Why we need to talk about the ticking timebomb for hard-drinking middle-aged professionals
A former business high-flier, Clare Pooley looked like she had it all when she became a stay-at-home mum to Evie, 11, Kit, eight, and Maddie, six. But her fondness for alcohol began to catch up with her. Yesterday, in part two of our serialisation of her book, The Sober Diaries, Clare described being diagnosed with breast cancer. Here, she explains what happened next...
DAY 265 OF NOT DRINKING
WE’RE meeting the oncologist for the first time. He takes a piece of paper, draws a line down the middle and writes on one side ‘positives’ and on the other ‘negatives’. He starts with the positives, listing things like size of tumour (relatively small), aggressiveness (mine’s a lazy bugger, apparently), etcetera. It’s a fairly long list.
He then moves on to negatives. He pauses, dramatically, like an X Factor host about to announce who’s in the final, then says: ‘Nothing.’ He says: ‘If you were my wife, I wouldn’t give you chemotherapy. It would improve your prognosis by less than 1 per cent’.
On that basis, it seems crazy to poison my body (yet again!) for three months.
I do need a course of radiotherapy and ten years of hormone therapy, but that’s all (relatively) straightforward.
The Prof then asks me how much I drink. I’m thrilled. ‘Nothing,’ I reply. He looks shocked. ‘Very wise,’ he says, ‘liver disease is the next ticking time bomb among middle-aged professionals. We see it all the time.’
I bask in the self-satisfaction of the smug reformed character.
DAY 280
FOURTEEN years ago today I married John. Miraculously, he still seems to love me. I count myself lucky, as a recent study showed more marriages are breaking down because of the wife’s excessive drinking. It’s thought to contribute to as many as one in seven divorces.
Looking back, I see now alcohol was the root of most arguments. Some were spectacular, but most were tetchy debates when hungover about who was going to feed the baby at 5am. Then, after a few glasses of wine in the evening, drunken fights (inevitably started by me) about who wasn’t pulling their weight around the house.
Somehow John and I are still together. I cannot tell you how grateful I am that I quit drinking before I drove him away.
This morning he bought me wedding anniversary scrambled eggs on toast in bed. I started sobbing. He looked alarmed, assuming he’d done something terrible. But I was crying because I’m so grateful. Not just for the egg. For everything.
DAY 290
CHRISTMAS is nearly here. I have never done a sober Christmas. Even when pregnant I had (with my obstetrician’s blessing) a glass of wine on Christmas Day. Knowing it may be tough, I’m limbering up in preparation.
Step one is being honest, which means revisiting the Ghost of Christmas Past. I remember the white wine while wrapping presents on Christmas Eve, the glass of Champagne while getting Christmas lunch ready, the glass of full-bodied red with the turkey.
But the trick is to force yourself to remember the others. Because I wouldn’t drink one glass while wrapping the presents, I’d drink a bottle. I’d often put the wrong presents in the stockings, leading to bemusement the following morning as Maddie would find football socks, and Kit a Barbie.
‘Ha! Ha!’ John would chortle, ‘Santa was at the whiskey again last night!’ I’d wake up at 3am and toss and turn, sweating and hating myself, until around 5.30am when the kids would wake up.
Instead of joining in the joy, I’d hide my aching head under a pillow, panicking about preparing Christmas lunch for ten, on three hours’ sleep and a hangover.
By 11am we’d open the first bottle of Champagne (the only day of the year when drinking before midday is obligatory). By 1pm, I’d have drunk most of a bottle and lunch would be going seriously wrong.
Sitting down for lunch was a huge relief requiring... a toast! After all — IT’S CHRISTMAS!
Final tally by the end of the day: two bottles? Maybe three? An afternoon and evening spent dozing on and off, trying to ignore the children. A toxic night tossing and turning, and St Stephen’s Day feeling like death. So, having made myself relive the reality of Christmas Past, I have to find a way of appreciating Christmas Present and Christmases Future. Without booze.
DAY 297
YESTERDAY was my final session of radiotherapy. All I wanted to do was to get utterly trashed. Instead, I went shopping. And today? I woke up guilt-free — the only hangover from yesterday being some new clothes. And to add to my contentment, it’s Christmas Eve. I can’t wait for tomorrow.
DAY 298: CHRISTMAS DAY
I WAKE at 5am and go downstairs, listening in peace for the first noises that the children have awoken.
At around 7am, Evie, Kit and Maddie come down with their stockings. For once, Santa managed to get the presents in the right stockings — a first. We didn’t invite anyone to join us this year, as we weren’t sure how sick I would be. It’s just the five of us, so it’s super-relaxed.
For lunch, I have a glass of alcohol-free wine, which isn’t bad. And you know what? Without the wine, it’s so easy. No arguments, no stress, no self-hatred.
Roll on next Christmas! Like everything, after you’ve done it once, it’s never so scary again.
DAY 338
TODAY, Kit asks me: ‘Mummy, how long has it been since you had any wine?’
‘Nearly a year, sweetheart,’ I reply. ‘Why? Do you prefer it when I don’t drink wine? Am I different?’ ‘Yes,’ he says, ‘you’re more . . .’ We all wait in anticipation while he searches for an appropriate adjective. Patient? Kind?
‘ . . .Mummyish,’ he concludes, with a flourish.
There you have it. Quit drinking. You’ll be more . . .Mummyish.
DAY 342
I’M AT the clinic to meet Mr Big, the surgeon-with-terrible-bedside-manner. He cops a feel, which he seems happy about (in a medical sense, you understand), checks my latest scan and dismisses me with a firm handshake. And that’s that. I don’t need another appointment for six months. I skip with joy.
DAY 365
THREE hundred and sixty-five days. What a difference a year makes. I think back to Day Zero. The day I clutched a mug of wine at 11am. Back then I’d thought all mums drank copiously. After all, the world is littered with jokes about Mummy’s little helper.
Modern mothers turn to booze as a coping mechanism. But you get to the stage where you’re unable to cope with your emotions at all. I see now what alcohol does to us physically, making us gain weight, interfering with sleep. It causes our bodies to self-destruct by growing cancers.
You would think, given all this, stopping would be easy. Far from it. We worry life without booze will be boring. We worry people will judge us. Because alcohol is the drug no one wants to see as a drug.
So 365 days ago, I was terrified. But I had to do something because I’d become a stay-athome mum who did little other than drink.
I wasn’t even a good mum. I spent most of my time trying to avoid my children in favour of a glass of vino. All those toxins were silently wreaking havoc. I was secretly harbouring a malignant tumour in my breast.
I had no idea life without booze would be more thrilling, more exciting, yet also more peaceful. I like myself again. I’m a better wife, mother and friend.
Facing my own mortality has made me realise life is too precious to view through a halfdrunk haze. I’ve been given a second chance and I’m not going to waste it.
ADAPTED by Maureen Brookbanks from The Sober Diaries by Clare Pooley (Coronet).