In suggesting the cocktail brunch, my doctor was really ordering me not to consume alcohol after noon -- not when I have gastroesophageal reflux disorder. GERD. Acid reflux. My physician was telling me that life ain't the same and that my beer-lover's worst nightmare -- "What if one day I couldn't drink beer whenever I wanted?" -- had come true.
The just-say-no list is long. Avoid coffee, chocolate, milk and spicy foods, and skip alcohol after lunch (it relaxes the trap door at the bottom of the esophagus). Don't eat anything three hours before bedtime -- say goodbye to that lifelong nightcap of cereal and milk -- and get used to early-to-bed, hungry-to-rise sleep habits. No occasional cigar and, most important, no post-work beers, post-post-work beers, or weekends spent with hops and barley.
Basically, I'm to avoid all of the things I've eaten and drunk and taken for granted all these years. The consumer must now consume under severe restrictions.
Unbeknownst to me, the food-digesting acids in my stomach have been sneaking across enemy lines and up my throat each night, quietly torching my vocal cords. I'm now one of millions of similarly reflux-burned Americans. The late-night gastric-juice excursions, coupled with some on-stage vocal-cord abuse, have created an ulcer on the ol' voice box, too, and every time I speak above a whisper or sing a drinking song, the sensation is like someone poking the inside of my throat with a pencil.
For the first time in my happy, healthy life, I'm MIA on the eating, drinking and making-music scenes. I sleep on a giant foam wedge that elevates my head above my stomach and makes me feel as though I'm sleeping uphill from my bride. (I'm trying to convince her to let me raise the head of the bed six inches, in order to let gravity aid in my fight against stomach-liquor backwash.)
Last week, I found myself asking the clerk at Argonaut Liquors (a man who has rung up enough beer and bourbon on my Visa to put Merle Haggard and his crew on their butts for a whole tour), "Where are your non-alcoholic beers?" He replied, "They're not for you, are they?" I lied. And when I was finally face-to-face with the N/A beers, I ran. O'Doul's? Oh, no.
This week, a fellow musician invited me out for drinks and tall tales. I passed, fully aware of how silly I'd look sipping a Clausthaler in the Lion's Lair, hot tea at Falling Rock. Talking in my doctor-prescribed "conspiratorial" voice (to save strain on the vocal cords) also makes chat over barroom din a no-no.
Just when I'm itching to sing the blues, I get a call from my best friend back in Virginia. Mike has recently been deemed "clean" after a fifteen-month battle with throat cancer, diagnosed just after his visit to Denver last year. Now, there's a cat with eating and drinking woes. (For the record, he was one of the greats in both categories.) My once-hedonistic, frequent-bar-flying pal is downright sober today. And seventy pounds lighter, thanks to weeks of chemo and radiation -- and another five months of getting all of his nutrition though a feeding tube stuck in his belly. Twenty weeks of pouring canned breakfast foods into his stomach.
But that's not all he's wrestling with. Try getting through the day when radiation has permanently cooked your salivary glands and dry mouth is an all-day, everyday thing that impacts everything from kissing to eating. For Mike, meat is just now beginning to lose its clay-like taste and can only be consumed with a healthy slather of gravy. Mrs. Fearnow's Brunswick stew hits the throat like Drano. Alcohol burns like fire.
Millions of folks around the world, of course, have similar issues surrounding their daily bread. I understand that now. And if you're in that unfortunate crowd, my heart -- and heartburn -- goes out to you. As soon as I can indulge in a healthier, earlier-in-the-day version of eating like I used to (and that day is coming, since my vocal-cord visitor continues to shrink), I'll think of you at every meal. I promise never to take a bite of grilled meat for granted or ignore the pleasures in a hoppy glass of beer. I'll also get used to "beer thirty" coming way early -- or maybe not at all.
If you're still in the "I eat like I wanna" demographic, savor those bites and think about what they mean. Treasure them. And join me in a toast to the new gastrointestinal dawn on my horizon. It's eleven, after all. Time to crack open a beer and follow doctor's orders.
