Column: New year began with a bottle of whiskey and all-day crisis at the emergency room

Early New Year’s Day, my husband, Bob, was rushed by ambulance to the emergency room at Cape Cod Hospital. Although that day was hell, it was miraculously transformative. You’ll see.

The night before, I had been sitting by myself watching New Year’s Eve celebrations on TV. So, at midnight, I decided to have a real drink. I found an old bottle of whiskey, had my drink, and went to bed.

The next morning, I heard horrifying noises coming from the living room. I found my husband on the floor. He kept trying to get up, only to fall on his head each time. He could not speak.

My call to 911 resulted in the paramedics showing up within seven or eight minutes. “My husband has dementia,” I told them. Bob, still unresponsive, lay motionless. It looked like a catastrophic stroke.

When I watched the paramedics take Bob out of the front door on a stretcher, I just knew it would be the very last time I would see my husband alive.

Desperately, I tried to quell panic as I quickly got dressed to go to the ER. It was then that I saw the bottle of whiskey. Last night it was full. Now it was empty.

The whole bottle in one hour

Bob doesn’t drink. He hasn’t had alcohol for at least 40 years.

Whiskey is the same color as the cold tea Bob guzzles, glass after glass, all day long. Thinking it was tea, he drank the whole bottle in a one-hour period.

Now panic got to me. I called 911 again and said, “I know what happened! My husband drank an entire bottle of whiskey!”

The operator said she’d let the ER (or the paramedics) know.

Assuming that the communication was made, I, unfortunately, let it go.

You do know where this is going.

'You know about the alcohol, right?'

When I found Bob on his gurney at the ER, five staff members were working on him. I said, “You know about the alcohol, right?”

They did not know. This vital lifesaving news had never been communicated.

Bob had already had test after test, none of which included a blood or urine test for alcohol. With that massive amount of liquor, he could have died.

After hearing from me, those tests were done ― with the results I expected.

Bob, still out of it, kept trying to get out of bed. I pushed against his chest, but just couldn’t stop him. It took two people to get him back down.

After being there about four hours, I went to the cafeteria to buy us some food. With my spinal cord injury, it took me 45 minutes to get there. When I came back, Bob was being whisked away. I called out to the nurse who was quickly pushing his gurney, “Where are you taking him?”

“To get a chest X-ray.”

Hobbling along with my cane, I couldn’t catch up, and she did not slow down. I was panting. “Why an X-ray?” I kept calling out to her. “What happened when I was gone?”

I know she heard me, but she just kept speeding away. She then disappeared behind a door.

I’ll never know why the doctor ordered that chest X-ray.

Frustration at the hospital, at home too

I kept myself from exploding, which, I’m ashamed to tell you, is something I’ve had a very tough time controlling these days. I’m not just talking frustration at the hospital, but at home too. I raise my voice; I shout; I scream. Because of my rage against … against the damn disease, the finality, the horrible future outlook, I’ve even let our marriage falter.

Bob was cleared to go home at 6:30 p.m. After I settled him into his chair, I went on a rampage ― not just throwing out any liquor in the house, but by hiding anything liquid ― even dishwashing liquid. You see, Bob has no filters on what is drinkable or edible and what is poison. I’ve ordered locks for the cabinets.

I believe that the massive amounts of alcohol coupled with the disorientation of being in the ER damaged him. Since then, he hasn’t been able to say his name or mine. His ability to find the most basic of words, like “chair,” has disappeared.

Although lately my temper has been inexcusably flaring, there was a moment in the ER when I couldn’t stop crying. I saw my best friend, my person, so vulnerable and helpless. So confused by the rush of people, the big space, the unfamiliar colors of the walls.

As I watched over my keep, I saw the decades of our marriage go by like a whisper. I saw us in our two-person kayak be it rain, snow, winter, or spring. We’d dreamingly paddle in synchronicity while music played from our portable CD player, as we’d seamlessly glide along the glistening waters of Cape Cod Bay.

I pictured us then … and now. So, I made a ruthless self-assessment. It was pretty bad. It was then I knew it’s my time to change.

I will not let Bob’s dementia ruin us.

I will not allow this monstrous disease erase the deep love we have between us. No matter where this dreadful path goes, I will be there for him. No matter how many times I’ve shouted in anguish, “I can’t take this anymore!” I will take it. Not always with grace; not always with dignity, and not always with self-forgiveness for my ample shortcomings.

The words to my newly-found prayer:

May I please be granted the courage to face just one more day.

May I fearlessly learn to say, “Easy does it,” whenever I’m internally screaming, “I hate this!” Or worse ―“I hate myself.”

May I always see the part that is my beautiful soulmate, not just the disease of dementia.

And if it’s at all possible, please, oh please grant me the wisdom to know the difference.

Award-winning columnist, Saralee Perel, lives in Marstons Mills. She can be reached at: sperel@saraleeperel.com. Her column runs the first Friday of each month.

This article originally appeared on Cape Cod Times: Column: Dementia steals husband's memory, threatens couple's memories