Whining for Wine

What do you drink at night if you can’t drink wine? I find myself pondering that terrifying question. A recent intestinal infection requires a dose of medication that prohibits any alcohol—for ten days!

Any booze and my stomach will feel it’s being gutted like a fish.

I stare longingly at my wine refrigerator. I stare longingly at my liquor cabinet. The bottles stare back at me. If they had a tongue, they’d be sticking it out at me right now.

Son of a biscuit!

For a moment I consider ignoring the doctor’s advice. Then my gut fires a warning rumble.

Like anyone who enjoys their hooch, I rationalize that I don’t drink all that much. My bedtime routine consists of a glass (or two) of wine while I read myself to sleep.

It is (almost) my only vice. And now the doctor is yanking that away from me.

My inner child cries It’s not fair!

Fair or not, I need to recover from my intestinal rebellion. I swallow the first pill. The nurse warned me the medication can cause tummy upset, but my cast iron stomach accepts the intruder with nary a murmur.

“Think of all the fun you’ll have catching up when you can drink again,” my brother teases.

I take a warm bath. I make a pot of chamomile tea, which my son assures me will help me sleep– I have strong doubts. I settle into bed.

I’m reading Lady Clementine, a fictional account of Clementine Churchill, Winston Churchill’s wife. Soon I am absorbed in the politics of 20th Century England.

I reach over to take a sip of tea. I almost spit it out.

I mutter a few bad words about the doctor and the medication then return to my book.

I worry that changing my routine will keep me awake. I worry and I read.

I fall asleep with my Kindle on my chest.

Only nine more days to go.