the future in case I’m still here. And what if all that planning is for naught? What if I’m worrying about paying for retirement when I’m going to be dead next week? I should be out looking for a new home for my cats, not worrying about paying my bills when I’m dead. I should be eating Ben & Jerry’s New York Super Fudge Chunk, and not worrying about my expanding mid-life midsection. I should be sitting outside watching the birds in the feeders, not sitting in here fretting over the box of work the office courier dropped off earlier.

This post has devolved into a meaningless ramble. Which sums up nicely how I feel about life right now.

Yes, I do realize I’m in the anger stage of grief. And that matters because?

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March 26, 2013

And then there were two.

Posted by Unconfirmed Bachelorette under Alcoholism, Cancer, Death and Grief, Death of a sibling, Health, Sobriety | Tags: , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , |
[50] Comments 
Bone marrow aspirate showing acute myeloid leu...

Bone marrow aspirate showing acute myeloid leukemia. Several blasts have Auer rods. (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

It turns out my brother had acute myelogenous leukemia. My niece and I tried to reach him on the phone today to see if he got the results of the bone marrow biopsy. My niece was told there was no one on the floor by that name. They had moved him to ICU. He was intubated. The doctor said he had another 24 to 48 hours.

I drove home from work feeling numb. I forced myself to stop holding my breath. Just breathe. I arrived home. Sat in the car in the garage. Got out. Went inside. Picked up Sadie. I held her in my arms and stood looking out the window at the sparrows and bluejay in the feeder. Sadie purred in my arms. Five minutes passed. Then ten. Sadie purred. Each time I let out a sob, her paw seemed to squeeze my arm. She made no sign she wanted to be put down. I held her and cried while she purred, as we watched the birds together.

Eventually I set her down and sat in a chair. My neighbor came in. Hugged me.

“We’ve got to stop meeting like this,” I said.

I felt numb. Couldn’t think. Needed to pack. Maybe if I didn’t go, if I stayed home, it wouldn’t happen.

“Let’s go see Sophie.”

We went upstairs into the kitty’s safe room and sat with her. We took turns petting her as she purred and drooled.

“I don’t have to go to Houston, do I? I can’t do this again. Maybe it won’t happen if I don’t go.”

Was this one of those horribly vivid Viibryd dreams? Surely I was going to wake up to find it wasn’t real. This couldn’t be happening again. This kind of thing doesn’t happen. Can’t happen. It would be too cruel. This stupid fucked up random universe could not be that cruel.

But it could.

My brother died today at age 52.

Eleven months after our oldest brother died.

Five months after our father died.

Three days shy of getting his 90-day sobriety chip.

Fifteen minutes before I arrived at the hospital.

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March 21, 2013

Big Brother and Black Cats

Posted by Unconfirmed Bachelorette under Cancer, Cats, Health, Sobriety, Sophie | Tags: , , , , , , , , , , , , , , |
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Which do you want first: an update on my brother or the cats? Brother, it is.

He sounded much better this morning. A bit of vitality has returned. It must be the two pints of blood they’ve given him. I think those were red blood cells. And today they also gave him platelets. I don’t know much about blood, but I’ve got a feeling I’ll be developing a familiarity over the coming weeks and months. They haven’t done the bone marrow biopsy yet. It’s scheduled for tomorrow morning. I asked him how soon they’ll have the results, and he told me, “Let’s just worry about getting the test done. Then we’ll focus on the results.” That was a nice way of telling me to chill the hell out. So after we hung up, I got on the Internet and researched bone marrow transplants and the chances I’d be a match. It looks like about 35 percent odds a sibling will be a match. So if he needs it, maybe we’ll get lucky. See how well I chill out? At least I didn’t mention it to him. Instead I sent him flowers. White and yellow daisies and roses in a yellow smiley face mug. Daisies are happy flowers.

image He called me tonight sounding up. The flowers seem to have cheered him. I then told him I had a very important question to ask him. His voice became serious.

“Okay. What is it?”

“Which cat do you think will be cat two in the hierarchy, Sally or Sophie?”

“Sophie. She’s younger and will be more aggressive in establishing her new territory.”

Interesting perspective. And despite tonight’s kitty events, it’s still an open question.

Which brings me to topic two: Black cats.

Sophie no longer hides in the closet. Instead she’s taken to waiting by her tuna saucer when I enter. It didn’t take her long to come to expect two square meals a day. Tonight she was very affectionate. She soaked up the petting, purring up a storm and drooling. Have I told you she’s a drooler? Yes, Sophie drools big giant droplets when she’s purring and happy. It’s cute, but a little messy.

Because she was in rare form tonight, I opened her safe room door and left it open. It wasn’t long before Sadie sauntered in. At that time, Sophie was having a bath in the closet. Not hiding, mind you. She was simply bathing after her supper. Sadie didn’t see her as she sniffed about. In fact, she walked right past her. I turned Sadie around so that they were face-to-face. Sadie finally realized Sophie was right under her over-stimulated nose and let out a couple of hisses. They seemed a bit half-hearted to me, and Sophie didn’t appear ruffled. She didn’t hiss back. Sadie walked out the door, hissing a few more times as she left the room. There was no spitting or aggression. No fur flew. It was a bit anti-climactic. So I decided to push my luck and left the door wide open.

Sadie had wandered off to the other end of the hall and set up post there. Sophie watched her from under the dresser. Suddenly, Sophie jumped up, darted out the door in the opposite direction of Sadie, sniffed the guest bath, darted the other direction toward Sadie, stopped, turned, and ran back into her safe room. I left the door wide open for several more minutes, but she had completed her foray for the day. So we went back to petting, purring, and drooling.

This weekend I shall plonk them together as suggested by a fellow blogger, and see if my brother is right that Sophie will become number two on the hierarchy.

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March 20, 2013

Discourage

Posted by Unconfirmed Bachelorette under Alcoholism, Cancer, Death of a sibling, Health, Intervention, Sobriety | Tags: , , , , , , , , , , , |
[28] Comments 

Discourage

1. to deprive of courage, hope, or confidence; dishearten; dispirit

My eldest brother died last year in April of complications from alcoholism. Almost a year ago, now. My father died in October. On December 28, 2012, not wanting to lose my remaining brother to alcoholism, I got desperate and arranged an intervention. My brother agreed to go through detox and then rehab. For the first couple of months, he did well. He went to meetings daily. He called his sponsor. He read the big book. He began working the steps.

My brother’s health, which had been quite poor, improved a bit. He ate better. He did his physical therapy to reverse the muscle wasting. He began walking and discarded the wheelchair. He had been malnutritioned, but began eating better. He began feeling better. He was optimistic.

Then he got sores in his mouth that wouldn’t heal, despite several courses of antibiotics. The sores were so painful that he couldn’t eat. So he drank Ensure. Then he got pneumonia despite having had the vaccine, and was admitted to the hospital for a few days. A couple of weeks after he was discharged, his legs became swollen and painful. Another visit to the emergency room. The doctors said it was cellulitis. They gave him another course of antibiotics. Still, the sores in his mouth wouldn’t heal. The bone had died from the radiation. He underwent more surgery to remove it. They’d already removed the lymph nodes when the cancer came back the second time.

He became discouraged. Frustrated. He stopped going to meetings, saying he needed to rest and concentrate on his health. While this did not bode well for his sobriety, it was hard to argue with him. He felt tired and weak. His mouth hurt. His legs hurt. Once again he began having trouble walking. The doctor told him he needed to rest. And besides, he had no desire to drink. So he didn’t need support from those people, he said. I talked to him gently. Reminded him what happened the last time he didn’t need support from those people. He agreed to call his sponsor.

Yesterday at work, he felt worse and appeared anemic. Last night he went to the emergency room. His white blood count was extremely elevated. They gave him plasma and admitted him. The doctor scheduled a bone marrow biopsy, which should be done by tomorrow. They gave him more plasma today. He feels a little better tonight.

The doctors suspect chronic myelogenous leukemia.

He beat mouth cancer. Twice. He got sober. And now he likely has cancer of his white blood cells. He’s lost his brother; his best friend. His father. He’s hanging in with his sobriety.

Damn it, he deserves a break.

I too feel discouraged. And afraid. I fear I’m going to lose my brother just as we were getting him back.

It never occurred to me that as I approached fifty, everyone would start dying. I didn’t spend much time thinking about death.

Now, I can’t get away from it.

My brother is sick again and I feel discouraged. And I know what needs to be done.

image

It’s either that, or let it suck me under. I refuse to do that.

 

February 28, 2013

Evolution

Posted by Unconfirmed Bachelorette under Addiction, Alcoholism, Diet, Exercise & Fitness, Health, Motivation, Nutrition, Sobriety, Weight Loss, Wine | Tags: , , , , , , , , , |
[20] Comments 
Tempranillo varietal wine bottle and glass, sh...

(Photo credit: Wikipedia)

I follow a lot of blogs written by alcoholics in recovery. According to my therapist, and by my own assessment, I am not an alcoholic. I am an abuser of alcohol, however. No one has told me this; they don’t have to. I know.

I go through phases of drinking a glass or two of wine every night. I go through phases of not drinking during the week and limiting my intake to the weekend. Sometimes the weekend is Friday and Saturday. Sometimes it includes Sunday. And on occasion, when I’ve opened a new bottle of red and haven’t finished it on Sunday, it stretches into Monday. How can I toss this somewhat pricey bottle of wine? And if I wait until Friday, it will go bad. Usually, I don’t play that game and I don’t open a new bottle of red on Sunday. I have a glass of white, which will keep, or I have nothing. And many nights, I do have nothing. At times I do pour the last of the bottle out.

Then there are the times when I go weeks, months, or once, an entire year, without drinking. These periods generally are prompted by my desire to reduce my caloric intake. Rarely have I curtailed my drinking because I’m concerned about turning into a “real alcoholic.” A “real alcoholic”?, you ask. Yes, you know the type: the alcohol controls them; they do not control the alcohol. They drink every day, starting in the morning because they have the shakes. They need a little something to take the edge off. They drink on their lunch breaks, and eventually hide bottles in their desk drawers. They have trash bags of empty beer cans or bottles piled up in the garage. They don’t eat. They’re in poor health. They fall and hit their heads and nearly bleed out. They don’t care for their pets. They lose their wives, their jobs. But they don’t lose their homes because their mother and father enable them. Eventually, after several attempts at rehab, they die of cirrhosis. Or maybe, against all odds, they achieve sobriety.

Or they’re the type of alcoholic who binge drinks. They hold down jobs and provide for their families. They’re intelligent and charming and fun. But once they’ve had a few, they can’t stop. And when they don’t stop, they become mean. Violent. They abuse their children both physically and verbally. They break down doors. Their faces turn red and their veins bulge on their necks. You hide from them in the attic off your closet until the house gets quiet. The next day, they apologize. They give you gifts. They’re truly remorseful.

These are the kinds of alcoholics I’ve known.

Because of this, because alcoholism is in my blood, I monitor myself carefully. Sometimes I feel guilty when I drink. Why do I do it when it’s caused so much misery in my life and in the lives of those closest to me? Because I can. Because it’s easier in this culture to drink, than not.

But I read your bogs. I see how your lives change when you don’t drink. I see how different things are without the crutch. You go to social functions and you don’t rely on a drink or two to loosen up; to feel comfortable. You never have a hangover. You don’t turn to a glass of wine when you’ve had a hard day. You play with the dog. You run. You write. You create. You relate. You cope. You cope without the bottle.

You are you.

My therapist told me yesterday, when I confessed I’ve gotten back into the habit of having a glass of wine every night (and sometimes two, but I did not tell her this):

“Alcohol is a primitive way to fix the nervous system.”

She suggested I try a more modern approach: meditation. Ten minutes in the morning and ten minutes in the evening when I return home. Meditation instead of wine.  No wine six days a week. A glass or two one day a week. (But what about the rest of the bottle? I might last a week, but it won’t!) The 6/1 meditation program.

Fine, I’ll try it. But I was going to meditate for 50 days in a row, anyway, culminating on my 5oth birthday. I suppose I could start early.

But here’s the deal: I’m currently on a plane to Tucson. It’s a lawyer continuing education boondoggle. How am I to begin not drinking (save one day a week) at a lawyer boondoggle weekend? Lawyers drink. Heavily. Especially whilst boondoggling. And how can I be the only sober boondoggler? I’ll be anxious. And boring. And bored.

Maybe I’ll start Sunday. Or even Saturday. But tonight? And Friday night? On a mother-loving boondoggle?

I’ll have to ponder this evolution thing. In the meantime, we’re about to begin our descent. So I shall wrap up and report back later.

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February 10, 2013

I don’t trust anyone who doesn’t drink.

Posted by Unconfirmed Bachelorette under Alcoholism, Diet, Sobriety | Tags: , , , , , , , , |
[26] Comments 

My neighbor recently borrowed my juicer. He often starts a new diet, and this time he decided on a juice diet. Being past my juicing phase, I gladly let him have a go. (I stopped juicing because it didn’t make sense to me to throw away all the fiber.) Shortly after he borrowed it, he said he’d decided not to use it after all, so I went by today to pick it up.

“Why no juicing?”

“I found this diet where I’m allowed two glasses of wine a night.”

“Yes, cutting out the alcohol is an easy way to knock out some empty calories.”

“Oh, I won’t stop drinking entirely,” he said. “It would put a damper on my social life. But I am down from five glasses a night to two. This diet works with my lifestyle.”

“You could drink sparkling water.”

“Not really.

This screenshot shows Sydney Greenstreet and H...

(Photo credit: Wikipedia)

I don’t trust anyone who doesn’t drink.”

I looked at him hard. He was dead serious.

“That’s the stupidest fucking thing I’ve ever heard.”

“In business,” he said, trying to explain himself.

“Some people you shouldn’t trust when they are drinking. And some people are alcoholics and don’t drink. They can’t. It’s a disease.”

“I suppose you’re going to tell me now obesity is a disease.”

He was standing in front of the door, blocking my exit.

“Okay, you’re really pissing me off,” I said. “Open the door.”

He let me out and I went home and dropped off my juicer and put on my running shoes. I was angry and I needed to think. I needed to run it off.

When I returned home, four miles later, I Googled “Never trust a man who doesn’t drink.” I didn’t understand his philosophy, and I wondered if it’s common amongst heavy drinkers. I thought it was just a line of Humphrey Bogart in Casablanca. But it’s not. Some people actually believe that if you don’t drink, you’re not willing to share who you really are. And if you’re not willing to take off your supposed mask by having a few, you therefore are untrustworthy. So my neighbor is more trustworthy after he’s had a few? He was more trustworthy when he got drunk at my place one night and suggested we have a neighborly roll in the hay?

I think his lack of trust in the non-drinker is asinine. Or as I said to him: the stupidest fucking thing I’ve ever heard.

I wish it had occurred to me to say at the time, “Mitt Romney doesn’t drink, and you voted for him.”

So how do non-drinkers deal with people like my neighbor? If you’re doing business with someone who ascribes to this philosophy, how do you handle it?

Personally, I’m beginning to think the guy is a total dick.

 

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