Robert has as a perfect plan: a compromise between sobriety and drunkenness. This will allow his liver to heal and him to continue to drink. He has it all worked out to a 'T', and is holding fast to his perfect arrangement; he will buy a bottle of Gin Joycelyn and I will hold. We will measure out two Martinis worth of booze a day and he will stick to this arraignment, drinking nothing more. He promises: pinky swear!
Ignoring the fact he tried this six months ago, and ended up in the hospital after who knows how many falls.
Ignoring the delivering liquor store that has his credit card on file.
Ignoring what will happen when Joycelyn and I can't make it for a day.
Ignoring the dozen bars within walking distance of his apartment, no matter how feeble one is.
Ignoring the countless counselors, friends, family members and loved ones who *know* this will not work.
Hope springs eternal;
Unfortunately so does disappointment.
Unfortunately so does disappointment.
And in this instance, disappointment means no more dad. There is no way of knowing which drink will kill Robert. The only thing we know is there is a drink that will kill him. It may be his next Martini. He may have five, or fifty, or five hundred. The number is unclear, but the result is the same.
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