A typical day

“Where are my friends?” Riley asks almost daily. “What have you done with my money?” he accuses. “How did I get so sick?” “Why are you keeping me prisoner here?” “Get me out of this bed!”

I answer him as honestly as I can, but my answers are met with hostility. Such is the life of a caretaker of a very end-stage alcoholic. Although I’ve been told he has less than six months, I know from past experience that this could go on much, much, longer. I don’t know if my health will allow me to see this all the way through to Riley’s end.

There is a light and it is NOT an on-coming train. He might be accepted into the Vet’s Hospice Program and be placed in the hospice unit at the VA hospital. He would be allowed to stay there for six months. What a blessing that would be!
Since he has no “percentage” (an amount of disability created by military service) attached to his disability, this is our only opinion at this time.

When an alcoholic is sitting at a bar or table or whatever, I’m sure they don’t say “Oh, I really want to cause a lot of problems for my spouse so I’m going to abuse my body in every way and then she/he will have to take care of me at the end.” I don’t even think alcoholics know how truly bad the end is. And, if they truly did understand how bad the end is, I’m not sure it would stop them from drinking to oblivion,

Riley is truly unhappy. He doesn’t understand why he is sequestered to his room and not able to get out of bed. He thinks he is perfectly fine. He thinks he can walk. He thinks he can drive. He thinks he’s being held prisoner in some isolated place in the country. He doesn’t believe drinking has sent him into hospice. He says he’s at a normal place for a man who is 76 years old.

A typical day with Riley starts out with him calling my name over and over again until I appear at the food of his bed. I ask what he needs, but I already know. He wants coffee in his favorite coffee cup. I bring him breakfast, juice and coffee in a no-spill traveler’s mug. He tells me he wants his cup. I tell him I won’t give him the other cup because he pours his coffee into his bed. He says that is of no concern of mine. When I tell him it’s too hard for me to change his clothes and bedding, he says for me not to change it. He wants his cup or he won’t drink coffee at all. That’s OK by me – that much more in the pot for me.

He watches some TV but when he is tired of that, he calls me into his room over and over again. When I ask what he needs, he says he doesn’t know or he just wanted to see if I would come. Sometimes he wants me to come and sit and talk to him. If I do, the conversation is always about how I should spent the money, how to clean the bathroom, what to cook for dinner, and a million other things over which he has no control and no idea actually how to do them.

I hear him manipulating his bed and pulling on the side rails. I ask him to please stop because he is tearing his bed apart. He says that is good because he wants to ruin the bed rails so he can get in and out. He pulls on the rails and tells me he is exercising to regain his upper body strength. I tell him his legs are not strong enough for him to stand up or walk. He insists that I’m lying to him.

Our day continues with him calling me about every 10 minutes. He drops his TV remote, glasses and water bottle on the floor. Mostly I try to ignore his calls because I know he is not in danger and has everything he needs. Ignoring him is hard.

When the sun goes down a whole new person emerges from Riley. The hallucinations start. He becomes paranoid believing that some person is trying to find him and kill him. He thinks the perimeter of the house has bombs in black boxes lined up around the outside of the house. The phones are bugged and we must not use them. He calls for his imaginary secret service agent to come keep him safe. The agent’s name is Tim. He will only drink water from a sealed plastic bottle because he believes our well has been compromised.

Sometimes he has “submarine” hallucinations. He believes he is on a submarine and doesn’t understand why I am there. He tells me to get out. Then he asks if his ex-o knows where he is. He will yell at me that he is a submariner and submariners do not get sick nor do they go to the hospital. If they do get sick, they do not talk to anyone. I can see the panic in his face. I don’t know why he’s so frightened, but he is terrified.

If you are a caretaker of an alcoholic, this could be what your future looks like. It seems to be never ending. My own health deteriorates from the sheer exhaustion of it all. I can get respite for five days, but the budget is so strained that I can’t afford to pamper myself with a couple of days away. The nurse suggested I go to a hotel and just be by myself, sleep, rest, order room service and take advantage of the amenities. There is no room in the budget for something so frivolous. I stay home and spend the time cleaning his room, doing all the laundry, cleaning the bathroom, organizing his supplies. I must take advantage of his absence to do things that are difficult when he is present.

I don’t mean for this to be a “woe is me” I have it so bad kinda post. But, if you are a caretaker of an immortal alcoholic, prepare yourself now before you are in my situation. Start making arrangements for a nursing home or at least have a plan on how to get some peace and quiet respite. You will need it and you deserve it.