Joyride. On clear warm nights, during the summer, I’d like to make some fast trips into the city in the early AM. The streets were empty, the sky was clear. Sometimes during my drive I’d gaze up and look at the moon. The drives took no longer than 20 minutes. A straight shot down the highway, 90 miles per hour. I was drunk. Deathwish. Murder machine. Selfish, reckless. I don’t know what possessed me. Or maybe I do, and I’m too ashamed to admit it. I’d come home after the rush and pass out, slugging into work the next day. This went on for at least six months, until… I forgot.

I went to visit my estranged father in law, a disabled veteran. Happy to be there with my husband and family around the mountains and ridges of Pennsylvania, estranged FIL drove us to a cabin through Amish country, built by his father (grandfather in law). Divorced, and with what little cash he was allowed by his own father, FIL was drinking beer around rocky roads and dangerous cliffs. This was normal, though. What do you do around these places anyway, but shoot guns? This wasn’t the first time I’d held one, no. Even then, when I was happy the thought crossed my mind. So he had his beer and shot his guns. We played dice games and read books.

I have a large extended family with a strong Irish influence. We’d get together every Christmas, we had enough to rent out a hall. We would do a grab bag semi-white elephant gift exchange every year. For a few years, it was essentially a liquor exchange. Mostly Jack Daniels, Crown Royale. Woodford Reserve. Jim Beam, even Early Times. The women would always bring bottles of wine. At one of my cousins weddings, another cousin gave cash to a server to make sure the table was served plenty of wine. He eventually went in back to meet with the servers and came back out with two bottles.

I’d never gone bar hopping before myself, until my sisters wedding. I liked a good long island iced tea or daiquiri. Any rum drink, but not too tropical. The drinks at the bar were much stronger. I didn’t really know many of my sisters friends. It felt odd, the liquor burned my esophagus, but I drank anyway. I didn’t enjoy it. Well, that’s not true. I did after old retail jobs sometimes. It’s just hard to remember… why. For what purpose. Did someone invite me…? I’m not really a social person. This was just a normal thing to do, though. Drink.

Baby showers. So so many baby showers. There’s mimosas! Champagne! White wine for your brunch. The wine always came, the women always talked about their children. More children were had, more weddings. More wine. With life also comes death, for my fathers brothers it was swift. Stroke, cardiac arrest, only one still alive barely conscious reaching 80 years. Delusions, insomnia. My grandmother had gin and tonic every day until she died (75, stage 4 lung cancer). By the way, I never met my other grandparents.

Late night, after work, I thought of my father and his love of Chicago. The next morning, my sister informed me of his hospital admission. Complications with kidney and bladder from previous radiation. He suffered brain fog and water retention, along with infection that could have quickly lead to septic shock. He was admitted for three days, given a kidney ultrasound, and released. That night, he called me. His voice was shaky. He was drunk. I contacted my sisters, who confirmed he was drinking. One who was concerned about his withdrawals in the hospital. After only a few days… he cannot live without it, yet it is killing him. A man that can barely walk. My mom who enables him.

Hopeless. Sad. There’s nothing I can do but watch him slowly die, like I have been for years.

A wedding, a toast.

An engagement, a baby, anniversary… cheers!

A death? A straight shot of whiskey and a burning goodbye to all the blackout memories.

Life passed you by.