Hepatitis C—put a real cramp on my drinking life

Excerpts from The Journals Of A 21 Century Schizoid Man;

One of my favorite pass times has been drinking. I loved hanging out in bars on the weekends. I loved knocking back a six pack or more of good heavy beer, when I was home for a Saturday Night. I loved some of the best liquors, wines and beers ever known. I drank absinthe, cognac, Mezcal, the best Champaign, mead, and good red wine, such as a cabaret.

Then there was the countless hours spent flirting with women at the various bars in town. In this town it usually amounted to me going home drunk, by myself. But I had fun anyway.

I loved sitting on my couch, watching my favorite movie until I just passed out late at night.

So when I found myself in my doctor’s office, on the sterile chair in that small gray waiting room, I was not happy when Dr Skrog, the thin elderly man I had known for many years, told me I had Hepatitis C. He explained to me that the disease could sometimes be cured, but not always. He set me up with a specialist for a treatment program that would last 48 weeks. That meant no drinking for the next 48 weeks and ideally, I would never drink again.

I had lived a very wild past of drugging and drinking, so I wasn’t all that surprised that I had caught Hepatitis. Still, no one really wants to get it.

Dr. Skrog told me if I could survive the 48 week treatment, then maybe I could get back to normal. In fact I figured if I could stick it out and get cured maybe I could even drink a little again. I was referred to a specialist, Dr. Hood.

One night I had a really strange dream. I was in a bar, a typical neighborhood bar with a wooden tables and a simple wooden wall structure. The place was full and the drinks were flowing. Then suddenly some of the patrons looked like card board cutouts. Some were very crooked. One man had jagged looking crooked legs and another look as if he were almost bent in half. Suddenly a real patron slid on the floor and passed out. Pee started coming from his pants leg and pouring across the room. After a while the room was filled with about a half foot of water. It was strange and terrifying.

“I’ve been telling you for years you drink too much,” my dog Chopper said.

“That’s just a dream,” I answered him.

“But you know what it means,” he said.

“Dreams can mean anything. I’ll decide what it means.”

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