Bulleit Proof

12 “It Was the Drugs, Tom”

LOOKING BACK, TRYING to grasp the sheer expanse of years I’ve lived—three-quarters of a century—blazing at me in mind-bending velocity of time, I consider a life played out in moments, all somehow neatly described in a series of three-word sentences, each one a screaming headline—

I’m a soldier.

I’m a lawyer.

I love you.

I’m making bourbon.

Seagram buys Bulleit.

Diageo buys Seagram.

I’m your mother.

… and …

I have cancer.

* * *

March 14, 2005.

I reach another birthday, no milestone, just a number, 62. I don’t remember a celebration. I do remember complaining that I’ve become old. I insist on cake, not that I need an excuse for dessert, and request a trip to my favorite fast-food place—well, they’re all my favorite—and order a birthday happy meal: burger, shake, double fries, pass the salt.

“You eat like a 16-year-old,” Betsy says. “Sorry, that’s not fair. A 12-year-old.”

“Thanks,” I say, swooping up a handful of fries, dredging them through a puddle of ketchup on my plate.

“That wasn’t a compliment.”

I grunt, nod, grin. Resigned to this life with me and to these occasionally infuriating moments, Betsy sighs, hugely whispers, “Happy Birthday,” snags a dry fry, stuffs it in my mouth.

According to one doctor, eating this way has led to a recent bout with diverticulitis, a painful infection that feels like a heavyweight boxer repeatedly driving his fist into my lower intestines. For a short time, I vow to eat better, and I do, eating oatmeal and fruit ...