10 Days – Part 1

Trying to piece together the 10 days that led to having my husband committed feels impossible. Half of it is a blur. The other half? I wish I could forget. I know it was a span of ten days between his ER visit and the day he took another swan dive into Xanadu. Can I keep calling it that? Is it too cringy?

In some ways I appreciate that my brain doesn’t store many of those memories. They weren’t fun the first time. But for the sake of this blog, I wanted to share as many details as I could. Like an investigative reporter I pulled up recorded conversations I had on my phone, notes written on my calendar, and old text messages. But there was still so much that I couldn’t recall. And when you are faced with a decision that may mean your life as you know it is going to officially be flipped upside down, you would think I would be trying to figure out how to forget. Not how to remember.

So, with or without all the details, here’s what I can recall. The days following Eric’s ER visit were naturally filled with reacting and processing what had happened. We were trying to find answers and figure out what to do next. We felt relief that it was over, but we also needed to know why it had happened in the first place, and prepare ourselves, heaven forbid it should happen again. But how the heck do you do that?

Eric seemed normal now—well, normal compared to the Eric I got to experience in the ER on Friday the 13th (of all days). I could handle this version of him, for now. We were able to get him to the doctor and start the process for figuring out what caused his breakdown. I just don’t know why I don’t like that term. Seriously, can we keep calling it the Swan Dive?

What made this process even more fun, was the fact that we did not have any health insurance. Eric had quit his job eight months prior after his hours were significantly cut. All of the major construction was complete with the Basnight Bridge, so smaller boats could handle the work now. After five years of grueling hours and working in such a stressful environment, he wanted to take a break. He deserved one. We had his $12,000 bonus, so why not?

So we kicked off 2021 now both gainfully unemployed. As the year crept on, the job he was planning to go to next kept getting delayed.

As if the ER bill wasn’t enough, now we needed to find a psychiatrist who would take a patient without insurance. 🤯

During our first post-ER doctor’s visit, Eric explained to the urgent care physician what had happened four days prior.

We also gave a little back story about his 14 day COVID quarantine earlier in the month. The doctor seemed surprised he quarantined that long and gave us the whole spiel on proper protocol. But she didn’t have to live with him.

I was mad as hell when I found out he had COVID. Why? Because he contracted it by smoking weed behind someone who he KNEW had it. What the hell, man? This was the cherry on top of the dunce cake. The nail in the coffin. The “don’t let the door hit ya where the good Lord split ya.” The “Bye, Felicia.” The “go F yourself, enjoy being alone for two weeks, you sorry a—”

I think you get my point. So yeah, I was mad. But me being mad wasn’t anything new. I was perpetually mad at my husband, and everyone knew it. The worst part? It didn’t matter how mad I got—Eric was going to do Eric whether we did or didn’t have health insurance or how close our bank account was to depletion.

The doctor also learned that my husband went from moving us to the Outer Banks for a job as head tug captain on one of North Carolina’s largest infrastructure projects—a $252 million operation—to five years later jobless, penniless, and wanting to start his own marijuana-growing business.

🚩

Backing up a few months (and apologies if this is starting to resemble a Quentin Tarantino film—I have no doubt he’s a fellow ADHDer), Eric had picked up work as a cable lineman for a friend. It helped keep us afloat—because, as they say, it takes money to make money. But the job was brutal, and between that and COVID, he lost nearly 50 pounds in three months.

🚩

So back to the marijuana thing. Virginia legalized it in July of 2021. The plan was for him to work in Virginia anyway on another major bridge construction project. His cable lineman friend was also a grower. So after legalization they felt like it was something they could and should do.

Finding a psychiatrist was a nightmare. To this day, my mother-in-law holds my highest regard for tackling that task. I’d rather do my own taxes and retake the SATs in a room full of my peers—naked—than go through that process again.

But I hated that he smoked weed. HATED it. And now he wanted it to be his livelihood? He was obsessed with the idea. Beyond obsessed. He wouldn’t shut up about it. I wanted him to be happy and to support him. Hell, I even designed a logo and a website for the business. Can someone say enabling? 🤷‍♀️ But every part of my soul was screaming NO! I wanted to believe in his dreams or at least pretend to. So, I made the logo, helped with the website, and ignored the screaming voice inside me that knew this was a disaster waiting to happen.

So, the doctor quickly learned of my husband’s love for the ganja. She clearly was also not a fan. With a diagnosis for sub-mania, we walked out of the doctor’s office with a prescription for Lamictal, recommendations to take Benadryl when he couldn’t sleep, and a list of psychiatrists nowhere near us.

Later that week, during an intake phone interview, we asked the counselor what she thought. She said he was likely bipolar. Just like that. Just like his dad.

I assure you, this was the last thing he wanted to hear. Me too. But he took it better than I expected. I rested my hand on his shoulder, waiting for his reaction.