October
17, 2011 was nearly the end for me. I was in the shadow of
death, while my body was doing everything it could to keep me alive.
It is common for "death" to be overused, or in a light
hearted context. It is part of our language. 'This dessert is so
good, I could just die.' ' She/he is drop-dead gorgeous.'
'I'm dying to know. Yet, even though it was happening
before my own eyes, I couldn't stop the inevitable. I had become
powerless against alcohol, and simultaneously physically dependent.
Continuing my drinking habit would surely kill me, however, in cases like mine,
quitting may cause an end to life, as well. With or without alcohol, the
future looked bleak.
On the sixteenth I was going about my daily rituals to get
ready for a long night at the bar, or in my case, work. I only slept for
a few hours, and woke up to my usual shaking, and nausea. This was
nothing to take note of since my hands would begin to tremble after only a few dry hours.
Frequently,
I made myself sick to release some pressure from my gut, and I would feel well
enough to literally, sweat things out. However I would never begin to feel 'normal' until I had a couple of strong cocktails, but on that afternoon I couldn't keep those medicinal vodka cranberries down. I was throwing up. A lot. My mind was blinded by my addiction when I assumed that I would definitely feel better once I had some more drinks when I got to work.
After work, I had a lot of trouble getting any sleep, and my illness was
becoming more severe. My sick looked like coffee grains, and I knew this
was not right. I had never seen anything like it before, and I was
beginning to wonder if I was actually puking out of my bowels. There was
no way I could work in this condition, so I called in.
A
short time after, I was in the restroom with my head in my hands, wondering
which end the next digestive event would come from. There was little time
for me to react, when my belly contracted, and the gag reflex kicked in.
I attempted to stand up, and yell into the toilet, but instead, a spray of
blood spattered on the adjacent, white, bathroom wall. The coffee
grain substance, was old blood. I had to call 911.
I
never made it to the phone. The last thing I remember, is the back of my
bedroom door. Everything after that moment has been more than an exercise
in survival. I fell into a coma, and remained on my floor for
approximately 48 hours. I was bleeding from my esophagus, meanwhile, my
liver, and kidneys were shutting down
My roommate, and I worked at the same bar. He worked the day shift, and I worked at night. His shifts usually ran from 9 a.m., to around 8 p.m. My shifts ranged from 8 p.m. until around 4 a.m. It was typical for one of us to be getting ready for work, while the other was settling down from a shift. This usually came with an audible breath of relief from the one who was just getting home.
As
my roommate, Kevin was leaving the house that Thursday, October 18, something
made him stop to check on me. He knocked on my bedroom door, and there
was no response. When he called out to me, and tried to survey the scene,
my door was locked. I never locked my bedroom door, and why I did this
time is beyond me.
There
is so much to this story, and I am going to tell as much of the story as I can
remember. Along the way, some events may come to mind, and I reach into
my mashed up memory of my extensive stay in the hospital.
This
happened to me at 38 years old. Alcoholic cirrhosis is a disease that is
expected to be an affliction later in life, and not at an age that one rarely
considers death. This can happen to anyone. Please, pay attention
to what I have to say.
No comments:
Post a Comment