One Row at a Time

 

Brandy, Candy.

Today it is Monday the 2nd of January 2023. It is a dull day. The lack of sun and the grey sky make me feel melancholic and my toes are cold. I still have no socks.

 

I was looking forward to Christmas this year—I was going to curl up on the sofa and watch some Christmas movies, do a bit of cooking, savour a few glasses of wine, Zoom with my family and friends, and enjoy an extra brandy and port. A nice relaxing Christmas, no stress—no pressure.

 

Life had another plan for me:

 

On the Tuesday before Christmas, by appointment, I went to the health centre early to drop off a urine sample and for a blood test. Then I did my Christmas shop. I was planning to make a Mushroom Wellington, so I needed, amongst other items, mushrooms. I took the opportunity to buy myself a Christmas bottle of brandy and an extra bottle of port, just in case. Everything was set.

 

On the Wednesday I had to return to the doctor to check up on my leg.

 

The leg was coming along nicely, and I informed the doctor that I was coping with the injections and only had five more to go—another two and a half days. I was fairly crowing at the thought. So, she gave me a prescription for another box of pre-loaded syringes for ten days more. I’m sure she smirked a little bit behind her mask.

 

Then she whipped out my test results. Everything was fine except for my prolactin levels, which was to be expected, as I have played host to a prolactinoma for years. However, for the first time in my life I had elevated levels of AST and ALT. For anyone who has ever experienced liver issues you will understand what these are and for anyone who has not, well, lucky you. I had never had any liver function issues in my life before and in my head, I was planning a visit to Mr. Google to find out a bit more.

 

The doctor pressed me on my lifestyle. “And do you drink?”

“Yes.”

“Beer? Wine?”

“Brandy.”

Her eyebrows shot up. “How often?”

“Every day.”

 

With each response, my head sank lower and lower in shame and sadness. I knew what was coming.

 

“No alcohol, and we will redo the tests in three months.”

 

My day and life stretched out in front of me. Three months. It sounded like an eternity. I had already been contemplating a cheeky little afternoon drink after my check-up. Now I was going home to a cup of tea. Of course, the minute I got home I got straight onto Google about the ALT and AST levels—what I read did not please me, in fact it scared me shitless.

 

My name is Mary. I am 63. I am an alcoholic. It is 12 days since my last drink.  I am not ready to go. I still have so many things that I want to do with my life. But the die is now truly cast. No more cheeky lunchtime drinks, or mid-afternoon drinkies or late-night nightcaps.

 

My renewed relationship with knitting is coming in handy. It keeps my fingers busy so that I am not tempted pour myself a drink. I am currently knitting a blanket to use up all the odd balls and ends of wool from other projects. It is starting to get large and unwieldy when I turn it around. I am getting used to the circular needles and they are great for larger items like this but even so, I will soon need to purchase a longer cable to accommodate the growing blanket.

 

While I knit, an unopened bottle of brandy reproaches me from the top of the drink’s cabinet.

 

Christmas would have been dry if Candy had not caught the tummy bug from her sister. I had three or four sleepless nights, up and down with a tiny dog every half hour. The first night it was vomiting and then it turned into diarrhoea and then to diarrhoea with blood. Of course, my vet was closed over the holidays so we could only go on the day after Stephen’s Day*. She inspected the poor little girl. Felt her tummy. Checked her temperature and weighed her. I knew Candy had lost weight over the past year but was shocked to find she weighs a mere 5.25kg. In her flaming youth she had weighed in at a healthy 8.5kg. It does make it much easier to carry her upstairs at night and downstairs again in the morning, but I would still prefer a healthier weight.

 

The vet gave Candy an injection to stop the vomiting and diarrhoea and asked me to come in again the next day for a follow-up and another jab.

 

Between doctors, vets, and, oh yes, the sudden and rather violent death of my beautiful Samsung Galaxy phone, on Christmas Eve, I have been feeling very mortal.

 

So, I am getting my affairs in order.

Along with knitting all the wool ends into a blanket, I have also begun the onerous task of clearing out my Gmail inbox. Google delights in sending me messages every few days to tell me that I am fast running out of space. I have already spent many hours downloading hundreds of files and photos contained in emails and then deleting the email. Progress is slow, but like burning all my old letters a few years ago, it is liberating. After I am gone, no one will want them, and I don’t want other people reading them either, but now they have to be read one last time. I won’t burden my children with the task, I will leave them with their own messes to clean up.

 

On the upside—and there is always an upside—I already feel better without the alcohol. The doctor also told me to forgo all the funny supplements that I take for my aches and pains. None of the aches or pains have returned. The doctor has given me the push I needed to kickstart my sobriety. What I do after the three months is up to me. I wonder if it will be the start of a new life, or will I revert to type when, or if, I am given the all-clear?

 

It is 2023 and Candy has made a complete recovery from her illness and Juan in the computer shop around the corner has sold me a second-hand, refurbished phone to replace my lovely Galaxy. More importantly he managed to rescue and save all my photos - those I am not ready to give up. We have passed the winter solstice and the days are starting to get longer. The blanket is coming along well—It will be lovely to be able to wrap it around my cold toes. In the meantime, I heft it up and pull it around, heaving it from one side to the other, one slow row at a time. It stretches over my legs and already reaches my ankles. It is comforting and warm and I have time to count my blessings, one row at a time.

 

Time for a cup of tea.

 

 

*In answer to the question: Why did you not take her to the emergency vet? I considered it, but the emergency vet doesn’t know my dogs like my own vet. From experience I felt that we could wait, but I also knew that if she took a turn for the worse, the emergency vet could be called.