The Hamster-Wheel

Be honest. When you think of an alcoholic or drunk, what do you think of? A down-and-out tramp lying in the gutter? A menacing teenage hoodie skulking behind a wall with his umpteenth can of lager? Twenty-somethings getting plastered on a Saturday night and stumbling to the ground outside a nightclub? We all have our own idea and prejudices.

What do you think of when you see someone in front of you at the supermarket check-out with three bottles of wine on the conveyor belt? If it's tucked among fresh vegetables or salad and a lump of steak, you probably think they are going to have a nice romantic meal in, or a pleasant evening with friends. What if they had three bottles of whisky or vodka instead? Would that change your opinion? I often wonder what people think of Greg and indirectly of me. I worry anyway about what people generally think and how they judge, not to mention the whole alcohol issue. Welcome to my world.

Greg is clinically dependent on alcohol (in other words, if he does not get that regular fix of alcohol, he will get the shakes and hallucinations at best, or go into a coma or have a seizure at worst). Any attempts to come off alcohol would have to be done slowly and under medical supervision such as in hospital or at a detox centre. This is something Greg has gone through several times in the past five years but always inevitably lapsed back to drinking again. Greg WANTS to stop drinking, but the reality is that the drinking does not want to stop him. When he is in the grip of his addiction, it costs too much effort to even think about stopping, too much effort to reduce even by one glass. The addiction is like a continual loop. Drink-sleep-drink-sleep-drink-sleep. With every waking, the fear of withdrawal is the only motivation that drives him to keep on drinking. He is like the proverbial hamster on the wheel. He finds it hard to jump off. He needs that fix.

I have explained before that I have become the procurer of Greg's poison. I enable his drinking. That doesn't sit easy with some people. Or with me for that matter. What? I moan about him drinking yet I buy it for him? What? Hide it around the house when I go away? Organisations like Al-Anon would say that it is best left for him to make his own mistakes. But real life does not always fit into perfect rules and patterns. Greg's health was already bad when his drinking started to spiral out of control six years ago. With heart trouble, poor blood and nerve supply in his legs and diabetes to name but a few complaints, he is now no longer able to walk more than a few yards unaided. Stairs (of which we have a lot in our house) defeat him. Up until fairly recently, he did used to drink/drive but recently his conscience finally got through to him. That and the recent discovery of a consultant at one of his hospital appointments that he was inebriated and driving a car at 10.30 in the morning. His car was temporarily impounded in the hospital car park: he has not driven since. Without me to drive him anywhere he is housebound. Remember, he cannot walk even to the front gate let alone to the nearest shop half a mile away as an alternative. So what am supposed to do ? Do I refuse to buy it for him, watch him go into a coma or hold his hand while he hallucinates? He is terrified of the thought of it and so am I. Supervised detoxes have already been attempted several times and failed. Medics and professionals throw up their hands and throw in the towel. They don't want to know any more. Who can blame them? Alcoholism is a drain on limited NHS resources. We are on our own with this problem and sometimes you have to take the least line of resistence to cope with it.

And so I find myself as much affected by the alcohol as Greg. Each day I too am on that hamster wheel. I have to ensure there are adequate supplies to fuel his addiction. I am ashamed of what I do. It does not sit easy with me. I am enabling him to drink. But the fact of the matter is that he cannot get it himself and he cannot forego it without dire consequences. Because Greg drinks a bottle of whisky a day, I usually buy two or three bottles at a time, several times a week. If I go away to my mother for a week or two, I buy 7 or 14 bottles at a time. Consequently, you can imagine, I stand out a mile from other shoppers and particularly if I were to keep on using the same shop week in, week out. So, each time I go out to get supplies, I consciously try to vary the supermarket or shop I get it from, so that I do not frequent the same place and become conspicuous. Even so, I can't bear the looks from people in the queue in front of me and behind me. I can feel their stares boring through my head. "look at all that whisky she's buying. I bet she's a right bored housewife." I feel myself like the traveller nonchalently walking through Customs with nothing to declare but feeling guilty as sin anyway. I feel the compulsion to let the check-out girl somehow know that I am sober, in control of my money, not slurring my words and can push a trolley in a straight line! The fact is I hate the whisky runs and want to curl up and die. Sometimes I try to put a brave face on it. How do they know that I am not making a wedding cake and am using the whisky to soak the dried fruit? How do they know I am not living abroad in some far-flung outpost and am taking a year's supply out with me? How do they know I am not running a small hotel and the whisky is for the guests? I try to be blase about it and pretend that buying three bottles of whisky in one go is a perfectly normal thing to do. Only I know that I shall be doing the same thing again two or three days later.

This morning. Greg asked me to bring some whisky back with me, when I went out. At the supermarket, I gingerly put three bottles on the conveyor belt. To be honest I was not in one of my confident moods today. I was flicking glances as usual behind me to make sure there were no neighbours or people I know in the vicinity. As the check-out woman started to run the items through the laser-reader, she picked up the second of the three bottles and said jokingly "Oh my goodness, things aren't THAT bad are they?" I froze like a rabbit caught in the headlights. All I could think of as a lame reply was "oh yes they are!" She thought I was joking. She was not to know I was not! Would she have commented if I had had three tins of beans or three packets of orange juice? I scrabbled together my shopping, paid the bill and rushed out of the supermarket, choking back the tears. I really do not want to do this any more. I really don't. This hamster has had more than enough.