His Name is Richard, and He is an Alcoholic
I received a call from my ex-boyfriend's boss on Monday. She said that his roommate found him unresponsive in his bedroom with an empty half-gallon of burbon next to the bed on Sunday night, so he called for an ambulance. When the paramedics arrived, he was in the middle of a seizure. The paramedics said that had he been found an hour later, it would have been too late.
When I arrvied at the hospital, I found him in intensive care in critical condition, and he's been placed on a respirator, since he can no longer breath on his own. His mouth has been propped open with a plastic device and he has an enormous tube inserted into his throat and a tangle of tubes coming out of both his arms.
His fingers, hands, and arms are swollen, and his neck and face are bloated, too. If I didn't know it was him laying there, I wouldn't recognize him. His stomach is distended and hard to the touch. His arms are tied to the bed. He is unconscious, unable to breath on his own, unable to speak, and unable to move.
He is suffering from congestive heart failure, uncontrolled diabetes, pneumonia, a failing liver, and failing kidneys. And on top of that he's going through alcohol withdrawal.
I called his name. I held his hand. I kissed his cheek. His boss said that if he were to wake up and see my face that it would a dream come true for him. But he didn't wake up. He didn't even know I was there.
I knew he was in the final stages of his disease when I asked him to leave seven months ago. I couldn't bear to watch him self-destruct any longer, and I didn't want my daughter to witness it, either. I was hoping that I'd lose track of him and that his boss would lose track of him, too, so I'd never know his fate and I could be spared the pain of losing him all over again. Because I still love him.
But things don't always go according to plan, and here I am about to lose the only man I've ever loved. And here I am feeling guilty for giving up on him and not staying with him to the end. And here I am feeling terrible that perhaps he thought nobody cared about him, when the reality of the situation is that I care about him so very much.
I'm going to visit him again tomorrow afternoon. I just spoke to the nurse, and there's been no change in his condition. So perhaps he'll never hear me say "I love you" one last time. But I have to try. I want to kiss him on his cheek. I want to run my fingers through his hair. I want to whisper in his ear, "I love you, I love you, I love you, I love you," so that he knows without a doubt that he is loved.
I remember a post that Equus shared. She said that it's important to remember that there's a person behind the disease, and it struck me that when we refer to our alcoholic loved ones on this forum as our "A's," that we do them a great disservice. We dehumanize them. We define them simply as alcoholics, as if that's all they have to offer the world.
But they are people much like ourselves, only they've chosen a different path than we have. They have hopes and dreams. They are capable of loving and being loved, and I know that the world is a better place with them in it.
So today, as my boyfriend's life draws to an end, I'd like to start a new beginning. And the first thing I'm going to do is to never refer to my boyfriend as an "A" again.
His name is Richard, and he is an alcoholic.