When I fetched Parrish from the jailhouse on Friday afternoon, he was subdued, which I guess should be expected.
“If you want to spend a month and a half in jail, just keep drinking. You know Mr. Côté will make you blow into that thing every time you darken his door.”
X replied in a hushed tone, “I never want to see the inside of that place as long as I live.”
“Well, it’s settled. You will stay sober. You know that your liver can’t metabolize alcohol in a normal fashion because you have cirrhosis. It will stay in your body for days. You understand?”
He nodded and stared at his feet.
After we arrived home, we sat together for a while smoking and drinking juice. P didn’t want me to leave him, but I went to The Goose to see my friends and have a drink. I brought our supper home and we ate together. He was manic but not severely so.
I went to bed but he stayed up most of the night, listening to music and writing. When he got up yesterday morning to get something to eat and feed the dogs, I gave him his medicine, the first he had since Thursday morning. He went back to bed and slept until about 8:00 last night. Again, he had something to eat and returned to bed. It is 1:00 on Sunday afternoon and he is still asleep.
How many hours is that? 28 hours and counting. During the few moments he has been awake he has been calm, pleasant and oriented and hungry. I did not give him any medicine this morning, so he has missed two more doses. I can’t make myself give sedatives to a man who can’t stay awake.
And it continues, this treacherous journey of illness and pitfalls and hope for healing. Yes, I am still hopeful. I could not do this if I had no hope. Every now and then it dims, but it is still in me.