Sunday, September 17, 2017

His dying breath

I’m sitting here tonight at my computer wearing my little rosebud jammies (a Christmas gift from my grandkids last year), a scotch on the rocks (yes, you read right – a scotch), and a box of tissue. In the background my dog, Jade, emits as soft snore while sleeping on the coach which is forbidden to her. The other end of the forbidden coach is my cat, Benny, who is purring as he cleans up from the day. It’s peaceful here in my living room which is also my make-shift office.

A sip of the scotch reminds me of my early days with Riley when he always wanted a Johnnie Walker Gold on the rocks when he arrived home from work. On our meager budget, it was a splurge, but one that Riley insisted upon every night. He would only have one. That was before. That was before the drink became more important than his life or his family or his work or anything else.

Tonight I sip this scotch in honor of the life he left behind to pursue a career in drunkenness – in which he excelled. I can hear his shallow breathing as he lay in his bed not really sleeping but not really comatose either. There is no heavy snoring like there was during the days when we shared a bed. He is peaceful.

Maybe it’s the cocktail of Haldol and Morphine that has him in such a gentle state. A few hours earlier he was throwing his fists and threatening bodily harm to anyone who even showed an attempt to touch him. There was nothing quiet about him screaming obscenities at our pastor as we recited, at Riley’s request, the Lord’s Prayer.

Although his heart is beating and his lungs are working, there doesn’t seem to be anything behind his eyes. No brown eyes with twinklings of mischief or a tell-tale expression of some plot to be executed. His face is pale and yellowish, but not as a jaundiced person. It’s more like he hasn’t bathed or showered and the sweat has left a patina on his skin.

Everyone once in a while his muscles twitch in spasms. It looks like it would hurt, but he’s on so much morphine he probably couldn’t feel a jack hammer to his ribs if one were there. His arms and legs are cold to the touch. The hospice nurse tells me that it’s normal at this stage of his degeneration.

Everyone has left to go to their respective homes and beds. They’ll be back in the morning to help me get through another day. I’m alone waiting for Riley to die. When they are here there is nothing for me to do. I’m told to rest. But, I can’t. So I go to my FaceBook friends who have no idea what’s really going on at this house. I post little comments, stir up a little trouble, ask stupid questions, I occupy myself. The people closest to me in my life are not available. Carrot has lost her phone. Another friend is busy working and caring for her kids. A long-time friend isn’t speaking to me because of a very heated argument that took place a couple of days ago. None of them know and I won’t tell them or can’t tell them that I’m alone and listening to my husband die. I won’t tell them I need them because – I am a strong, confident, independent woman who doesn’t like wallowing. I have an image to uphold. I am my own worst enemy.

So let’s just talk a minute about Riley being my husband. If you are familiar with this blog you will know and understand that we have been estranged for a very long time. I am his wife, but not his lover. Yet, the memories of the good parts of our life together – and there really are some – come flashing back in full force. It could be because I’m in the middle of writing the sequel to the Immortal Alcoholic’s Wife. My writing self must channel Riley in order for me to write the book. I must also channel the Linda who was once a loving, faithful wife. It makes it difficult to sit here, drink a scotch, and listen to that slow, but steady, breathing.

Riley being on the edge of death is not a new experience. The family has sat vigil for him so many times that only a few pay attention when things go downhill. He is seemingly immortal. It’s like a big joke that he plays on anyone who cares about him. Like a boy who cries wolf. This time it’s different. This time we know he has developed sepsis. This time we can see that he is dying before our eyes. It’s unsettling.

There is nothing to be done. I will try to sleep in my bed, in my room, where I cannot hear what’s going on in Riley’s room. I have pills to help me sleep, but they probably shouldn’t be mixed with the scotch. The first thing I will do in the morning is check to see…

12 comments:

Sharlo said...

And so it goes...

AimeeNM said...

You are an inspiration to me. You are strong,confident & realistic. All that you have/are enduring shows that you've got grit! Being the person you are, I'm sure your friends would stop their world if you let them know you needed an ear. Even us independent women need to let others be there for us. Yes, we are our own worst enemy when it comes to letting people in. You are a blessing in my life. Thank you for your book, blog and sharing your life.

Unknown said...

No matter how much you knew this time would inevitably come, there is no easy way through it. I admire your courage and fortitude.

Unknown said...

No matter how much you knew this time would inevitably come, there is no easy way through it. I admire your courage and fortitude.

Anonymous said...

I hope you have peace at last.
Your blog is a comfort to many in a similar situation.

Anonymous said...

I too am a strong, confident, independent woman and my own worst enemy. I am standing by your side. You are not alone.

Nola said...

My mom died August 2nd of this year from her alcoholism. Official cause of death was multi system organ failure from hepatic encephalopathy; she was 56 years old. I wasn't her caregiver nor even there as she succumbed to her badly damaged body, but I heard her breathing - over the phone - that steady breath with what the nurse called a death rattle. My mom was deep in morphine too and took some comfort in knowing that the pain this death brought her, was tamed with the drug. I can't know what you go through but I do know the death of an alcoholic is unlike any death you'll ever experience. It's layers of emotions; fear, sadness, helplessness, resignation and even relief. I remember dutifully calling each hour asking in quite a calm and nonchalant way if my mom was close to dying. At the time it felt like her moment of death was the end of a countdown and I couldn't exist outside of it until we reached the end of her life. Yet now I yearn for the days and hours she still breathed; August 2 at 4:34 pm being her last breath and what separated my life from "before" and now "after". After is hard in a new way. I understood before and had learned to navigate life with a living alcoholic, but after is unfamiliar and has permeated every part of my life. I'm burdened in a wholly different way and not equipped to handle it. I wish you so much strength during this time, as you transition into after.

Unknown said...

I too dread the day I will watch my alcoholic succumb to his many ailments. He, too, has been on the brink more times than I can count. Every hospital stay more serious than the last.I pray for you to have strength and comfort during this difficult time. No matter how much we hate the alcoholism, we love the person and mourn for what could have been. I will pray for you tonight and for Riley, that he may find the peace he never found here on earth.

Unknown said...

I pray for you to have strength and find comfort during this difficult time. My alcoholic has been on the brink many times as well. I simultaneously dread and look forward to the end. We hate the alcoholism but love the person. And we mourn the loss of the person we married and what could have been. So many mixed emotions. You will be in my prayers tonight. May God hold you in His arms and carry you through this journey.

Jeannette Nelson said...

Linda, I'm praying for the peace you and Riley both so desperately deserve. My husband finally lost his battle with alcoholism June 15, 2016. He was such a tortured soul for the last years of his life. He hated himself for not being able to stop drinking. He hated what it was doing to us.He went to 7 inpatient chemical dependency programs so it was not from lack of trying. I thought I was done mourning for what we used to have but when he died, all the wonderful reasons we got married 21 years ago came flooding back. I guess it was getting harder to remember those good times the deeper he turned inward into his alcoholic shell.I would remind myself what a truly good, good man he was before his whole personality changed and alcoholic dementia set in. It changed me too. I was definitely no longer the cheerful, happy camper that loved to laugh when he was throwing his alcoholic tizzy fits my way.I did a pretty good job of not taking his wrath personally though and never blamed him for his addiction. When the ambulance crew transported him to the ER, as it turned out for the last time, 8 days before he died, he became unresponsive in the hospital where the staff were all doing their best trying to manage his pain from 3 broken ribs, a fracture in his lower back, and at the same time managing his detoxing. His kidney function was also compromised. It was wait and see to determine if he would clear after his detox sedatives were discontinued and he did not.He was still able to hear because he would turn his head toward me when I called his name to say I loved him. He made no eye contact, just had a blank gaze. There was one brief moment in those 8 days in the hospital where he did look directly into my eyes and smiled. Then he returned to staring blankly at the ceiling. I will hold that little smile of recognition in my heart forever. It became palliative care after that.I stayed with him night and day. I wanted him to die at home so Hospice arranged everything to make that possible. This was the cabin we had built to retire in and where we were supposed to grow old together. We were in it 3 years when he passed away. They brought him home on the 14th and he died the following day. He was 73. My sister was there with Rog and me, calm and supportive as ever. My son and his wife were on their way. I want to believe this was Roger's last loving gift to me. We are both at peace and no longer suffering from the cruelty of his addiction. I pray the same for you and Riley, Linda. I am truly thinking of you both.

adri said...

this.. is horrible to read, and terrifying. specially since my father is an alcoholic, and I am terrified that my mother might go through this same type of he'll. I saw my grandparents through death -neither was an alcoholic- and the descritpions match to yours.. and it is so unsettling that you have so many emotions for what is a worthless piece of human meat. please don't waste them.

Unknown said...

I read and I am comforted that we care givers are not alone. I feel such mixed feelings about my 67 year old Riley, yes they have the same name . Marriage number 2 for me. I lost my first amazing husband to melanoma at age 44. His death was devastating to watch and my heart was broken '
Then I made the worst mistake of my life and married Riley. All I had before Riley has been lost and all I have of Riley is everything an alcoholic is.... He still walks and talks but has no friends, no family no life outside of his small world in our house AND his Drinking ( his only friend Is booze ).He is at the stage where the drinking is so in control that he can only do simple task when not drunk . He has such a distorted view of everything and poor memory and yes it is all about him. His ability to love anyone or most of all himself is long gone . Self hatred and resentment for others is all the that is left.
I hate him ,I care for him .I am disgusted with no respect for him . I feel compassion for his illness etc... the feelings go on and on...
I am lucky to have divorced him this spring . YET he still lives with me.... Insane ? Yes you know insane and our reasons we make these choices . It is my choice and I own it. I live isolated from out side support because of the shame of my choices and shame of him. Yet I have made big advances in the past 8 years since his first stay in a treatment center. I have moved myself beyond him and I KNOW I will not be at his death bed ,because he has not earned that gift from me . My fist husband earned and deserved this care . I was so honored to be his wife at his death bed , to help him pass, to lOVE him with every cell in my body and the love was returned . NO my Riley has done nothing to get that gift from me . SO I still have my work cut out for me. .
I found your blog and it is so comforting to know I am not alone.
As I write this I expect that your Riley has passed. Watching someone die is horrible .Caring for someone who threw away their potential because they where to weak to over come their demons is such a great burden on the caregivers heart, . I am so sorry this was what life gave you. BUT what a great living gift you gave your daughter when you made the choice to care for your daughter's father( Riley) so you could spare her this burden . Such great amazing love you must have for her.!!!!
I am comforted to know life has also given YOU so many more gifts, one being the gift of sharing your story with others and I am very grateful for this gift of yours .. . I am support you Linda and the choices you have made.