Yesterday I found my motivational bottle of whiskey. There's maybe a quarter-inch of booze in there, and I'm guaranteed not to drink it because the original cork broke, and there are hundreds of pieces floating in the bottle. But I do like to take a sniff from the neck every once in a while. Sometimes it smells glorious, but most times it grosses me out, the desired effect.
It's been three years and a handful of days since my last drink. I don't know how many days because my calendar is still packed away. However, I made an ugly discovery this morning while refilling my bottle of liquid Vicodin from the cannister CVS gave me. I usually get a little red flask of the stuff, but for some reason I got the cannister this time. I read the label and found, much to my horror, that there is alcohol in this.
So technically I haven't had a drink since the last time I took my medicine.
I'm supposed to take 15 mL every four hours. That is the equivalent of a sip of decent beer at 6.7% ABV.
After some agonizing I decided that it doesn't count against my years and days. #1: I had no idea that there was alcohol in this. #2: It's not like I'm drinking this stuff to get wasted. Sure, the pain gets to be a bit much sometimes, so I'll take 30 mL, but it's not recreational. I'm using this as directed, as a painkiller.
Yes, I can hear myself. I used to drink to kill the pain of a terrible constant months-long headache, and that was how I became an alcoholic.
It gets worse. The temptation to drink in this new home is exceptionally strong. I've almost gotten myself convinced that I can just have a couple of drinks to unwind each night. Right now I have edibles to unwind. My new home is a nonsmoking place. You can't even smoke on the property. So I've stopped smoking weed, but the edibles aren't kicking in like they used to.
Yes, I can still hear myself. I'm looking for an excuse to get fucked up. I'm writing this to convince myself to *not* do that.
Because the rest of me is very much onboard with getting fucked up, but as I write this I can feel myself coming to my senses. Yet: "Hey, man, you don't have *any* days because you fucked up. You took the liquid Vicodin. So give up. Go get some bourbon. There's a place just down the street. It's a college town! There's a place just down *every* street! Let's go, dude!"
The other day I stopped in a Casey's to use the bathroom, and I had to crutch (I'm on a walker, not a crutch, but "walker" my way doesn't sound right) my way past the liquor section. I scowled at Evan Williams, but Larceny? Whoo-boy. I loved Larceny. If I wasn't in dire straits of a piss, I would have stopped and considered. Considering might have lead to something else.
The one thing that stops me flat is the cage on my leg. I can't tell you how many times I've almost fallen over on the walker dead sober. I have stopped myself from eating it each and every time. But if I was drunk . . .
It doesn't matter. The cage is coming off tomorrow. I won't have that to stop me soon. But I will still be in a cast. Maybe that will help.
Speaking of which, I've been advised that it's possible the cage *won't* come off tomorrow. My surgeon asked me to get a CT scan today (last minute) because she's afraid two of my bones haven't fused together. If they haven't, she said she won't take the cage off.
THE CAGE MUST COME OFF. I'm at the very end of my wits on this. I can't have this cage on me anymore. The longer it's on, the higher the risk of a bone infection and a subsequent amputation. But that's not what's eating me. I NEED TO WALK AGAIN. I can't keep crutching around on walkers and actual crutches (I use one for stairs). No matter how much of my liquid Vicodin I take, I'm still in pain, especially when I'm on stairs. I can't take it anymore. I literally can't.
Maybe I'll wake up tomorrow, and the surgeon will tell me that the CT scan showed the bones didn't fuse, so the cage isn't coming off. Or I'll go under, and when I wake up the cage will still be there. The cast is supposed to be a walking cast, so I've decided that if I can't walk around tomorrow on my feet, sans cage, I am going to get a bottle of Wild Turkey 101, and I'm going to drink myself into oblivion.
I know that sounds crazy, but have you ever spent approximately three months with a cage around one of your feet? One that keeps several metal rods going through your flesh and bone in place? So that you're in constant pain that whole time?
We're going to find out about a lot of things tomorrow. Things have been going my way lately. I can only assume this will go my way, too. So here's to hoping I walk out of the hospital on two feet tomorrow, and that I'm carrying my folded up walker under one arm. Wish me luck.
I really hope the cage comes off for many, many reasons, but one of the big ones for me is, I'll finally be able to change my boxers. I've been wearing the same pair since the cage was installed. The ones I'm wearing are pretty rank by this point. I spray them with air freshener every day. But hey! No pee stains or skidmarks!
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