I'm on a boat

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“You’re on a lifeboat. You only have so much space. Are you going to pull in the ones who are waving their hands at you, calling for help? Or the ones who are swimming away from you?”

Huh.

The communist PA and I look after each others’ patients sometimes. While I was away he saw Yellow Eyes. Who, while not wanting to die, is still drinking himself to death. His legs and belly have grown. We have to see him once or twice a week these days. The story is always the same.

“Yeah, I’m still drinking, but I’ve cut back, a LOT.”

“I don’t drink hard liquor anymore.”

“You know, no one quits unless they are ready. You have to want to,” he tells me.

And I want, so badly, for this to work out for him. But he’s drowning. Can’t really breathe. I don’t think there’s water in his lungs, but the twins-gestation-sized belly he’s grown doesn’t leave a lot of room for the air in the top half of the torso.

The communist asks me about him. I admit I don’t know what else I can do. In fact, I’m not really doing anything, just adding water pills and running out of time.

So he gives me this cryptic advice about boats.

I used to be a lifeguard. (Now the card is expired. I can’t use my CME money to renew it. Apparently.)  Anyway, in training we learned that people who are drowning will grab hold of a rescuer and push you under. Nothing you can do, it’s just their instinct to survive. And you shouldn’t fight it, just go down, away, then up. But in practice, you should try not to let it get to that point. So, always carry that floaty thing, and put it between the drowner and yourself.

168 pounds, Yellow used to weigh, when we first met. Last month he crept up to 180. Now he’s 210, 212, 214. Taking his meds only when it rains or something. Definitely not as directed.

I call a few days after our visit for an update. His daughter tells me he’s in the hospital. They took the water off and he’s decided to detox. That’s good.  Early the next morning I was there to deliver a baby, then stopped by his room after. His belly looked a little more post-partum than gestating. He was, as ever, full of smiles.

“I think I’m really going to do it this time, doc. No drink for 5 days, now. The priest came by.”

And I want to believe it, I really do. But I’m not going to paddle after him.