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.Cosmopolitans, martinis, Long Island iced tea—you name it.I can let the food processor start another batch while I’m emptying the first dose.The processor will click shut, beep twice, and then start humming.The creation is finished before I can empty my previous glass; I’ll never be able to drink faster than the machine produces.Imagine if farmers had the same problem! Before they could harvest their crops, the field would be full of fresh, new vegetables.It’s like looking down into a crevice and knowing no matter how long you listen for the rock you dropped to hit bottom, it never will.You keep listening and listening but nothing ever clanks.You keep drinking and drinking but the glass is never empty.It’s an easy way to lose yourself and wake up with a blazing headache.Three of the last four mornings have seen me wake up with a fire alarm going off inside my skull.It would be nice if the food processor could create me a batch of aspirin.I guess if I was crafty enough with manipulating the pre-set commands I could get around the built-in settings that prevent medications from being generated.There are probably a hundred different suggestions online for exactly how to hack into theq bon thoughsp food processor’s settings so you can make whatever you want: aspirin, antibiotics, laxatives, heroin.I still laugh when I think about the public outcry that took place when it was announced the government issued food processors would be able to recreate alcoholic drinks but not medicine.Heaven forbid we should be able to relax and enjoy a beer while we watched the human population get older and fade away.The same people who found a reason to protest everything the government ever did, every ruling the Supreme Court ever made, every bill proposed by the Senate, found time to hold up signs protesting machines that could get you drunk but couldn’t address your medical needs.The only difference with their protests was that instead of a hundred people demonstrating, it was three or four senior citizens, none of whom looked like they really wanted to be holding a sign in the first place.The other former protestors had grown too old to continue yelling above everyone else, or they had moved south where they worried about their new life rather than the previous, unhappy one that hadn’t worked out so well for them.The few protestors devoted to displaying their discontent held up signs questioning the wisdom of providing booze to the depressed but leaving the sick to fend for themselves.They believed you were letting cancer patients suffer while handing loaded guns to the suicidal masses.The rebuttal was that everyone knew their limits for drink.If they chose to exceed those limits, then that was each individual’s personal choice.On the other hand, only doctors knew enough to prescribe the correct amount of each medication to be taken.If you caused additional health problems by overmedicating, the fault lay with the people who provided the drugs.The machine’s maker would never be sued—there were no more practicing lawyers by that time, the last courthouses were hearing gavels bang for the final time—but they didn’t want one final blot on their conscience.Giving the everyman a chance to drink away his worries was a lot different from allowing them to create any type of in-house pharmaceutical they wanted.If a man in Seattle or Chicago just happened to be extremely depressed because he didn’t have any kids and would never have the opportunity, well, here was a machine that could give him a beer to dull the hurt.If a woman in New York or St.Louis couldn’t make the journey south with everyone else, she could pour herself a glass of Cabernet and fade away while remembering the good times.There’s no telling how many people chose to stay in their houses while everybody else headed south just because they could relax in front of their fireplace with whatever sweet wine or dark beer they wanted.The nights I sit around drinking wine by myself, I imagine what I would do in various situations.If I had the option of either packing all of my things, not knowing where exactly I was going to be living, or staying here in my own home that I’m familiar with, I would choose the latter.Getting to sip on a glass of champagne while I stay here just makes the deal that much sweeter.Not to insinuate that’s why I’m here right now.Until a couple of days ago I could and yelled, “April Fool!”re.other n’t have cared less about drinking away the pain.I’m here for Andrew.Everything I’ve ever done has been for him.But still, while I’m affording myself the chance to daydream other lives, I can’t help but imagine getting a chance to see Paris from the top of the Eiffel Tower, imagine riding a camel out to the pyramids, imagine seeing the lights pulsate in downtown Tokyo.So many things I never got to see or do.So many parts of the world I’ll never get to know.If that’s not reason enough to go back to the kitchen and have another glass of wine, I don’t know what is.February 22These past two weeks haven’t been good to me.The day after going down to the Johnsons’ house I came down with another cold.Andrew has another fever as well.The infection on his forearm hasn’t gotten better.My hand feels like it’s going to fall off.I’ve spent my days sitting on the recliner with three blankets over me, going in and out of sleep like someone struggling to survive an operation.There’s no way to know how much of my fever is caused from the cold and how much is from the infection in my hand.I make sure, though, that Andrew has just as many blankets covering him as I have for myself.My clothes are soaked with sweat each time I wake up.My first thought upon opening my eyes is always about the Johnsons’ house.The fact that Andrew also has a cold makes me wonder if I got him sick, he got me sick, or if there is something in the house making us both sick.Probably the mold.The times I’m not under my blankets, I’m cleaning Andrew.I change his diapers and pants whenever I feel good enough to stand and walk around.I don’t feel guilty anymore when I wash him on the sofa instead of taking him to the bathroom.It’s no longer a matter of being lazy or of my back aching.In my weakened state, the more I walk the greater the threat I might stumble over my own feet and hurt myself.A couple of months ago, my ego would have kept me from admitting that.I focus on the pain in my hand to block out what happened down the street, but not even my searing, gimpy hand can shut off my mind.I will have those images stuck in my head for the rest of my life.February 23I lookedq never spsp e through another of our old photo albums today.The entire book was filled with images of Andrew and me during the first ten years we lived in Camelot.Every single picture was taken somewhere within our neighborhood.There were no pictures of us at the Grand Canyon or the Statue of Liberty.Not a single picture showed us at a baseball game or at a restaurant.Even then I rarely ventured further than a few miles from home.If Andrew was with me I wouldn’t travel further than the Johnsons’ house.Most of the photos were from inside our home or in our backyard.Some were taken at the Johnsons’ house when they hosted cookouts.Every couple of pages, equaling a year’s time in the chronology of our lives as represented in pictures, there were photographs of us from Halloween.Halloween was always my favorite holiday, and the pictures of us from that day always make me smile more than any other
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