The Link between Alcohol and Survival, and My Costanza Moment of Truth

I had my annual physical last week, and received the results of my blood tests on Monday. I misread one the numbers and thought I had cancer. I have been feeling great physically, and was really excited to see what a life free from alcohol with a reasonably consistent nutrition and exercise routine would mean for my blood work. When my eyes moved a decimal point over one digit, I was absolutely stunned.

I immediately started sweating out of every pour in my body, and I screamed, “Firetruck!” really loudly four or five times (minus the, “iretr”). I looked at that number over and over, and went straight were we all go for medical advice, to Google, to confirm what I thought the result meant to me. The interwebs agreed — I was in trouble.

My mind immediately went to these two specific places: First, I thought about my kids. There was so much more I had to tell them. I wasn’t ready for them to be without a father. I was extremely angry at the thought of leaving my parental job unfinished. Looking back, I find this thought interesting because the blood test results didn’t say I was dead, they said I probably had a treatable form of cancer* (see the epilogue for details). Yet, my first instinctual reaction was that I needed more time with my children.