“Just admit you have a drinking problem,” she said, with her hand holding the door open, primed like a sprinter on the starting block.
“Problem? What problem? I pay my bills, my mortgage, I’ve got a job, I’ve got a car. How can I have a problem?” I said.
“Because once you pay for those things every single penny goes on drinking. The fact you don’t see that as a problem… forget it I’m wasting my time trying to tell you that,” she said, stepping through the door and slamming so hard that it vibrated in its hinges along with her words reverberating around my head. Why does this keep happening? I thought to myself as I stood in the hallway perplexed. I shrugged my shoulders and went to the pub to have a couple of pints to mull it over.
This wasn’t the first time a relationship had ended like this and she wasn’t the first person to tell me I needed to quit drinking but for some reason, she made the biggest impact… although not in a nice way. “I’ll fucking show her she was wrong,” I said to myself after that evenings drinking session.
The day after this all too regular occurrence, I decided to phone my doctor and make an appointment. I was still hell-bent on proving the world wrong about my drinking habits. If I could just get proof from the doctor that everything was okay then at least they would let me enjoy my life in peace. I say “enjoy” but in all honesty, the enjoyment of drinking had ended many years ago and it was now the only thing left as all the other activities had been pushed aside but I digress.
Sitting in the doctors waiting room, my knee bouncing up and down, waiting to be called, convinced that I would soon have the letter of proof that would show the world it was overreacting to my drinking habits. How could I have a problem? Everyone I drink with, drinks the same amount as me? It’s normal, isn’t it? Relationships break down all the time? That’s what people do isn’t it? Work all day then drink their woes away at night?
“Charlie Lofus?” shouted the Doctor, snapping me out of my usual chaotic thinking.
“Here,” I said, standing and following her through to her office not so cock sure as when I arrived.
“So how can I help you?” said the Doctor, closing the door behind me and then taking her seat.
“Everybody keeps telling me I drink too much,” I said, fidgeting on my seat.
“How much do you drink?” said the Doctor.
“Twelve pints a day and then spirits on the weekend,” I said, playing it down.
“Is this true?” said the Doctor.
“Of course,” I said, as perspiration began to run down my face.
“I want you to have a blood test,” said the Doctor.
“Cool, shall I make an appointment on my way out?”
“No! You will have a blood test now, today. If you drink as much as you say you do then you may have damaged your liver. Wait outside and the nurse will call you,” said the Doctor.
“Okay,” is all I could manage to say as I stood and made my way out of the Doctors office, the sterile smell of the office adding to the lightheaded sensation to make me feel nauseous. I slumped into a chair in the waiting room and began to bite my finger nails. All the possible outcomes began to illuminate my mind like a firework show created to spell out liver conditions, as my confidence collapsed and the situation became very real.
I heard the words that sounded like Charlie Lofus. It was difficult to make them out as my mind was now awash with negativity but I stood and followed the nurse through corridors until I was told to sit. I did as instructed and rolled up my sleeve as she explained what was going to happen. The slight sting in my right arm as the needle slipped in, wasn’t enough to shake me from my thinking. Afterwards, I was told to call back next week for my results and also, to cut down on my alcohol consumption. I vowed to the nurse that I would… “Tomorrow” I vowed to myself. It had been a stressful day and the cigarette I was smoking outside was doing nothing to silence the chaos tearing through my mind like a tornado so I needed a drink.
I phoned the Doctors four days later. I made the call with a hangover. The Doctors advice had done nothing to curb my unquenchable thirst for alcohol and had done nothing to demonstrate that I had a problem.
“Hello, I’m calling for my blood test results. My name is Charlie Lofus,” I said to the receptionist over the phone.
“Yes Charlie the Doctor would like to talk to you about your results. Can you come in today?” said the receptionist.
“Yeah, sure,” I said, agreeing to the time she suggested that afternoon. Reality was banging so hard on the wall of deception I had created for myself that I for the first time in years I saw what I had done to myself and all I could think was; I’m fucked. How could this have happened? I only went to the Doctors to prove everybody wrong and now I had been called into the doctors to discuss, I was convinced, my imminent demise. No matter what I did, the word cirrhosis bounced around my mind from that point until I was speaking to the Doctor.
“Ninety six is twice what we consider healthy. Do you know what this means?” said the Doctor, holding a piece of paper.
“I can guess,” I said,
“I will tell you. At 29 years old your liver gamma is twice the maximum level Charlie. This is a clear warning from your body that the way you are living is not sustainable. I strongly suggest that you listen to it. If you can’t cut down then you have to stop drinking completely,” said the Doctor.
“I don’t see the point in cutting down. I never did. I only ever saw the point in getting hammered,” I said.
“We have a counselor here that could help?” said the Doctor.
“I can give it a try,” I said.
Thanks for reading,