The Threesome

The Threesome: me, my husband and the vodka bottle

The alarm was beeping, and as I came to, I looked to my left, my heart
leaping. He was clammy and shivering, his voice wobbled when he spoke
and he looked pale, gaunt and much older than his 30 years. This was
the sight that had greeted me every morning for several months, and
each night I would go to sleep praying to whatever God was out there,
that tomorrow would be different, that I would have back the man than I
married.

Anyone looking at him would think he had 'flu - the symptoms were
similar, and 'flu was certainly a convenient reason for to warrant time
off from work. It had always amazed me how he would wake in such a
pitiful state, and by mid-afternoon, the symptoms would disappear, only
to rear their ugly heads again the following morning. I couldn't
understand how he could be so ill, recover, and relapse on an almost
daily basis. That was until, the dreadful reality hit me, as I realised
that there was only one thing that could improve his "condition", and
that was alcohol.

That turned my mind upside down. Surely a sensible, down to earth,
supposedly intelligent career woman like me couldn't possibly have
fallen in love with and married an alcoholic? It seems to me that the
only people with drink problems were tramps on the street, and
over-partied celebrities, not "normal" people like us. As the awful
realisation dawned, I found myself experiencing a mixture of emotions.
What will my parents say? Will our friends abandon us? Does anyone need
to find out? Surely he can just stop - it can't be that much of a big
deal. All these different emotions rushed through my brain like a
whirlwind, leaving me struggling to maintain rational thought.

I decided my parents did not need to know. In their beautiful house in
rural Shropshire, over 250 miles away, they would feel helpless. I also
convinced myself that I'd let them down, and so wanted them to be proud
of me, but what sort of idiot would marry a drunk. Eventually I
convinced myself it was just a blip, and we could sort it out, and get
"back to normal" without anyone finding out. I was fortunate to be
surrounded by many friends, but decided to keep most of them in the
dark, by avoiding situations where they would come into contact with
him, and skirting round any sensitive subjects. I confided in one close
friend who has been marvellously supportive, and has helped me through
the subsequent traumatic and difficult months.

My biggest mistake was thinking "surely he can stop". I have since
learned that alcoholism is an illness, and one from which you don't
just recover. Like any other serious illness, you need care, knowledge
and support of dedicated professionals to get through, and learn to
live without relying on an alcoholic drink for support. I discovered
that stopping drinking in itself can have very serious, even life
threatening, side effects, as I was soon to discover. An alcoholic
rarely realises that they have a problem, and until they do, nothing or
no-one can help them. This was a hard lesson to learn, being totally
helpless, but one that eventually, you have to give in to.

I always assumed that I knew best. I nagged, cajoled and bullied my
ailing husband into seeking medical attention, which, on the first of
many occasions he agreed to. Even at this stage, I had become all too
aware of the behavioural symptoms of alcoholism such as denial, deceit
and delusionalism, so we agreed that I would go to the doctors with him
and see what could be done. It was at this point that I realised
alcoholics are perfected liars, especially to themselves. The this day,
our doctor, a lovely man who tried so hard to help, says he believed
the lies and promises. We would go into the surgery, he would tell my
husband that he was putting his life in danger, it would be agreed that
he would stop drinking, and would be prescribed tablets to counteract
the withdrawal symptoms. Sounds like a huge step forward doesn't it?
Well, believe me, that was the easy part. Alcohol addiction affects
your whole body, but especially the liver and brain. Like any drug,
your body becomes accustomed to taking it, and when it is taken away,
the results can be catastrophic. I have lost count of the times we went
round this cycle, so I may even sound quite blas? about it. Watching
someone go through "detox" and suffer what is commonly known as "cold
turkey", is one of the most heart wrenching experiences you could
imagine.

The first day is easy, you take the tablets, feel fine and think, "this
is easy". By day two you are feeling like you have every morning, but
intensified 20 times, and it lasts all day because you can't have a
drink to relieve the symptoms. You are shaking so much you cannot hold
a glass of water, you can't eat, you're nauseous, everything hurts and
you can't stop shaking. After three days of watching my beloved husband
go through this, I am ashamed to say I was almost tempted to go out and
buy a bottle of vodka to calm the symptoms. It was so traumatic, and I
would done anything to ease his pain. Day four and five gradually got
easier, and by day seven, you are totally free of alcohol in your
bloodstream, and are feeling "normal". I though by this point the
difficult bit was over? Sadly, the journey to sobriety was only just
beginning.

I remember thinking at this point, "ok, he doesn't physically need
alcohol now - he just has to keep off the drink and he'll be fine".
This was true, but what I hadn't appreciated was that in order to get
the condition fully under control (there's not such thing as a cured
alcoholic), we needed to look much deeper at the reasons why he was
drinking, and this proved to be the stumbling block. He had managed to
convince himself, once the "cold turkey" episode was over, that he was
"cured". I remember him telling me "I don't have a problem anymore".
The silly thing is, I so wanted to believe him, although I am now quite
sure that he didn't really believe himself.

The crunch would inevitably come when something went wrong, just a
small disagreement between us would do it, that would be his excuse to
go out and drink and, as will all alcohol dependent people, he could
not stop at one. Before long, I would guess perhaps a week, he would be
back to his old ways. Bottles of vodka stashed in the garage which he
would drink in the morning, just to be able to function for work. He
would pour the vodka into a water bottle to drink on the train, top up
in the pub at lunchtime, have a few cans on the train coming home, and
go out in the evening. It didn't come as any surprise to me or the
doctor, though of course not my husband, that his liver was at breaking
point. Liver function tests showed his liver was very badly damaged,
although as the only organ in the body to regenerate, it was very
resilient to the abuse it was suffering. Several incidents triggered
him into realising enough was enough from time to time, such as not
being able to go to a family lunch at my sisters house before having
two very strong pints of lager at 10.30am to calm the shaking.
Ironically, the one experience that you would think would persuade
anyone to be teetotal for life, had little effect.

We had gone to New York for the weekend to see Bon Jovi. I had won the
flights, tickets to the concert, and accommodation at the Hilton, New
Jersey in a competition, and we were both thrilled at the prospect. It
was to be the trip of a lifetime. My husband had never been a keen
flyer and had always drunk at the airport and on the plane, to calm his
nerves - the fact that he would become irritable and aggressive without
a drink was one of the warning signs that I should have noticed a long
time before I did. This time, he limited himself to a couple of cans of
lager at my insistence. We arrived at Newark airport on a balmy
afternoon, after a comfortable flight. After a meal, we retired to bed
to recover, intending to go sightseeing in New York the following day,
before the concert.

The following morning, a familiar sight greeted me, he was clammy,
shaky and sweating profusely and was having trouble speaking. I knew
this time he looked worse than I had ever seen him. His skin had gone
almost transparent in colour, and he couldn't even walk from one side
of the room to the other. My heart sank. How were we going to get
through a day in New York with him in that state? We went down to
breakfast in the hotel restaurant, as in my wisdom I thought perhaps
food might make him feel better. He was looking worse by the second but
I was persevering with my breakfast, then, before my eyes he started
convulsing uncontrollably before my eyes and collapsed on the floor,
foaming at the mouth. He had turned almost grey in colour. Despite
being well training in first aid, I froze, and it was left to one of
the hotel staff to dial 911 for an ambulance and put him in the
recovery position. We were taken to the hospital at break neck speed,
me in the front with the driver, and him in the back with the medical
staff. When we arrived at the hospital, I was asked about his medical
history, and then it hit me. There was no medical history of epilepsy
in the family, but fitting was a common symptom of alcohol withdrawal,
and what with the time difference, he had been without an alcoholic
drink for over 12 hours. My fears were confirmed when the tests were
completed, and the lovely American doctor told him quite insistently
that he would die if he did not stop drinking. He was put on drugs to
help with the withdrawal, and given strict instructions not to drink
and alcohol. They released him from hospital two days later, in time to
fly home, but at the earliest opportunity, he had discarded the
tablets, in favour of a pint of lager.

To this day, he has not apologised to me for ruining my trip of a
lifetime, but in a way, he did me a favour. By the time we arrived
home, I had decided enough was enough, and that I was going to take a
decision and leave him. I was forced to tell my parents, but they still
don't know the extent of the problem. I moved out nine months ago, and
after moving around the sofas of various friends and family, I have
just rented a lovely flat in South London, and feel ready to start my
new life. We complete on the sale of our marital home next week, and
with my share of the profits to help me along, things can only get
better.

My husband is still drinking, he has lost his job and is leaving on a
meagre allowance from the state. He looks pitiful, unhealthy, thinner
than I have ever seen him, and a million miles away from the lovely,
kind, thoughtful and funny man I married in 1997. I don't hate him, I
just feel immense pity for the life he has wasted. I have met someone
else, and whether it will be forever, who knows, but for now, I have my
own place to come home to, and no-one is going to take that away from
me. My experiences have made me cautious, but that is no bad thing. I
don't find it hard to trust men, but I do feel very wary in the
presence of large amounts of alcohol, just the smell makes me nauseous,
but that I am sure, will diminish with time.

I still wish I could put my finger on what caused a young, fit, and
happy young man, to turn to drink to solve whatever problems for which
he felt there was no other solution, and part of me feels guilty for
not being able to help him. But I now realise, the truth of old clich?
that the only person that can help an alcoholic is themselves. Until he
hits rock bottom, bearing mind that losing his house, wife, job and
friends isn't rock bottom enough, he will not want or feel able to turn
his life around.

I, in the meantime, am so thankful for all things good - friends, who
made me realise that staying with him would allow him to drag me down
too and family, who have supported me emotionally and ensured that I
was never alone. But most of all, I have learned to take advantage of
my own resilience and self respect, and be thankful I had the courage
to make the right decision and take control of my own life.