poured out before bed
Me: I did a couple of therapeutic para’s* today. They were a cinch.
Mr Whine: Oh yeah? Were they frequent fliers?
Me: Yep. Didn’t even flinch. The one comes in twice a week.
Mr. Whine: I don’t suppose he’s a transplant candidate?
Me: (extending my thumb and pinky while curling the other fingers, placing the thumb to my lips and rotating my wrist vigorously)
Mr. Whine: Wait….it’s not Mr. Jonathon Jones is it?
Me: Actually, that was his name.
Mr. Whine: Oh God. I’ve got him in clinic. He always comes in drunk.
Me: Yeah, he was pretty loopy today, too. I probably didn’t even need the lido.**
Mr. Whine: Well….at least he’s feeling no pain.
Me: He’ll be feeling nothing in short order if he doesn’t get help.
Mr. Whine: Yeah, but what is there for him to feel? He’s estranged from his family, he lives alone, even his dog hates him – I treated him for a nasty cellulitis when the thing bit him last year. And even if he does sober up he’s damn sick and only going to feel sicker even if he, by some magic, gets a new liver in time. The only reason he makes his para appointments is so he can fit in his jeans to hit his favorite dive and the only reason he comes to me is for pain med refills. His life is an addiction chase; he has no other motivation.
Me: Oh, honey, that’s sad.
Mr. Whine: Oh honey, that’s the truth. Believe me, I’ve tried everything over the past 2 years to get him clean. But he doesn’t want to. I can’t want to for him.
Me: I know. (Sigh)
Mr. Whine: (Sigh) (Plays wistfully with spaghetti on plate) Let’s not talk about our days… Let’s just go get ice cream.
Me: OK! But wait…aren’t we just drowning our sorrows in a different way?
Mr. Whine: (Smiling deviously) Yes. But, you know, I’ve admitted the problem, and that’s the first step***…
*** Ice Cream abstinence has now been instituted in the Whine household. Going on 13 hours sober…