'I kept two water bottles filled with vodka in my hospital suitcase. Every night at 7 o’clock, I pulled one from my bag.'
The author and her daughter Emily during a stem cell transplant at Boston Children's Hospital in 2009.
Drinking allowed the thoughts to stop ― or at least slow down. It helped me sleep and be a better mother. My edges softened and the wild thoughts of Emily living and dying subsided. I liked myself better. For an hour or two, I forgave myself. Like any relationship, there were a few bumps. On the Fourth of July, in an act of rebellion, I didn’t measure out capfuls ― I swigged from the bottle. The “supposed tos” of the day took over my mind. Instead of watching the parade, going to the beach, making s’mores and waving sparklers, we were locked in hospital jail watching bad cartoons.
But at the end of 18 months, when Emily was better, life wasn’t easier. Doctor’s appointments and navigating our new normal kept my mind racing. I worried about her relapsing and the occasional rogue bruise on her body.On hard days, which most of them felt like, I asked myself,My life was hard, drinking was easy, and I didn’t have the bandwidth to muster the strength to stop. Plenty of people drank every night and their kids weren’t recovering from cancer.
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