The Twelve Days of Gheorghemas: Day Seven

On the seventh day of Gheorghemas 

Big Gheorghe gave to me...

Seven Weeks of Sobriety*

Six Random Items

Five Golden Auctions

Four Teams for Bitching

Three Tiny Scrappers
Two books for your Gheorghemas wish list
And a doofus to lead this country

I won’t bury the lede, though this sentence is a trip around the block before arriving. I haven’t had a beer in seven weeks and counting. 

That wouldn’t qualify as notable for many. For me, it’s practically a lifestyle change. I’ve quaffed a beer or three more days than not in recent years. It didn’t hinder my life, as I don’t operate heavy machinery or have to act responsibly in public settings. 

I enjoy beer. Ales, lagers, pilsners, micros, imports, a few darks, the occasional IPA if the edges are smoothed. There are few things I find more convivial than get-togethers with friends over beers. Even the voices in my head mostly get along when beer is involved. I view it as lubricant, not fuel. I didn’t intend to abstain or mark a dry-out period. 

A couple of things contributed. First, my wife has hip issues that severely limit her mobility. I am often her legs, running errands, getting things around the house for her, fetching takeout, cleaning, doing chores, tending to the dog, in addition to my own meager daily activities. Might I have been a little buzzed some evenings? I might. Could it have impaired me had she required significant assistance before bedtime or in the middle of the night? It could. Not ideal. 

Second, a couple months back, I woke up in the middle of the night with chest discomfort. I wouldn’t call it pain, but it was unusual and I couldn’t get back to sleep. I’ve written in this space about my heart issues. I have atrial fibrillation (an irregular heartbeat) and I had a pacemaker installed 18 months ago to regulate an abnormally low heartbeat. After I walked the dog at dawn, I woke my wife and told her something was amiss and that I would drive to the local hospital ER. I assured her I didn’t need an ambulance or medical transport, that I could carry myself. 

When I arrived and explained my situation, the nurses and orderlies hooked me up to monitors and drew blood. They said all my vital signs were good and if they didn’t know my heart history, they would have thought I was normal. Texted my wife to tell her so, and she reminded me to tell them that I had become her pool boy. When I told the nurse in charge, she essentially said, ‘Aha, there you have it.’ Even when you don’t think you’re stressed, she said, those kinds of changes and added responsibilities can manifest themselves physically. Said when stressed your stomach pumps extra acid that can work its way north into your system, particularly when you’re horizontal, and cause what feels like chest pain. 

I had been sitting up the entire time at the hospital, and the nurse asked: how have you felt the past hour or so? Fine, I said. They drew more blood to make sure the first round of results didn’t produce false readings. All good. Mystery solved. I remarked about not wanting to appear to be a hypochondriac, but they assured me that given my history I did the wise thing, annoying and inconvenient as it might be, and should do so again if it occurs. They cut me loose. 

After I got home, my wife and I talked about dialing back our alcohol consumption, for her physical condition until it can be remedied and for our health. I quit beer for a few days, which became a week, which became a second week, and another, and another. And here we are. 

*I should point out that I haven’t gone full Prohibitionist. I have a bottle of pretty fair Irish whisky and a few evenings I’ve poured a shot and sipped while reading or watching TV. Not much and not often. What can I say? I don’t do ascetic well. 

I’d like to tell you that I feel better during my beer hiatus, but I don’t know if that’s accurate. I suppose I could take satisfaction in a rare display of discipline but it feels like something I do, or don’t do, as part of the daily routine, like walking the dog or checking the mailbox. I’d like to say that cutting back on beer and booze has launched me toward some immutable truths, has provided clarity and focus. Except I’m as dim and scattered and muddled as ever. 

I sometimes wonder if the times actually lend themselves to drinking more or hooked up to a Jameson drip. Do I miss regular beer sessions? Sometimes. When I open the fridge, a handful of beers look up at me and nod imperceptibly. When I’m downstairs many times a day I pass beers on the floor patiently awaiting the trip upstairs. I’ll get to them at some point, along with beers unseen at various taverns. No telling when. We haven’t been very social of late, so there’s been no added temptation. Being the holiday season, there’s plenty of opportunity to indulge. Have one for me if you think about it. I’ll join you soon enough.