I am not a drinker of alcohol. I drink water regularly and enjoy my two carefully measured cups of coffee each day. But alcohol, including wine, is something I’m just not a fan of. And yet…
The week my Coley passed away, I could not sleep at all. Now the one alcohol I knew would help the insomnia was whiskey. I have not had trouble with whiskey in the past. Primarily because one shot is all it takes to put me down. Down as in, to sleep. So one of my dear friends brought me over some whiskey, in a plastic water bottle. I had a shot and sure enough went right to sleep. But awoke at 1:30a.m. with the same despair as before, only with a slight tinge of a headache.
A headache from whiskey? Not something I was accustomed to. But the whiskey was a lower end product (I am honestly unable to remember the brand right now) and I attributed the slight ache to the cheap brew. Yes, my body is particular to quality. My palate? No. For any and all brands taste the same to me–like junk! I really have no pleasure in the flavor of any type of alcohol, whiskey included.
So I gave the “water” bottle back to my friend to replenish her supply. And then off to Europe we went. And then off to Japan.
While in Japan my sister and brother in law came to stay with our daughter for a few days. And knowing my struggle with sleep, and the nightmares that were keeping me up (even the nightmares while awake) my brother-in-law bought a bottle of good whiskey for me to have on hand…Jameson.
That bottle is still unopened in my kitchen cabinet. I have decided that now is not a safe time to open it. Why? Why wouldn’t an opened bottle be safe in my house? Especially when I do not like the taste? Because life right now is hard. Facing each day from a mourners perspective is fragile. And because the sorrow of our loss is so great, so prevalent still, and because the call of the spirit-filled elixir is upon me, I’ve decided the bottle remains closed.
My filled-to-the-top and ready to serve, Jameson, will wait its turn. And when it’s opened, perhaps it will be amongst friends and family who will help partake in a small portion causing no harm to themselves or me. Right now it reminds me that healing is not yet mine. Healing from the loss, healing from cancer’s touch, healing from the hardship as result of Cole’s brain tumor. Not mine, not yet. And neither is the whiskey.
Now I can, on occasion, have a sip or two while at a friend’s house or family member (my other brother-in-law happens to love Jameson). That is a different scenario. But in my house, the bottle will remain closed. The road that its opening beckons me to is not a safe one. Is not a road I wish to, now at 43 years of age, traipse upon. I miss my son too much.
So what do I do, in the meantime? Well as soon as I post this note, I will go to my kitchen (my laboratory) and create something out of almond meal, lemons, strawberries, and some good cinnamon-sugared pecans.
Now cake I can handle!