alcohol

My father was an alcoholic.
He joined AA and stopped drinking when I was seven years old.
My older son was not an alcoholic but he stopped drinking three years ago. He was repelled by the excess consumption of his fellow college students, often having to look after them in a state of alcoholic poisoning. He would frequently need to call an ambulance for an unconscious undergraduate who will one day be a pillar of the medical or legal community.

I drank too much alcohol when I was at university - so much that I was fortunate to pass the first two years of my course.

I was fifteen years old when I had my first alcoholic drink. It wasn't available in our house because of my father. I was a drinks waiter at a progressive parish dinner, moving to a new house for each successive course. I assume it was intended to raise money for charity. My job was to serve the alcoholic drinks that were matched with each segment of the meal. The first house provided hors d'oeuvres with sweet or dry sherry, the second house entrees with white wine, then main meal with red wine, dessert with liqueur wine and finally cheese and port.
I had a delusion that I might be unaffected by liquor, or at least that I would only feel the pleasant effects of it. It was easy to try the drinks without anyone missing one or two of the dozens of glasses at each venue. The whole evening seemed strangely hilarious. I particularly liked the sweet sherry and the port - the first and last offerings of the night. Eventually I was dropped home where my mother was waiting for me. She asked me if I was all right, at which I collapsed to the floor with laughter. She tried to help me up but I kept hysterically falling back down. Luckily my father was on call at the hospital. My mother correctly guessed that I was inebriated and assisted me to my bed despite my merry protestations. She said it might be best not to tell my father what had happened. In our family we did not go out or have friends for dinner in order that my father wouldn't have to deal with alcohol, so it was a sensitive subject.
I was not particularly frightened of my father, though, who was a masculine but kind and loving man. In fact, not long before this, I had attacked my father in a blind adolescent rage. Despite the fact that I was muscular and athletic he had calmly, and to my genuine relief, flipped me flat on my back on the lounge room floor. Why would I launch an enraged assault on my loving father? I would like to know the answer myself but can no longer remember. It is true to say, however, that I did many more stupid things than that as an adolescent and somehow survived to make a contribution to society.
I would like to say that I vomited all night or had an unbearable hangover the next day, and that did indeed come to me many times later, but in this first experience with intemperance I was simply infused with a narcotic-like euphoria. I woke the next morning in a state of exhilaration, delighted with the previous night's outcome. I couldn't wait to try it again but there were few opportunities and I had a busy life of sport, music and education. Eventually,however, my time did come.

Having gained entry into a medical course by hard work and good marks I only had to pass each year to become a doctor. I was planning to be a general practitioner so there seemed no point in working hard. I could drink and party all I liked so long as I managed a bare pass. I wasn't the only university student with this short-sighted immature plan so I had plenty of company.
My more conservative friends thought I was amusing, turning up to lectures still inebriated and without sleep. I would carry textbooks with me but never read them. Yet I somehow passed my first year.
I started my second year with new resolve and actually did quite well in the first of three terms. In fact I calculated that I could pass with only about thirty percent marks for the rest of the year. Therefore I didn't turn up for lectures or do any study for the next two terms. I reached the stage where I would take my own two litre flagon of cheap wine to a party at least every second night, meeting notorious people and having liberated fun, doing illegal drunken things in the night. But as the last term progressed without me, I gradually developed the sinking feeling that I was never going to be a doctor.
One night, late in the term, after a lot of poorly coordinated dancing in a crowded room, I went outside to cool down, still swigging freely from my large flagon. It was quite cool but I wasn't noticing as I lay on my back on the grass in the garden, the loud music muffled inside the house. I lay as if crucified, with the flagon still in one hand, and briefly drifted off.
I awoke a short time later in the early dawn light looking up through the branches of a purple Magnolia, its leafless branches abundant with early spring flowers, as a gentle rain filtered down onto my bare torso. I let myself feel the cold and the wetness and the prickly grass beneath my back, and pondered the state of my life. I was alone. The music had stopped.The examinations were in two weeks. I knew I couldn't pass. I wondered if I could fail by little enough to be allowed to sit for supplementary exams. Suddenly I felt I had a challenge. I staggered up and walked to the road outside, leaving my empty flagon under the flowering tree. I stuck out my thumb and an old VW van pulled over to let me in, wet, shirtless and barefoot, my breath reeking of stale cheap wine. I was on my way.