Another Whiskey Death

My friend Scott was found dead this morning.

I hadn't seen him in the last couple of years - he had pretty much retreated into an alcoholic haze and it wasn't healthy for me to be around him so I had made the painful choice to detach. At the time it felt selfish to care more about my own preservation than to help a friend and it feels even more so now. The alcohol took him slowly but visibly - he had looked as if he were at death's door for months - he dressed mostly in rags, was wrenchingly thin, his skin had turned the color of wax, he was foul smelling and incoherent and had tremors. I was prepared for news of a car accident or an arrest, wouldn't have been surprised by a long hospitalization, but I never imagined this tv-esque ending of someone discovering his body. Rumor has it that he had finally stopped drinking several months ago but that it was too late, his ruined liver was whiskey rotted and corrupted. It was a matter of weeks, maybe months, the doctors said. It was a death sentence.

He reached out to no one during this time, didn't return calls or answer emails. When people asked about him, I shrugged and said I had no idea. They told me about seeing him on the street, looking crippled and homeless, usually drunk and inarticulate and filthy. They shied away from this broken stranger as if he might infect them, as if he were contagious. They said all the right things - how sad it was, and what a waste - and I nodded and agreed, remembering how truly hateful alcoholism was and how treacherous it was to try and separate the person from the disease. I hadn't been able to do it with my mother or my husband and I had certainly failed with Scott. The road to self destruction is made of shame and guilt, despair beyond measure and loneliness - it takes more and more alcohol or drugs to feel anything close to normal, until the body has taken all it can and gives in. We look for reasons and causes and explanations when there aren't any, and whether we protect or enable, whether we go or stay, makes no difference in the end. Tragically, though I know this, have even lived it twice over, it doesn't help or change anything today.

Every death serves a purpose, my daddy used to tell me, even if it's only to bring an end to suffering. My friend Scott struggled and suffered more than some, less than others, and all I can hope for is that he finds some peace somewhere else. I remember better times, before the drinking soared out of control - when we were close friends and spent time together often and easily - how he tended me when I was sick, took me to dinner and the movies, helped me through hard times and heartbreak. We both loved animals - he had never really gotten over the loss of his black lab, Beauty - and photography, music, books. The small brown dog adored him as he did her and he was the only friend I ever had who was able to win the trust and affection of both my schipperkes without being nipped.

Those are the memories I'll keep.