Sunray. He’s proved his diabetologist wrong. A huge victory, albeit probably pyrrhic. The diabetologist had warned Sunray in June:
Stop [note: not “cut down”] drinking if you want to see Christmas.
Needless to say Sunray was crying down the phone to me at this piece of medical advice. (Well, his three-month blood sugar reading did stand at 22 units, a rather high figure.)
Did this yellow card make him address his excess drinking?
No. On the contrary, his alcohol consumption has increased. (See previous articles.) And with it, the vicious circle of:
- Feeling down (because chemically, alcohol is a depressant)
- Ringing son number 2, pleading with him to come round
- “Please, son, I’m lonely. Please come and see me.”
- Texting son number 1, son number 2 and son number 2’s 15-year-old daughter at 05:13, 06:16 and 06:23, together with a voicemail, “R U UP YET”
- Drinking 75cl to 1 litre of supermarket whisky a day, usually starting at 15:00
- Leaving aggressive voicemails for son number 2, when Sunray feels he’s being ignored
- Actually Son number 2 isn’t ignoring him for the sake of spite; rather he has a major exam at university to revise for. Besides, who wants to hear a boozed-up ex-soldier telling you his “when I…” war stories for the 27th that year?
The sad thing is, all his family, bar perhaps one half-sister of Sunray, has pretty much given up on Sunray.
Not out of hatred, spite, malice or anger. But out of exasperation.
This might seem cruel and heartless, but those of you had done a first aid course will remember the following principle:
Don’t become a casualty yourself.
I’ve given up worrying. I’m beginning to wonder if Sunray is fed-up of living. Would death be almost a relief to him? If so, I pray that God will have mercy on Sunray’s troubled soul.
Have a merciful day, won’t you!