I Hadn’t Realized Chemo Felt so Much Like a Hangover

On quality of life and socializing sober

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Friday, an early get-together before the actual get-together. I know no one. But unreserved hugs all around, and laughter. The most beautiful summer afternoon has slipped into this space of early autumn. It is the kind of day that makes Norwegians split open at their tightly sewn seams. 

I squint against the bright, setting sun. The heat feels good, and the next morning I’ll notice my chest has pinked-up for the first time in two years. 

The host comes out of the kitchen to the backyard, where everyone is gathered. He brings me a glass and has a bottle of white in his other hand. “No thank you.” He offers red. “I’m fine, thank you.” He takes a step back and undisguisedly sizes me up. At least, that is how I interpret his body language. 

I tell him I’ve brought something called “forest brew,” a sort of juniper wine without alcohol. There’s some polite discussion about where I bought it, etc. But there’s a definite hush over the little gathering. At least, that’s how I interpret their body language: as though I’ve sewn them all shut again.

Later, another woman shows up with non-alcoholic beer, explaining before anyone asks about her medical test results and resulting medication that prevent her from imbibing. 

She’s the life of the party. She joked later that everyone assumes she’s been drinking, meaning it in the best possible way: she’s open, out-going, free with her laughter—everything most Norwegians find difficult to be sober. Everything I find difficult to be when sober.

And, let’s be honest, these are things I thought I was when I drank, but I’ve no reliable proof I was any of these things “in the best possible way.” On the contrary. Even so, saying, “No, thank you,” is difficult in social situations.

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I don’t live in a “sit yourself down and have a beer” culture anymore, but one where we make a big deal out of cooking for one another, where we have wine and cheese on the deck before dinner. (It sounds snootier than it is.)

When we eat and drink together, we take part in a universal ritual that bonds us within and across communities. This behavior seems to be as deeply ingrained in our subconscious as grooming is to chimpanzees. We make associations between food and belonging, whether we want to or not: ask any expat about what the smell of their national dish can do to their bruised heart. Even ambivalent feelings will drag with them a nostalgia for the feeling of belonging.

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Fourteen years ago, I heard a lecture on how glucose can affect the brain in people predisposed to schizophrenia, epilepsy, and bipolar disorder. I talked with my doctor about stopping medication to give the special dietary plan a try. 

Within a month, I noticed such an extreme improvement that I have never stopped. Never cheated. Not a single piece of cake, not a squirt of ketchup. And it has been hard. It screws up the rituals that create a sense of belonging.

“You don’t need to be on a diet.”
“Are you allergic to eggs? There aren’t any eggs in it.”
“I can get gluten-free bread for you.” 

I know that refusing someone’s hospitality can seem rude. It’s almost an accusation: I don’t trust that you are clean, kind, careful… I know their often-defensive response is not a thought; it’s a primal, visceral reaction. 

I used to be able to say, “But I’d love a glass of wine.” That made things easier. Drinking in front of someone can be interpreted as a willingness to be vulnerable, as a sign of trust. I was always grateful when there was food and wine at a gathering. Alcohol is a social lubricant in more than one way.

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About six months before I was diagnosed with breast cancer, I asked my psychiatrist if she thought I drank too much. I’d heard that if you ask, the answer is yes. 

During the Covid lockdown, my wine drinking had spilled from social events into weekday evenings at home. I never thought I had a problem, but that I might be developing one. One per night, I told myself, pouring my one glass into a huge IKEA wine glass that easily held two units. Or three. 

When I started chemo, the nurse told me that I could have a glass of wine now and then if I wanted. (I hadn’t asked.) So, I did have one now and then. Weirdly, the chemo treatment made an average Chardonnay taste like an herbal masterpiece. The night I discovered that, I had four units even though I’d told myself I’d stick to one. 

When chemo was over and my head was beginning to clear, I had a glass of wine one evening and woke the next day with a familiar heaviness in my head and body. I hadn’t realized chemo felt so much like a hangover. And I’d had enough of both.

Alcohol use increases the chances of my specific kind of breast cancer. It actually increases it by a larger percentage than the pills I take decrease it. 

And yet, the medical experts give me (again unsolicited) advice to enjoy a glass of wine now and then if I want one, “because one needs to consider quality of life, too.” I spoke recently with a woman who has had a recurrence of breast cancer who told me she still drinks, because it is a matter of her “quality of life.”  I understand.

And I don’t.

I stopped eating sugar and simple carbohydrates because my bipolar response to the foods hurt the quality of life for the people who loved me, and for myself. It totally sucked at first and is still an annoying thorn in social interactions. I often feel a tinge of childish, kick-the-wall-it’s-so-unfair emotions. But a life without baked goods is definitely worth living.

As for alcohol: being completely honest, I would have made far better choices in my life had I never started drinking. A cancer diagnosis led to painful reckonings in my life. The little “time-outs” I had allowed myself, when I believed that being tipsy or outright drunk was time caught in parenthesis in my life, did nothing but harm. 

Looking back, I got off lucky.

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My quality of life can only improve without alcohol. But that doesn’t mean it will be a free ride.

Now ten months sober, my eyelashes and eyebrows having grown back, I’m trying to find a way to put away the cancer card, and say, “No, thank you.” Even with the cancer card, I have had a couple of people pressure me to drink, urging, “Just one sip.” 

I can only begin to understand how hard sobriety must be for people who have a stronger draw to alcohol than I do. 

I’ve become fond of non-alcoholic beer (which I know not everyone who is sober can have). No one has ever asked me about it, even with the bottle on the table. It’s been a social boon. 

But one local pub doesn’t carry non-alcoholic beer. No mineral water. No lemon slices to slip into my tap water. I feel conspicuously misplaced around a table with new acquaintances. I can see them mentally calculating the eight ounces of vodka I might have in front of me: no one comes to a bar to drink tap water. I can’t help but think of the episode of “Friends” where Rachel starts smoking to fit in with the crowd. 

Is there a way to put people at ease that doesn’t entail me tap-dancing, providing details of my medical conditions, or explicitly (awkwardly) reassuring them that I’m not judging them from a religious imperative or gym-bunny high-horse? 

And the fact is, I’m still an introvert who needs some sort of social lubricant—some way to signal that I don’t think the host is out to kill me. At this point, I would be fine skipping food and drink and letting them pick the evening gnats out of my hair. 

Now you.

We’d love for you to share in the comments:

• Have you experienced peer pressure to drink since getting sober? How did you respond?

• Do you have any tips for sober socializing? Especially around people who drink?

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Ren Powell

is an introvert, writer, and teaching artist who has a firm grasp on what “quality of life” means to her, when trade-offs are no longer hypotheticals. You can find her newsletter at:

Acts of a Recovering Drama Queen

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