Diary of an Alcoholic Housewife

by Brenda Wilhelmson

  The bright sun glinted off the water as my dad drove his Sea Ray forty miles north of Chicago to his favorite perch fishing spot. He dropped anchor and went below. He emerged with a Bloody Mary in his hand.

  “Mom said your PSA count is up,” I said.

  “Yeah,” he said, with a half laugh. “The radiologist looked at me and said, ‘There’s nothing more we can do.’”

  “What does that mean?”

  “Means I’m a dead duck.”

  “There’s gotta be something else. There are new drugs, new treatments. Don’t jump to any conclusions just yet. Wait until you talk to your oncologist. I’ll go to your next appointment with you. When is it?”

  “The thirtieth.”

  “You’re gonna be okay,” I said, feeling sick to my stomach.

  My dad nodded.

  We didn’t talk about cancer the rest of the day. We got down to fishing and caught thirty-eight fish. Charlie and Max and I got ready to leave, and my father hugged me extra tight and kissed my cheek. I hugged him tight and kissed him back.

  “I love you,” he said.

  “I love you, too.”

  I looked at my dad and there were tears in his eyes. “I want to see my grandkids grow up,” he said.

  “Yeah, me too.”

  [Monday, June 23]

  Audrey is back in town. She and I were supposed to go out and do something with our kids today, but instead, Audrey called and suggested coming over to my house for a barbecue.

  “Why don’t we go out for dinner at a kosher restaurant?” I suggested. “I’ll probably use treyf ingredients you and your boys can’t eat. Besides, you can’t eat anything cooked on my grill.”

  “Some friends gave Nehemiah and me a portable grill for our wedding,” Audrey said. “I’ll bring it over and pick up kosher meat.”

  “Are you going to bring all the food?” I asked. “Last time you wouldn’t eat my salad because the dressing had vinegar in it and the vinegar had to be kosher. Your kids couldn’t drink my juice because it contained grape juice and grape juice has to be kosher. And you wouldn’t eat my bread because it had honey in it and honey needs to be kosher.”

  “Well, you know all that stuff now,” Audrey said. “You know what to avoid. Make a salad and corn on the cob. Make sure you get dressing and margarine that has these kosher symbols (she listed several). Make sure the labels don’t say dairy. If the label says ‘de’ that’s okay, it just means the plant produces dairy products but there’s no dairy in it. And get the kids some popsicles and look for kosher symbols.”

  Audrey arrived at six thirty with her boys and an unassembled grill still in the box. I helped Audrey assemble her grill and got the kids drinks while keeping an eye on Van and boiling noodles I’d toss with margarine. Audrey had thrown packages of strip steak and chicken into my refrigerator before we started assembling her grill. When we’d put the grill together, she began slapping raw meat all over my countertops. There was enough chicken and steak to feed twenty people. As she unwrapped each steak, she left bloody cellophane wrappers wherever they stuck. I pulled blood-dripping pieces off my sugar bowl, coffee maker, and wall, and began wiping and disinfecting all infected surfaces. Next, Audrey began scraping feathers off the two kosher chickens she’d brought. I opened my refrigerator to get my salad ingredients. There was another package of meat wrapped in a plastic shopping bag on the top shelf. Blood was dripping out of it and spattering my food below. I began cleaning the food and the refrigerator. I looked at the clock. It was seven thirty.

  “You started the coals, didn’t you?” I asked Audrey.

  “Ah, no.”

  We went outside, threw coals into the grill, doused them with lighter fluid, and torched them. The kids were starving. Max began pulling snack food out. Audrey looked at the boxes and bags of all-natural vegetable puffs and crackers I bought at the health food store.

  “My boys can’t have these,” she said. “They’re not kosher.”

  “My boys can, and they’re ready to chew their arms off,” I snapped.

  Minutes later, I served the children salad and noodles. Charlie came home and put Van to bed. Eventually, Audrey put the chicken and steak on the grill, and at nine o’clock, she gave Max and her boys each a steak. I got juice out for the kids, kosher juice, and went to the cupboard. I reached over the plain plastic cups and grabbed cups decorated with pigs from Famous Dave’s barbecue. I poured juice into them and handed one to each of the children. Audrey looked at the cups, raised an eyebrow, but didn’t say a word.

  Nehemiah showed up at nine thirty after playing a round of golf by himself. He took over barbecuing the chicken, which still wasn’t done, and he, Charlie, Audrey, and I ate dinner at ten.

  “This is the latest I’ve eaten dinner in a long time,” I said.

  “We eat like this all the time,” Audrey said. “Sometimes we’re at friends’ houses until two in the morning.”

  “Really?” I said looking at my watch. It was eleven o’clock on a Monday night.

  When Audrey and her family left an hour later, I looked at Charlie and asked, “Do you think visiting into the wee hours is an orthodox thing?”

  “I think it’s an Audrey thing,” he answered and went to bed.

  [Tuesday, June 24]

  I went to the Tuesday night women’s meeting, and Tracy said, “We will never pass this way again.” That rocked me. This part of my life is passing, never to be repeated. It made me realize I need to appreciate what’s going on at the moment because it’ll disappear fast. Another friend just sent me an email quote that said, “What I do today is important because I’m exchanging a day of my life for it.”

  [Wednesday, June 25]

  The kids and I met Liv and her boys, Seth and Pete, at a bowling alley this afternoon. It was Van’s first time bowling. We put bumpers in the gutters—something we all benefited from—and as we began bowling a second game, Liv and I started talking about Seth’s upcoming vacation with my family in Wisconsin. My parents have a lake cabin in Minocqua, and Max invited Seth to spend a week there with us.

  “My dad brings guns,” I told Liv. “He keeps them locked in his car and we shoot them at a shooting range. My mom and Van stay at the cabin, but the rest of us shoot. We don’t have to go if you don’t want Seth to do it. It won’t be a big deal.”

  “Your dad will be with the kids the whole time?” Liv asked.

  “He won’t take his eyes off them for a minute,” I said. “Charlie and I will be there, too. We allow only one person to shoot at a time.”

  “Seth will love that,” Liv said.

  “I had lunch at Kelly’s the other day,” I said. I relayed Kelly’s cockamamie story about Ryan shooting Max with a BB gun.

  “I knew something was off,” Liv said. “I didn’t believe her. When she told me that story, I figured it was just Kelly twisting things like she always does. But she repeated it, like, three times insisting it was true. She brought it up because Reed and I were upset that the boys were running around their beach house recklessly shooting BB guns. Their neighbors are close by, and the boys easily could have shot each other or a neighbor. Reed took Seth’s gun away, then Kelly told us that story about Ryan shooting Max. She said we might want to reconsider sending Seth with you to Wisconsin.”

  “She told you that screwed-up story?” I said.

  “Like I said, I didn’t believe it,” Liv said. “It was so weird, so far-fetched. Plus, I could tell it bugged her that Seth’s going on vacation with you. I’m really glad you brought it up.”

  “She’s whacked,” I said. Liv and I started laughing.

  Who knows how many other people Kelly told this messed-up story to? My sponsor told me not to confront Kelly about the crap she’s been pulling, but there is no way I’m letting this one slide. Kelly is bringing Ryan over for lunch in two days and I’m going to lay it on her then.

  [Friday, June 27]

  Kelly and Ryan came over for lunch. I must have been visibly irritated bec
ause when we sat down, Kelly asked me, “Is anything wrong?” The kids were eating with us on the deck in the backyard and I told her, “No.”

  After lunch, Kelly left and Ryan stayed to play with Max. A few hours later, Kelly called to tell me that Joel would be picking up Ryan at five.

  “I have to tell you something,” I said. “I’m bothered by your Ryan-shot-Max story. It’s a lie. It never happened. It makes me look like a shithead. And you shared it with Liv and God knows who else.”

  “No,” Kelly said, sounding rattled. “I was complaining about my son, that Ryan would do such a thing. It made Ryan look bad, not you.”

  “No,” I said. “Something like that happening under my watch makes me look bad, really bad.”

  “Ryan was the one who said it,” Kelly shot back. “Ryan said, ‘Remember when I was at Max’s and …’”

  “You’re the one who brought it up,” I said, cutting her off. “You brought it up to me at lunch and you brought it up to Liv.”

  “No, Ryan was the one who brought it up. I wouldn’t have brought it up if Ryan hadn’t brought it up. Liv and Reed were standing right there when he said it.”

  “I just saw Liv,” I said. “She said that when you told her that story she didn’t believe it because it was so absurd, but you kept insisting it was true. I resent that story and I needed to tell you. So I’ll expect Joel at five, right?”

  “Yeah,” Kelly said, “around then.”

  Kelly was banging on my door twenty minutes later.

  “You’re here early,” I said.

  “Oh, well,” Kelly began nervously, “Ryan has to go to a birthday party he doesn’t want to go to. Every time he gets together with this kid the kid ends up crying. It’s really weird. So it’s just better if I get Ryan instead of Joel. You know, I never would have said anything to Liv about the BB gun if Ryan hadn’t brought it up first. It was no big deal. The boys got into trouble and Ryan said, ‘Hey, remember when …’”

  “You already told me this.”

  “But that’s how it happened,” Kelly said, tears welling up in her eyes. “I guess if you think that makes you look bad, then I look bad for how the boys were playing at our beach house.”

  I didn’t say a word.

  “It sounds to me like some Kelly bashing was going on,” she continued, wiping her eyes. “I don’t know Liv very well. We party, but that’s about it. I don’t know about her, but I know Reed will talk behind anyone’s back. I don’t want them ruining our friendship.” Kelly hugged me. “We’ve been good friends for six years.” She stepped back, her hands on my shoulders. Tears rolled down her cheeks.

  Kelly left with Ryan. I plopped down on the wicker couch on my front porch and cried. I hate how things are between Kelly and me. I knew my friendships would go to shit if I quit drinking. Kelly and I used to have so much fun. We used to joke about going to the old folks’ home together and hooking each other up to chardonnay drips.

  [Monday, June 30]

  Sara came over this morning. When I told Max she was coming over, he asked, “Why is she coming over here all the time?”

  “She belongs to the No Alcohol Club,” I said. “She’s been in that club a long time and she’s very smart and has interesting things to say. She gives me good advice.”

  “You know you should never let your friends tell you what to do,” Max said.

  “Yeah, I know,” I said, laughing.

  After Sara left, I did several loads of laundry and packed because the kids and I are driving up to the cottage in Lakeside, Michigan, tomorrow. Charlie came home early to watch the kids so I could go to my dad’s urologist appointment. When I walked into the office, my parents were already sitting in the waiting room. I hugged and kissed them both, sat down, and began making small talk about going to Lakeside.

  “Why do you keep calling it Lakeside?” my father asked testily. “You’re not even on Lake Michigan. You’re going to be there for what, two weeks?”

  “I call it Lakeside because it’s in the town of Lakeside,” I said. “The cottage is a five-minute walk from the beach, and the beach is awesome. It’s got soft white sand that stretches as far as the eye can see. It’s like being in Florida but better because it’s fresh water.”

  “What’s there to do there?” my dad asked irritably.

  “Go to the beach.”

  “That’s it? There’s nothing else?”

  “Shop, go to restaurants, go to art galleries, hit antique malls.”

  “I bet the kids love that,” he said nastily.

  “You should come up sometime,” I said, trying not to snap back. “The cottage is really cute. Martha decorated it.”

  “I should drive there in my car, through all that crappy city traffic?”

  “You could take your boat,” I suggested. You could dock in New Buffalo. I could pick you up. Might be a fun trip for you and Mom.”

  “And burn up all that gas? That would cost me an arm and a leg.”

  A nurse appeared and called us into an examining room. Minutes later, Dr. Wheeler walked in and got straight to the point. He said my dad’s prostate surgery and radiation hadn’t worked and that his cancer was spreading.

  My mother had visited the Johns Hopkins Web site and printed out an estimate of how long a guy with terminal prostate cancer has to live. I had read the article at my parents’ house a few days earlier. The best-case scenario was for a guy who had a Gleason score of less than eight (my father’s was seven), didn’t have a PSA score for two years post-surgery (my dad had a PSA score right away), and when a PSA score developed, it wouldn’t double within the first ten months (my dad’s had already doubled). The report said cancer might not appear on a CT or bone scan for seven years in a guy with the best-case scenario, and once it appeared, he could live for another seven years. This fourteen-year best-case scenario somehow convinced my mother that my dad might have another twenty years.

  My mom sat in a little plastic chair in the examining room clutching the Johns Hopkins report. My dad sat with one haunch on the examining table. I stood against the wall holding a report I’d printed out from the National Cancer Institute’s Web site.

  “You have three choices,” Dr. Wheeler began. “To do nothing, in which case you could be fine for several years.”

  “What do you mean by several?” my dad asked.

  “Three, four years,” Wheeler said. “But I don’t know. I can’t say. Could be longer, could be shorter. We don’t know. Medicine is an art, not a science. We don’t know these things for sure.”

  My dad nodded grimly.

  “Two,” Wheeler continued, “you could do hormone therapy. It’s not a cure, but it could stop it for a while. How long it stops it is anyone’s guess. Some people respond to hormone therapy well, some don’t respond at all. Basically, the therapy blocks the hormone that the cancer cells feed on. But eventually the cancer gets smart and starts spreading. There are also side effects.”

  My father went ramrod stiff.

  “Three, you could get into a study and try experimental treatments,” Wheeler said. “But these are very toxic, a lot of side effects, and you could get into a placebo group.”

  “I pulled this off the National Cancer Institute Web site,” I said, waving my papers. “Here are some experimental drugs that look promising.”

  I handed the report to Wheeler. He skimmed it and nodded.

  “You’ll have to shop around for an oncologist who’ll go off-label if you want to try this stuff and not be in a study,” he said.

  “What about diet?” my dad asked. “Can I do anything to lengthen my life?”

  Wheeler told us about Dr. Locke, a holistic MD. “My father-in-law tried that approach,” he said. “But he started in very late stages, and on his deathbed he complained that it had taken away his pleasure for eating and he regretted it. But I know people whose lives were extended by changing their diet.”

  “Who are the top oncologists?” I asked. “Who would you send your dad to?
”

  Wheeler gave us three names. “You’re going to have to weigh the amount of time treatments may give you with your quality of life—decide if the side effects are worth it,” he said.

  “So basically what you’re saying is I’m fucked,” my dad said.

  “Oh, don’t say that,” my mother said. “It says right here,” and she rattled her papers, “that you could live for twenty more years. This is from Johns Hopkins.”

  “I don’t know what you’ve got there,” Wheeler said, and turned to my dad, “but you could have a number of good years left, we just don’t know how many. Again, this isn’t a science, it’s not exact.”

  Wheeler looked at me. “I know you want your dad to go on some new drugs,” he said and turned back to my father, “but I’d go fishing first. Get on the boat, do some thinking, then see the oncologists right away and get started on something. And take your daughter with you.”

  The four of us left the room single file.

  “I have to go to the bathroom,” my father said. “Let’s go down the elevator. I don’t want to go in here.”

  “We’re on the first floor,” my mother laughed.

  “Oh.”

  After my dad went to the bathroom, we walked outside and I sat on a bench in front of the medical center and copied the doctor referrals onto a slip of paper and handed the slip to my mother. My dad stood next to the bench staring off into space.

  “Okay, here’s what we’ll do,” I said. “We’ll make appointments with these oncologists, interview them, and pick one to fight for us. This is fucking war. We’re not giving up.”

  “Do you have to swear?” my mother complained. “You don’t need to swear.”

  I ignored her. “You know what I’m saying dad?” I asked. “We’re fucking going to war. We’re going to get you as many fucking years as possible.”

  “I’m fucked,” my dad said. “I’m a dead man.”

  “I don’t believe that,” my mother said with a smile and rattled her Johns Hopkins report. “You could have twenty more years.”