Alcohol is a heavy subject, and this one is about my relationship with it. My relationship with it is largely positive, and my little naritive will reflect that, but I know that isn't everyone's experience.
There was a time, between dropping out of grad school and taking on the apprenticeship that would become my career, where I seriously considered bartending. I adored making cocktails, traditional sorts and the usually delicious abominations that reared their heads at juicemorn.
For years at family get togethers, if anyone wanted something more complex than a beer or a glass of wine, they were coming to me. And I loved it. Understanding how different flavours come together and balance was always a thrill.
But then came the symptoms which would eventually point to cancer. At first, the surgeon I was seeing thought it was a problem with the liver itself, and by the time we had the actual root cause determined, I was starting chemotherapy. Alcohol and chemotherapy is not only a great way to destroy your liver, it's also a good way to dramatically reduce the effectiveness of the drugs themselves.
I figured I'd never have a drink again. And while I'd have preferred to have marked the occasion somehow (a nice scotch, or Beach One Cervasa and a smoked meat sandwich down at Balm Beach Smokehouse, or both), I was okay with it. The extra time was easily worth the lost pleasure for me.
Fast forward two long years of chemotherapy and surgery and recovery and alcohol free adventure (so many fish and chip meals demanded something I just couldn't give them). I jokingly asked my doctor if I could have beer. And, more seriously than I expected, she responded that, at my disease state, it was fine.
Drinking in the hospital is a weird experience. Sharing that experience with my brother and my friends is stranger still. Should we have imbibed during Cats or Repo? Probably. Palliative care is about patient comfort,. And trying new things from the LCBO is apparently part of it for me. Especially when I can share the experience.
I really intended this to be a whimsical post about being drunk under the table by a giant benevolent ramen (how good would a ramen like that be after the party's over, just savouring the flavours) (lets ignore the canabalism implications) person. But instead you get something serious.
To make up for it, I'll share a secret. I didn't quit alcohol the whole of my treatment. I did go to the Balm Beach Smokehouse three of four times last summer, ordered my favourite beer in the world (Wasaga Beach Brewing Company Beach 1 Cerveza, it's objectively just fine, but I love it), ordered the Cubano sandwich, ordered the braised brisket poutine, ordered the Balm Beach burger, ordered the house special.
The only regret I have about this is that I never went with anyone, I felt like I was sneaking a forbidden treat. And now that I can have those drinks, I cannot eat. Which would feel like cosmic punishment if I still didn't love talking about food and drink
I poured out everything that remained of my alcohol collection today. I've known my body can't really take it anymore for over a year, and by surgery time knew with medical certainty that there was no outcome that would make it safe for me to have. I think part of me was still hoping for a reckless glass of celebratory scotch that was never going to happen. And now cannot happen.
You mourn life and normalcy in fits and starts. I haven't felt much since I got home in July. But it's September now, the tourists are leaving, the season is changing, and the geese are practising Vs. It's a reflective sort of time for me, and pouring it all out hits a much more raw nerve than I expected.
From the comments
James Petrosky: I've definitely mentioned it before, but it fits well here.
After academia and I had a pretty rough falling out (undiagnosed, dangerously wrongly treated bipolar disorder played a part), I had no idea what to do with myself. I spent a couple years temping and working retail, and knew that wasn't for me. But it taught me I liked people. And like a lot of hipster types at the time (2012-2014jsh), I got into making drinks.
Over the next few years I made all the drinks at gatherings and family events, and really enjoyed the experimentation and adventure of it.
I started work at my final employer in 2015, as a temp. I didn't know if I was going to make another try and grad school, finish the courses I needed for a geology designation, or try my hand at mixology school. And becoming a bartender was more than just a passing fancy (although it may have been just a bipolar/ADHD fancy).
Obviously I didn't do it, and not regret that decision. But getting rid of these bottles is getting rid of something that was once very important to me.
James Petrosky: I've written a lot of morbid and depressing shit over the last year, and this may be the first time it's pure mourning, without a hint of anxiety, terror or anticipation thrown in.
James Petrosky: (I actually kept a full bottle of pisco I bought in Peru, I don't know why, if I haven't drank it in ten years, I probably never was going to, but some things are too hard
Ryan: Man, of all the things you’ve posted, this has been the most . . . like really reckoning with things, at least as I’m parsing it.
I know you’re not a person of faith, and I am not one any longer, but the feeling I have toward you in this moment is one I only have words for in a faith based context, and I don’t know how to say them in a way that doesn’t rely on a fantasy. But I’m going to try here, so please forgive any weird phrasing:
I feel the echo of your heart within me.
James Petrosky: Ryan I've tried and failed three times at a response, so instead all just say thank you.
Ryan McGill: James Petrosky it’s all good, friend. I find myself in the same situation with many of your posts, but this one connected in a way that I couldn’t just leave a reaction. And with what we know about human memory, I think I’m going to carry it with just about every glass I raise.
James Petrosky: The fucking wild thing is that I actually wanted to talk about being off work for a year, because we're 6 hours away from that. But it's recycling this week, and decided I wanted to dust the bottle shelf. And here we are. Nothing is ever planned, things just happen because the universe is chaotic and impenetrable and beautiful.
James Petrosky: Because I'm having Something Of A Day, I went and broke into my forbidden song vault and listened to Kettering by The Antlers. And that was very dumb of me. The vault has been resealed.
