ralph robert moore
the official website for the writings of
Copyright © 2016 by Ralph Robert Moore.
Print in HTML format.
Return to lately 2016.
and i will be so happy
june 1, 2016
Yesterday, no coffee. No alcohol. No aspirin to thin my blood.
No breakfast, and in fact no lunch or dinner. No solid food at all. Just broth.
At 2:00 I took two tiny pills.
At 5:00, no more broth. Or water. Or anything.
At 7:00 I started drinking four liters of spiked water. Fuck, that's hard to do. While I forced it down, we watched our Blu-rays of the early seasons of Modern Family, because they're funny and heartwarming, and that's really what you want while you drink that much water. Last time I did this, four years ago, it was early seasons of The Office, US version.
Once I finished the spiked water, no more liquids at all. Even water.
This morning I woke up, smoked a cigarette. Again, no liquids at all, even water. Took a shower. At seven, we got in our car, got up on the highway.
Hopefully, we'll be back about nine-thirty. Mary driving this time, because I won't be able to, since I'll have been under intravenous anesthesia.
I will not have a cigarette on the way back, because last time I did that, I collapsed on the concrete floor of our garage, face-first. Twice. It still amazes me I didn't break my nose either face-landing, or knock out some teeth.
And at that point, back in the safety of our familiar home, while I'm in bed, Mary will make a sandwich for me. Underwood's devilled ham spread on densely-crumbed white bread, slathered with Grey Poupon mustard, green olives on the side. And I will be so happy.
Later today I'll pull out of our refrigerator a small chilled jar of taramasalata, eat it spooned across Triscuits flavored with olive oil and cracked black pepper while we watch recorded TV.
I will not drink any alcohol at all today, because it's not safe to, after my IV anesthesia, when I slipped under into absolute blackness, and came to in a different room.
I'll wake up in the middle of the night at some point, frantically trying to remember in the bedroom darkness if the procedure is still ahead of me, or finished, and be so relieved to know it's in the past.
Tomorrow, I'll eat eggs. Have my coffee with half and half.
In the late afternoon, drop a maraschino cherry into a glass. Add ice. Add whiskey. A splash of vermouth, shake of bitters.
It is past.