Weekly whiskey
Originally published at Examorata. Please leave any comments there.
Even in college, when I did my heaviest drinking, I was a social drinker. Maybe it was growing up in a household where no one drank much, maybe I was just cheap, maybe drinking with friends was just more fun, but I rarely had so much as a beer by myself.
And that didn’t change for a long, long time. When I was diagnosed with Type II diabetes in 2007, I gave up alcohol entirely for a while. I had to change a lot of my habits then, and I had no idea quite how alcohol would fit in, so I just left it out of the equation. But gradually I resumed social drinking.
That changed in the summer of 2009, which was the summer my father was dying. Symptomatic in June, diagnosed in July, he passed away the day before the autumnal equinox. That was all that summer was, to me - the summer my father was dying.
I’m not sure what set me off to do it the first time, or even exactly when during that summer it happened, but it became my habit to sit out on my balcony with a beer. At the time I lived in a 9th-floor apartment, and the view was great, and the privacy was fairly complete. My days got long, especially in August once my father was admitted to the hospital and then moved to the long-term care facility where he received hospice care for a month before he passed. I’d go to work, then drive to the hospital or the care center, hang out as long as he could take it, then drive home. I’d eat something unhealthy and drink a beer, because screw you diabetes, my father is dying.
But the time out on the porch became my down-time. I have a busy mind. In a lot of ways that’s a gift. I can plan things, and organize things, and brainstorm things, and just go-go-go. I get a lot done, sometimes.
That summer I learned the value of not getting stuff done. Stuff falls aside when someone you love is dying. You learn how much in your life is actually extraneous and unnecessary.
One beer, even though my tolerance was practically nil (not drinking for the better part of a year and losing a bunch of weight will do that), wasn’t enough to get me drunk or even particularly buzzed. As summer wore on, it became clear I wasn’t really drinking for the physical effects of it. It was my ritual. It was the thing I did to let me turn my brain off, to get sleep. I didn’t do it every day, I don’t think, but it was pretty regular.
After Dad had died the habit fell away. Eventually, I picked up the things I’d set aside during his illness. Unnecessary and extraneous things are still sometimes very wonderful, it turns out.
But the next summer it came back. And now it’s more or less back on a weekly basis. On Friday nights, unless I have other plans, I come home and get into pajamas and go out on my balcony and have a whiskey. Yes, at some point I switched away from beer: it filled me up too much, and spoiled my dinner. But I go out there and raise a glass to whatever or whomever seems to need it most that week. I watch people walk by, now that I’m on the 2nd floor, and I watch the sun set during the months that the timing works for that.
My busy brain is a gift. I love all the things it lets me do. But I have to love it enough to let it turn off for a while. Imagine my consternation when I got home tonight and realized I had to make it write something! Maybe for the next few Fridays I should make sure to write the post ahead of time, so I can give myself that bit of a break.
This post isn’t intended to sing the glories of alcohol. Everyone has to figure out their own appropriate and responsible relationship with it. If you can figure that out, though, I think a good drink - with good friends or occasionally alone - can be a great comfort. Cheers!