Blink

It went south so quickly. One day it was a little bit of brackish discharge from my cat's right eye, then two days later it was a scene from a horror show.

Less than 48 hours after the vet said I should shop around for a lower surgery fee, the animal ER performed an enucleation — surgical removal of the eye on which an ulcer had erupted.

It seemed that in the blink of an eye, my robust, healthy cat had become an invalid.

When Abraham’s remaining eye started to turn milky like the right one had, I stopped the steroid drops and called the vet. We switched to antibiotic drops 3 times a day, plus the oral antibiotics left over from the surgery.

Three times every day, I searched out his hiding place, lifted him gently, wrapped him in a towel and squirted meds down his throat and into his remaining eye. He whined and cried pitifully. I cried after each episode while placating him with treats. Remarkably, I hardly drank any alcohol during this period. I felt I needed to stay sharp -- I was all Abraham had.

Those were tough weeks.

Slowly though, the red ring around the milky white disc of his eye grew. Eventually it looked like a zit: a red mound with only a small white dot at the center. Then some of his iris became visible around the edges of the redness. Then the white seemed to disappear.

I sent a photo of his eye to the vet, who called and said it looked like it was healing. The frighteningly gruesome color changes were a sign that the eye might be saved, that Abraham might regain some of his vision.

It’s now been three and a half months since Abraham’s health problems began, maybe a bit longer. He’s been off all meds for almost three weeks. There’s been very little change in his eye, which is now just kind of opaque like a cataract, and his eating and defecating habits have stabilized.

He walks around the apartment, snuggles with me at night and seems to be able to see the movement of the birds out the sliding glass door.

In what now feels like the blink of an eye, my almost normal kitty is back.

With his recovery came a return to binge drinking, mostly on weekends, alone and at home, but drinking to blackout, nonetheless.

This year of pandemic and racial tension and election nonsense has changed our collective experience of time. While the passage of time has always been relative, its plasticity now seems almost comical.

Blink and three months of lockdown go by. Blink again and summer is over. One more blink and it’s the holidays. Barely a blink and the year is over, a new one rising before us.

Before I blink and turn 52, make it through winter, wish away another rainy spring, watch possibilities slip away, I’m slowing the whole thing down.

For the first time, I’m undertaking a “dry January.” I drank only water and tea on New Year’s Eve, enjoying a solitary Netflix binge in my apartment with Abraham, hearing the fireworks at midnight and awaking at 7:30 am without any trace of a hangover.

I can’t remember the last January 1 that didn’t involve popping analgesics and sipping bubbly water to keep from vomiting.

I don’t want to waste any more time recovering from self-inflicted illness. It’s difficult enough adjusting to a body that has aged past quick recoveries and easy nimbleness. Why make it even harder by pouring poison down my throat at every opportunity?

As Abraham gets stronger, I, too, am quietly gaining strength. New skills, new hobbies, new abilities I never imagined for myself are working their way into my repertoire.

I beat out four much younger fencers to claim second place in a sabre round robin at a recent fencing class. I managed to successfully steer a horse around a barn arena and sit a trot for almost an entire circumference on New Year’s Day. I can follow in Foxtrot, cha-cha, waltz, rumba and West Coast swing dances, including turns and open breaks.  

All these fabulous new pathways in my brain need some time to take root. This first month of the year seems like the perfect opportunity to tuck into some serious self-reflection, self-care, self-approbation. As I replace old habits with newer, healthier ideas and practices, I’m taking the time to be gentle with myself, to experience how hard this is.

In “This Naked Mind,” Annie Grace says, “Alcohol erases a bit of you every time you take a drink.”

I don’t want to let alcohol erase any more of me. I’m only just now getting to the good part of building a life I don’t want to run away from -- as Holly Whitaker puts it in “Quit Like a Woman: The Radical Choice to Not Drink in a Culture Obsessed with Alcohol.”

My dad was an alcoholic, as was his dad, as was my mom’s dad, as were many other relatives on both sides of my bloodline. Every family event, meal or get-together of any kind for as far back as I can remember centered around drinking. The habit of drowning out fear, pain, anxiety, sadness, disappointment and sometimes even joy in a river of booze runs deep.

I’m done riding those rapids. I can’t say I’ll never drink again, but my god, I’ve got to take a break.

For the last 17 years of his life, my dad was completely sober. I had the privilege of getting to know what he was like off the sauce, and it was quite wonderful. We were able to spend time alone together, have meaningful conversations about religion, family, even a little bit of politics. These things were not possible when he was drinking.

I sometimes wonder what our relationship could have been had he not been an addict.

What I really wonder is what my life could have been had I not been so eager to pour so much of it into a bottle and flush it away.

Well, this month I’m finding out.

I’ve started filling in the blanks, writing new storylines, developing my character in a more productive way. No more erasing.

This part’s all about getting it down on the page. I’m accepting this year as a new draft, starting from scratch.  

And I won’t blink.