7-Up in a Dirty Glass

When I was about 6 years old, my family went on a Mexican cruise on the old S.S. Spirit of London. Being unbearably cute, I owned that ship. Being heavily into my Cowboy phase (which was immediately after my Joe Namath phase), I would slide up to any of the bars on the ship and in my best (adorable little) drawl order "7-Up. And put it in a dirty glass."

It seems I'm back to that order now.

A few weeks ago we went to the birthday celebration for my sister's girls. I fully expected to come home with something, and wasn't surprised. I've had a a bad immune system for twenty years. But things kept getting worse. I couldn't eat. I felt like there was an obstruction in my gut. Ensign Wheatbiscuit* was having the time of his life with the waste disposal controls. I couldn't sleep. Finally, Last Tuesday, kshandra and I drove to see my doctor. I asked for a hospital admission. Anyone who knows me at all knows that I loath hospitals. So you know how bad off I was.

In the ER they set me up for labs and gave me morphine. I actually slept for the first time in days. The decision was that I needed to by admitted for no other reason than my Potassium was dangerously low. This has happened before, and can easily kill you.

I won't bore you with hospital stories. It sucked, and Kiri came close to strapping me to the bed at one point when I hadn't had anything by mouth for close to 48 hours. But we did get a diagnosis:

Acute Alcoholic Pancreatitis

I'm not an alcoholic; Hell I've got an open bottle of Jack Daniels that I haven't touched in years. I just like beer and wine, and have been drinking fairly consistently since I got to my first duty station in the Army. For the record, that was January, 1985. I stopped getting shitfaced after I woke up with a tattoo. But years and years of a few beers a day, wine with dinner... they've added up.

So, as of last week, I'm on the wagon. I've been doing some reading and even one can of beer can now leave me in agony. Not worth it. I'm not happy that this wasn't my choice, but I'll deal.

There was one funny thing. I still had about 8 beers in the fridge. I heard one of our twenty-something neighbors leaving and popped out. The conversation went like this:

"Hey, you guys drink Budweiser?"

"Well, man.. we don't really.."

"Stop. Let me put it this way. I just got out of the hospital and can never drink alcohol again. I've got close to ten ice-cold Buds. I can either give them to you, or pour them down the sink. Now, do you guys drink Budweiser?"

"Oh, sure.. love it!"

Sometimes you have to frame the question correctly.

But where from here? We've informed our camp at Burning Man that I will not be partaking, and that if anyone slips up and offers me a beer not to feel bad about it. Thanksgiving will be alcohol free, as will all other such events. We're working on a lower-fat diet for me, and one that focus more on snaking when needed, as I'm still not really good with full meals. Lots of poultry and ground lamb, lots of soups, and even less beef than I eat now. Sadly, I've never cared for seafood.

Overall, I'm good. This is a big adjustment, I mean I've had a beer can in my hand for a long time, but I'll make it.

But I swear, if there's an after life I expect to be greeted with an ice-cold pint of pale lager and a double pepperoni, sausage and garlic pizza. With Parmesan Twists, slightly underdone.

* For the uninitiated, I've described my body and its troubles by describing myself as this vast steampunk device, complete with brass and teak control room and a very, very British crew. Ensign Wheatbiscuit has been running amok for years, obsessed with the Solid Waste Controls, but causing trouble wherever he goes. I found it a kinder way to explain my latest illness with going into too much actual detail.