My boss is an alcoholic. She’s late stage -- vodka. She has come close to losing her business, her home, her child, and each time has staggered back across the line to function, for a while, as a near-sober woman. Visibly worse for wear, and wearing far worse invisibly. I’ll call her Ellen.

I should mention that my boss has been a very dear friend since the 8^th grade. The grade our local Catholic school dumps their repressed and rebellious overstock into the public school system. Ellen and I are part of a tight coven of lifelong friends, and I could write a book titled "The Sweet Potato Casserole Sisterhood Society of Princesses and Bitches." But that’s been done, and shouldn’t have been.

Because my work history is patchy and bizarrely diverse, I often end up working with and for friends. They holler when they need me. Ellen’s business is my latest assignment. Her drinking problem has been a divisive concern amongst the group for years, and since I work with her I’m regularly pumped for information in a weekly succession of worried phone calls. "How’s she doing?" I’m as forthcoming as I can be given my position as both friend and employee. Most often I veer toward discretion, because they know without my saying anything. Things are not good.

I am at home enjoying my afternoon off when out of the blue I get a phone call from Ellen."I need you to come down to the office right now. I need you to give me a shot."

"Why do I need to give you a shot?"

"It’s a shot my therapist gave me that’s supposed to help with the drinking."

I’m at my computer so I quickly google it. Naltrexone, in the injectable form, Vivitrol. "Why can’t the doctor give it to you?" I ask. It’s a reasonable question.

"He can’t. He doesn’t have a nurse on staff right now. He just gave me the whole packet with the syringe and everything. You have to do it." I can tell she is crying.

"They won’t let him give you a shot because he’s supposedly not qualified to do it, but you want me to do it? What makes you think I can give shots? Why don’t you call Sue?" (Our friend Sue is a former ER nurse.)

"I don’t want Sue! I want you!! You did our website. You refinish furniture and train dogs. You make your own fucking soap!" She is crying loudly now.

"And cheese," I add.

"Fucking cheese," she sobs.

"I’m on my way."

When I arrive, she is in the back bathroom, pacing. "This has to work," she says. "I can’t go on like this, and I can’t stop. Why can’t I stop?"

"It’s okay," I say. "I’m sure this will at least help. It can’t not help." I hug her tightly as she cries into my shoulder. I cry a little too. I always think I'm out of tears with her; she can always wring a few more from me.

After a bit, she pulls away. I open the package and find two vials, a syringe, two needles, and a folded insert that lists every way this drug can maim or kill you. It also explains, in writing and in pictures, the process of screwing the small needle onto the syringe and drawing the liquid out of one vial and squirting it into the vial that has the powder in it, shaking the concoction wildly, then changing out the small needle for the other....HOLY SHIT! That’s a needle.

Now, I’m not particularly squeamish and I do have some experience giving injections. As a child, I used to beg my Nana to let me give her her sugar shots, and she’d let me. I know. That’s weird. As a teen, I gave myself allergy shots. Once, I held stranger’s nearly-severed hand while we waited for paramedics to arrive. So I’m not the world’s worst person you could choose to give you an injection. But looking at a needle the size of a boba tea straw, I begin to sweat. In my nervousness, I make a mistake. I actually say, "Holy shit!"

"What?" Ellen says, eyes wide.

"Don’t look," I say, turning to hide the turkey marinade injector that I will soon be jabbing into her.

When I finish mixing, shaking, and changing needles, I steady myself and approach. Her head is turned away, her eyes squinched shut. We are both breathing heavily.

"Which arm?" I ask.

"Which butt cheek," she says.

We lose it then, giggling madly. "All right," I say, finally. "Turn around and drop trou. And you know you’re going to owe me big time for this. Big. Time." I choose the right cheek because it’s cheekier somehow, and I punch it in quickly. I feel the pain visually, and after removing the needle I realize I’ve been clenching my teeth down on the side of my tongue.

"Wow. That didn’t hurt at all," she says. "I knew you could do it."

I barely sleep that night wondering if I did it wrong, if I injected an air bubble into an uncharted artery, if she’ll have a reaction. She is alive the next morning.

Over the next six months, I give her four more shots. It helps. It does not cure. Then, there are no more shots. She drinks four large draft beers at the staff Christmas party and probably moves to vodka when she gets home. When I talk to her on New Year’s Day, she says she’s making some changes this year. She’s talking, of course, about the drinking. I hope she means it, but I know she always means it.