High Sobriety

by Jill Stark

  Jon tells me it’s great that there’s no obvious large-scale damage or shrinkage in my brain. But these MRI scans only look at structural damage; how well my brain actually functions is another story altogether. Now, I have to sit a battery of neurocognitive tests, which will go some way to finding out whether more subtle damage has occurred. I spend an hour in front of a laptop computer with one of his research assistants, doing tests that literally make my brain hurt. They’re touch-screen exercises designed to test memory, attention, cognitive flexibility, and planning and problem-solving skills.

  The first test is fairly simple. Two boxes containing a number of circles flash up, and I have to click on the box with the smallest circle. On this, I score above-average, with results that are better than 80 to 95 per cent of people in my age group (24 to 39), meaning that my capacity for sustained attention is good. In a more challenging exercise, I have to watch numbers scrolling quickly and continuously. I must click a button when I recognise three pre-determined sequences: 2, 4, 6; 4, 6, 8; and 3, 5, 7. On this, I also score highly. In a test of my immediate memory I’m below average, with results better than only 15 to 20 per cent of the population. This doesn’t surprise me at all. But the one that gives me the most difficulty involves replicating a pattern of three coloured circles in the least number of moves, abiding by rules that limit the way the circles can be moved. I successfully complete five out of a possible 13 in the allotted time, giving me a score that is well below average, better than only 5 per cent of the population.

  When I ask Jon what these test results show, he says that it may indicate deficits in my memory and my planning skills. ‘You struggled quite a bit with those tests, which was interesting. Here’s a high-IQ person, and although you would not make a diagnosis off that one test, it does suggest you have some trouble with those forward-planning, high-level things. It means multi-tasking, making rapid parallel decisions, and also, in a sense, learning from your mistakes. So it’s making complex decisions from complex information, and you may struggle with that.’ This may explain my woeful sense of direction, complete inability to read a map, and tendency to pursue the same loser guys who always disappoint me.

  He asks me about my short-term memory. I tell him it’s poor, to the point that if I didn’t use shorthand or a tape recorder I’d struggle to remember many details of an interview an hour after I’ve conducted it. I can read a book and quickly forget the plotlines or characters, even if I loved it. He says that the brain’s prefrontal cortex is responsible for short-term memory, and it’s common to see people who have been binge drinking from an early age with subtle impairment in this area. The prefrontal cortex also controls inhibition — again, commonly impaired in chronic binge-drinkers. I tell him about my short temper, my infamous truth-telling sessions, and my unfortunate habit of blurting out my unfiltered opinions. This habit has not ceased since I stopped drinking.

  ‘Looking at these results and your history, you’d have to ask yourself, how much of that is slightly impaired impulse control, or difficulty in putting the brakes on things?’ he says. ‘It may just be personality, so you can’t necessarily say you drank and therefore you have this, but it might be that you would have been slightly better at this, slightly better at that, slightly less off the handle. But with that history of binge drinking, you may have locked those pathways into always craving more alcohol.’

  Given my history of depression and anxiety, which may or may not have been triggered by early binge drinking, Jon says that returning to a pattern of regular heavy drinking would be inadvisable. ‘There’s no doubt that, post-drinking, you do get quite major surges of depression in the period where you don’t drink. We’ve just done a study looking at people who didn’t drink at all versus people who drank [at] low, medium, and high levels — which is two drinks a day, six drinks a day, and ten drinks a day. We looked at what their brains looked like when they were drinking, and what they looked like after one day of not drinking. Even those with low levels of drinking had changes in the chemical structure of the brain, and they had withdrawal patterns one day after stopping. In other words, their excitatory system and inhibitory systems were not normal. So just the regular exposure can mean that you are struggling with a brain that isn’t functioning completely normally.’

  My real worry is what just happened at the weekend: two sips of champagne that led to a sudden desire to get drunk. One of my friends told me that I was reading too much into it, and I was just excited at the novelty after so long without alcohol. I suspect that Jon will have a different take on it. He does. ‘Isn’t it fascinating that it’s still there? A year later, almost to the day, and you still could have happily got really drunk. These pathways are still significantly locked in. That’s a very salutary experience you’ve just had. It shows that this sensory-memory pathway for drinking is well and truly set up in your brain. It’s a conditioned reflex, and you felt excitement, the reward — that’s exactly what gamblers feel. It suggests there’s a moderate propensity to go on and get in trouble; it’s certainly indicative of increased risk. If you’re getting that degree of interest in your brain, then that suggests that it would be a warning sign. You may be one of these people who quickly clicks back into it.’

  I tell him about getting stoned at the party. It was the first time since Easter, when I had a few puffs and felt dreadful, that I’d smoked a joint. He says that resorting to it as a consolation for not letting myself get pissed may be my pleasure-seeking brain’s attempt to substitute one substance for another.

  So where do I go from here? The results of these tests aren’t as definitive as I’d have liked. I almost feel as if I need to start drinking again to know if I can drink moderately. He says that if I do, I should do it with a ‘life jacket’: someone who can monitor my drinking in a dispassionate way; not a friend who might tell me what I want to hear, but someone impartial. This is what he does with many patients who return to controlled drinking. They keep a diary of their consumption, and every two months they visit him to discuss their progress. ‘If you’re reasonably accurate about the record of what you’re doing, then you’ll get a guide as to whether it seems to be spiralling out of control. That’s something that otherwise you might kid yourself and not be truthful about, and then find in a year or so you’ve gone very quickly backwards. If that happens, I would think you’d need to seriously think about not drinking.’

  At home that night, I find this hard to process. When I started this ride, there was no doubt in my mind that I’d go back to drinking when the year was up. Now, I’m not sure. The test results were inconclusive, but the suggestion that some of my shortcomings might not be innate personality traits but self-inflicted scars is enough to make me pause to consider what drinking is really worth. It’s clear that the older I get, the less I am able to cope with these massive weekend binges. If I go back to the same pattern, what will my brain function be like ten years from now? Then again, I’m so much more conscious of my moods, my emotions, and my reasons for drinking that I’d like to think I could drink in a mindful way, and not let alcohol dictate how my night ends up.

  But then, I think about the cocktail party. What would I have done if that party had taken place two weeks from now? Sometimes freedom is a burden. Once my year’s up, there will be no self-imposed abstinence or public expectation to make the decision for me. If I indulge in the occasional blowout, how rapidly would I go back to getting pissed, even when I don’t feel like it? Would I be stumbling home at 5.00 a.m. when I meant to leave the party four hours earlier? I can now see why Will talks about degrees of addiction. I don’t think I’m an alcoholic. And all of the things those test results suggested may be natural character traits that would have been there regardless of whether I was a big drinker. But I do worry that booze has more control over me than I’m comfortable with. Why else would the thought of drinking again worry me so much?

  The thoughts chatter on in my head, and I tr
y to settle them with deep breathing. But it’s a hot night, and I can’t sleep. The Christmas-party season is in full swing: outside my apartment, people are yelling and beeping horns; groups of guys are leering out of car windows. Later, I’m woken by an awful spluttering noise and think that my cat must be choking on a hairball. I race to the living room, but he’s curled up on the couch asleep. The noise is coming from outside. I peer through the blinds and see a woman about my age on her knees, vomiting in the gutter. Two friends standing over her are eating hot chips and laughing. Nothing says ‘Merry Christmas’ quite like a stranger chundering outside your bedroom window at two o’clock on a Wednesday morning.

  It reminds me of an article I read this week by Ruby Rose, the model and MTV presenter, about her 90-day break from booze. Her decision to quit drinking came when she threw up on American pop starlet Katy Perry, after they crashed a high-school formal. The 25-year-old said sobriety had taught her that being pissed isn’t sexy; she realised that red eyes, smudged lipstick, and slurred speech are not attractive. I guess it just goes to show that whether you’re an average Joe spewing in a suburban gutter or a smoking-hot celebrity vomiting on an international superstar, alcohol will happily take you there.

  I can’t see myself chucking my guts up in a gutter any time soon, but I do worry that by welcoming booze back into my life, my days of carpe diem will be gone. I’ll be back to lethargy and excuses. Without alcohol, I’ve been more fearless than I have in years.

  Earlier this month, the music school where I’ve been taking singing lessons had an end-of-term concert. In a busy bar in front of dozens of people, students of all ages got up and faced their fears. It was an incredibly moving experience to see people who’d never performed in public before stand in front of the mike and realise a dream. The youngest was 12, and the oldest 65. It taught me that you’re never too old to achieve your goals. But at the same time, it made me realise that I don’t want to wait. I’ve got the confidence and motivation now, so I shouldn’t let anything stop me. When it was my turn to sing, my friends Loretta, Kath, and Lili cheering me on, my nerves disappeared, and I was completely absorbed in that exquisite moment. I was wearing my undies on the outside, and it felt fantastic.

  I’M HEADING TO Sydney for Christmas with Loretta and her family. Then we’ll drive back down the coast, to a New Year’s Eve party at a friend’s beachfront property along the Great Ocean Road. I can’t wait to take a road trip and have some time away.

  People keep asking how I’ll survive the holidays without drinking. It’s fairly simple — I just won’t drink. I’ve been doing it for 51 weeks, so one more will be easy. True, for most of my adult life I’ve had a drink on Christmas Day. But with all that rich food, free-flowing wine, and general over-indulgence, I’m usually feeling fat, full, and ready for bed by 9.00 p.m. And I’ve always found New Year’s Eve, or Hogmanay, as we call it in Scotland, to be massively overrated. It’s a night that’s expected to be bigger and better than any other simply because it’s the last in the calendar. Life’s best nights are rarely that contrived; you usually stumble into them by accident.

  As my year of sobriety draws to a close, I’m continually being asked if I’m raring to have a drink at midnight on New Year’s Eve. I was still knocking back tequila at 5.00 a.m. last year, so technically I won’t be allowed my first drink until well into New Year’s Day. But the thought of a glass of wine or a beer doesn’t consume my every waking moment — it’s deciding if and when I’ll have another drink that does. After 1 January, I’ll be free from my pledge, and pondering what I’ll do with that freedom is a glimpse into the great unknown. Whatever happens, I’m proud that I’ve got this far.

  On Christmas Eve, the plan is for Loretta to pick me up at 7.00 a.m., and we’ll start our nine-hour drive north, to Sydney. At 5.10 a.m., my phone beeps. I wake with a jolt. My first thought is that she must be running late. I fumble in the dark, grumpy at being woken so early. But it’s not Loretta. It’s Fiona’s husband, David, in Edinburgh. He never texts me — something’s not right. I squint at the glare on the screen. The message makes no sense. ‘Our beautiful son Jude passed away suddenly this afternoon …’ Is this is a sick joke? Am I still asleep? I stumble out of bed, hurtling towards the wall, fingers splayed as they scramble for the light switch. Reading the words again, I drop to my knees. The phone bounces on the carpet and the world, changed beyond all recognition, shudders to a stop. My heart thumps so loudly it feels as if the walls are shaking. I wail one word over and over: no.

  Fiona and David’s Jude, a boy so beautiful he could make godless heathens believe in heavenly creatures, is gone. He was five. How could this have happened? Just over a week ago, he was racing around their home as I chatted to Fiona on Skype. Every now and then, I’d see a flash of blonde hair and hear his cheeky laugh as he dashed past with his big sister, Isla. When he stopped to wave at me, my heart skipped, and I was struck, as I always was, by what a perfect wee soul Fiona and David had created.

  I cancel my Sydney trip and spend the rest of the day on the phone to Scotland, trying to piece together what happened. My parents, who have loved Fiona like a daughter since we were kids, are heartbroken. Dad, who got David’s message as a text-to-speech voicemail on his answering machine, is distraught. I call Lisa, Jude’s godmother, whose three girls are like sisters to Isla and Jude. They’re shattered. We cry together as she tells me how it came to this. In the week leading up to Christmas, everything seemed normal: Jude had been playing with Isla and getting excited about Santa coming. But he started to get ill as the week went on; Fiona and David thought he had a chest infection. Three days before Christmas — only two days ago — he started to have problems breathing. His fingers began to turn blue. They took him to hospital, and it quickly became apparent from the looks on the faces of the doctors and nurses that this was more serious than Fiona and David could ever have imagined. There was little time to prepare; Jude died the next day. As I try to process it, I realise that the text message from David came just hours after their boy passed away.

  There was nothing the medical team could do — Jude had a large hole in his heart. The doctors said this kind of pulmonary hypertension is a congenital time bomb: it’s rare and incurable, and very difficult to diagnose. Even if he had survived, he would have needed a heart–lung transplant. It might have bought him two years, maybe three, at best. He seemed like such a robust boy, who’d never shown any signs of ill health, and yet he was a desperately sick child. It was nothing short of miraculous that he’d survived this long.

  As the day goes on, disbelief and desolation come in brutalising waves, like aftershocks in the trail of an earthquake. It feels as if a part of me has been hollowed out; my heart aches for Fiona’s loss. She’s not able to talk on the phone, but we text, our usual banter replaced by previously unthinkable sentences. I call her mum and tell her how sorry I am. Fiona’s her only child. Those grandchildren are everything to her. Her grief is raw and jagged; just hearing her voice cuts me in two. I’ve never felt more impotent. The phone call leaves me on the floor in howling tears.

  Friends come round to offer support, and suggest that if I want a drink, I shouldn’t feel bad for having one. It hadn’t even crossed my mind. To think that until this morning my biggest worry was whether or not to have a glass of wine is more ridiculous than I can fathom. Even if nobody would blame me for seeking solace in a bottle, it’s the last thing I want to do. It’s hard enough to cope with this sober. If I get drunk, it might numb the pain for a few hours, but the grief will be more than I can manage tomorrow. Besides, I don’t want to block out my emotions, excruciating as they are. Somehow, the pain makes me feel closer to Fiona.

  Christmas Day is far from how I imagined it. I spend it with David’s brother Mark and his wife, Heather, at their home in Melbourne’s bayside suburbs. They’re in shock; they can’t believe their nephew is gone. Their girls, aged three and 16 months, are too young to und
erstand they’ve lost a much-loved cousin, but being with them is comforting as we share the loss, clinging to each other for steadiness.

  Before I arrived at their place, Fiona texted me to say that she’s glad we’re all together and she hopes we have a good day with lots of laughter — even in the depths of her grief she’s thinking of us. I promise that’s what we’ll try to do. I dance with the girls, play games, and laugh with them. Over lunch, we smile as we remember Jude for the cheeky little cuddle-monster he was. But when the girls are in bed, the three of us fall apart. We think of Fiona and David waking up on Christmas morning to this foreign world without Jude, his presents wrapped and ready for him to open under a tree he helped to decorate. We think of his partner in crime, his seven-year-old sister, Isla, who asked Fiona if this means she’s now an only child.

  Mark and I look at flights home, but we can’t book until we find out when the funeral will be. The Christmas and New Year holidays mean that all of the arrangements are delayed. If we leave now and find out the funeral’s a fortnight away, we risk having to come back to Melbourne for work before it’s been held. Waiting is torturous. Every part of me yearns to be back in Scotland.

  IT’S NEW YEAR’S EVE: the last day of the most extraordinary year of my life. I’m still in Melbourne; we leave for Scotland in a couple of days. I’ve been invited to a friend’s barbecue to take in the festivities. I don’t feel like celebrating, but I’ll go. Part of me wants to throw my hands in the air, bemoan the futility of our daily rituals, and retreat into grief. The other part knows I have to live.

  As I drive from my flat to the party, it’s a stifling hot New Year’s Eve night, just as it was this time last year. The drive takes me past my local McDonald’s, where, 364 days ago, as I battled with a hangover that felt as if it might kill me, I nearly lost my mind. My heart races a little as I pass it, and I remember how awful I felt that day. And the next day. What a monumental waste of time that now seems, to spend so much of life hung-over, sleeping away my weekends and cowering under the covers, scared of life. I used to tell myself that the places I was going to visit, the friends I cancelled on, or the family I was meaning to call could wait until tomorrow. How cavalier of me to presume those opportunities would always be there.