I am communicating with an alcoholic. He had just completed his painful stint in rehab. His wife brought him to meet me. I also work in the rehabilitation of chemically dependent people, so I can imagine what happened to him in the past month. He already drank on the way. Perhaps that is why the conversation took place. And to my question why he drinks, he answers, “I want to.” It is clear that he misses informal communication. Talks about himself. He talks and talks. At the same time, he notices what is happening around him. Both my comments and my wife’s tears. Tells about his life. About the fact that he is used to living according to his conscience, about how important the idea of ​​duty is for him, the idea of ​​living according to his own principles. He shares memories of how he went against principles, trying to save his first marriage, in which his wife cheated on him, and how he left home for the garage to drink. His principle is not to deal with fools and traitors. At almost fifty, he gave up on himself, and, turning to his wife, he regrets the years she spent on him. “I warned you that I am an alcoholic.” The wife cries, nodding her head. “You want children, but I still have ten years left.” And he says that children are a responsibility and the need to invest everyone in them. And he was tired. And all he wants now is to pay off his debts and just drink for the rest of his days. The wife is crying. Suffering. She wants to cure him of alcoholism because she loves him. And in response to his calls to leave him, we discuss her choice to be with him. We talk about his right to choose life or death and that he sees no choice. Just drink. And there is no strength to search for meaning. As the meeting progressed, I remembered my neighbor next door, a quiet alcoholic, who sometimes pestered me, drunk, with questions about how to get involved. When I suggested that he talk to me when he was sober, he went deaf. Then he, a man in his forties, was buried. I remembered the story of two brothers, which continues because one is still alive. I have known him for a long time as an alcoholic who closed himself off and rarely leaves his apartment. He is sick, suffers and curses life, country, himself and everyone around him. The other did not drink, but died early and bequeathed his ashes to be scattered over the Neva. This impressed me greatly as a triumph of the spirit over death. As I said goodbye to this married couple who came for a consultation, I reminded my wife of the resource of hope and faith. To my husband’s statements that he sees no choice, he objected that this does not mean that there is no choice. Even when the choice is not visible, it is there. Both for her and for him. And for me.