You know how when you are at the zoo, looking in at, let’s say the Asiatic Black Bear exhibit, and you think, “They are so dang cute. I would love to pet one, or lay down in the sun and nap with that one over there. That looks so…”
…and then rational thinking sets in and you slowly back away as your breathy face print dissipates from the glass. You then move on, to admire the other animals.
Well, this moment was kind of like that. At least it’s as close as I can get to explaining it as I have very few similar life experiences to compare it to. Plus it’s not easy recollecting the details of something that my sanity really wants to forget.
Speaking of rational thinking and sanity, there wasn’t a whole lot of that going on in that room. I remember walking into the examination room, my husband sitting on the counter, the doctor off to the side likely mentally clicking his heels and thinking “there’s no place like home, there’s no place like home…”.
I know I was.
Quickly I learned that I was there to help them with patient participation. First task, they needed a urine sample. He missed the cup on purpose, twice. I’m pretty sure I had moved on to the chimpanzee exhibit at this point. It was clear to me that everything they needed from him was going to be a challenge.
Next was the MRI. Eric did not want to put his head inside a machine that was going to look at his brain. We very much needed to look at his brain. Based on how retrieving a urine sample went, this seemed completely impossible. Somehow, ok God is how, I convinced him to lie in the bed so they could transport him to the imaging room. I promised him I would be right there with him. Knowing I would not be allowed in the next room, but hey I wasn’t even supposed to be inside the building.
On the way to the room, we rolled by a table that had a cup full of urine sitting on it. He reached past me and grabbed the cup, which I then snatched out of his hand saying to him “Honey we don’t even know if that is your pee!” These were words I had never said before. Like ever.
A few minutes later we were at the doors of the scan room. I wasn’t allowed to go in and he was convinced he wasn’t coming out alive. Thankfully it was a quick procedure, and I only had to stand in the hallway trembling for about five minutes.
We headed back to the ER exam room to await the results. While we waited, Eric proceeded to read aloud the numbers on every labeled wall socket, port, plug, outlet, and switch around the room. I later learned that this is what is referred to in the mental health industry as “pressured speech”. Eric’s pressured speech continued, clearly brought on by intense fear and paranoia. He went on to confess every single marital transgression he could think of to me at a rate of speed that I didn’t know was humanly possible. I think this was Step 5 of the 12 steps in AA which he attended years before we met.
For the record, he was sober when we met. Also, I was playing kickball on a team named “Sotally Tober,” if that tells you anything.
His rapid fire of nonsensical commentary sprinkled in with apologies for watching porn, past drug use, and the myriad of other antics I have since forgotten finally petered out. Yet we still had to wait for test results.
Then he began asking when he could go home. I lost count of how many times he asked and I was running out of convincing and reassuring responses. So, I climbed into bed with him as we waited. He looked at the clock, drifted off to sleep, and I prayed while balancing on the edge of the tiny hospital bed.
Fifteen minutes later, he woke up, immediately looked up at the clock on the wall above us, and—realizing barely any time had passed—began repeatedly shouting, “I WANT TO GO HOME!”
I had never seen him this irate. And while Eric was loud, he was never a yeller. It was terrifying. For the first time, I wasn’t just afraid for him—I was afraid of him. And that broke something in me.
I couldn’t console him anymore and the commotion brought in what seemed like the entire ER staff including two police officers. I jumped out of the bed and was told that I had to leave the room. They were going to need to sedate him, and I was no longer allowed to remain in the room with him.
I stood frozen as they restrained him, rolled him over, and injected him with valium while he screamed. He looked so vulnerable, and scared. I had never seen him this way and it was heartbreaking to watch.
I was escorted to a small waiting area where I sat alone, in shock. A short time later the head physician came in to speak with me. He looked rattled and even complimented me on how composed I was given the circumstances. He informed me that the medication had calmed my husband, and he was drifting off to sleep. He explained that I couldn’t stay due to the fact that this had gone from a medical to a psychiatric situation. They would keep him over night, and I could go home and get some rest. It was 4 am.
So, with no other choice, I left him there and headed home. Dan and Kate had taken Ethan home at some point since they weren’t allowed inside the building. They must have Ubered home since I somehow had our truck. Funny, I don’t remember driving to the hospital at all. How did I have the truck?
When I was only a mile from home, I had to pull over to get sick. When I got home and crawled into bed, completely exhausted, the vomiting wouldn’t cease for hours. TMI, I know. But I promised to be raw and real.
I finally was able to sleep for a bit, and when I awoke, I went upstairs to join everyone, convey what had happened, take turns crying, and then proceed with calling the hospital for a status. My brother thankfully made the calls. Even on my best day, I don’t think I could have done so. I was a mess. After several phone calls, we were told he was awaiting a Zoom meeting with a psychiatrist who would evaluate him to determine if he could be released.
Did I want him released? What did I want? What is supposed to happen now? What did happen? Why did it happen?
I sat on the couch and sobbed begging God to bring back my husband. I knew our relationship was not in a good place. It was no secret. As I mentioned before, the past year, my husband had taken a nosedive of incredibly epic proportions. The fact that I had stuck around, and now the fact that I didn’t know if he was going to recover from this spoke volumes. I loved my husband, and didn’t want to lose him.
A few hours later a psychiatrist determined he was okay to be discharged. We all looked at each other and thought, “But did anyone tell her what happened last night?”
Still without answers I went to pick up Eric from the hospital. You would have thought he would be thrilled to see me. Instead he was upset that it was daylight and he didn’t know what day it was.
When we returned home, we all made a stiff drink and spent the day laughing, crying, and seeing how well Eric could recount what had just occurred.
Little did we know, that would be his last sip of alcohol—and the start of a much longer journey toward healing.
As much as I wanted to believe the worst was behind us, the days ahead would bring challenges I never could have anticipated.
Ten days later, Eric’s journey took another life-altering turn, and we found ourselves facing struggles that had been years in the making—struggles with addiction, faith, and a fight for survival I’ll never forget.
Proverbs 3:5-6
5 Trust in the Lord with all your heart and lean not on your own understanding;
6 in all your ways submit to him,
and he will make your paths straight.[a]
Speaking of paths …
The Space Between: A Blog by Brandi McMahan 