I’m glad you’re part of my life, but I worry about you almost non-stop. You get diagnosed with diabetes; patches of your skin turn black. One morning not so very long ago, I stand at a bus stop and listen to some music. My phone picks a shanty-song about a bunch of Vikings attending the funeral of a friend, a sad song that you like a lot. Without warning, a brutal thought cracks into my head: if you keep going the way you are, I will have to play this song for your funeral in a few years.
Then, one lazy Saturday morning just before I was due to go away for a few weeks, the phone rings – it’s you. You’re very composed and tell me: “I’m at the hospital. Please don’t worry.” I sit bold upright, thinking: “What has the alcohol done to you now?” My heart beats like a drum, but I manage to understand what you tell me. You have decided to stop drinking. A few days ago, you admitted yourself to a detox programme.
I’m dumbstruck. A few minutes later, my boyfriend finds me crying uncontrollably with relief and the bottled-up pain of being the daughter of an alcoholic for many years. Two days later, I visit you in the clinic. I need to see you before I leave for my trip and tell you that I will support you.
Then, one lazy Saturday morning just before I was due to go away for a few weeks, the phone rings – it’s you. You’re very composed and tell me: “I’m at the hospital. Please don’t worry.” I sit bold upright, thinking: “What has the alcohol done to you now?” My heart beats like a drum, but I manage to understand what you tell me. You have decided to stop drinking. A few days ago, you admitted yourself to a detox programme.
I’m dumbstruck. A few minutes later, my boyfriend finds me crying uncontrollably with relief and the bottled-up pain of being the daughter of an alcoholic for many years. Two days later, I visit you in the clinic. I need to see you before I leave for my trip and tell you that I will support you.