Caretaker

TW: Suicidal ideation, alcohol abuse

Droplets ran in tiny rivulets down my face as I collapsed with a small splash onto the creaky wooden bench. My entire body had been soaked for at least an hour; by this point, I almost felt that it would be weirder for me not to catch hypothermia. The pattering around me rose and fell with the wind, sending waves of rain one moment and a more steady drip seconds later. Through it all, I didn’t move from that spot. I just put my head into my hands, and let the droplets mix with my own salty tears.

I knew I was dissociating after a time. My tears had run dry, and the only thoughts in my brain had to do with the violent shaking that my body was being put through - certainly an effect of the cold mixing with my heart-racing panic. I knew that I needed to get indoors. I knew I needed to do something. That being said, even the idea of moving, of seeing him right now, just made me double over once more. I didn’t know if I would have it in me to face the lies that had once again become apparent. I had tried so hard to trust him again.

I am sober this time. Really. It’s just a coincidence. You can trust me.

I barely stopped another round of sobs from wrecking through my chest. I knew enough about alcoholism to know that Mark controlling his impulse to drink was about as easy as controlling the storm raging around me. Despite knowing that though, I couldn’t help but feel the pain of disintegrating trust slowly wearing away at my relationship.

How can you plan to spend your life with someone who would always choose a bottle over the life you supposedly wanted to build together?

Stomach in knots, trying not to retch, I put my head in my hands and tried to breath. Couple seconds in through the nose. Hold. Couple seconds out through the mouth. Just like my anxiety-reducing apps always said. This time, it felt like it barely worked. I needed water. I needed to be inside. I wanted to scream until the neighbors called the cops and hell froze over.

At least then, walking through this metaphorical hell again and again would remind me of my cold, mountain home.

I stood on legs as shaky as a baby horse, and clutched the back of the bench for support. Couple more breaths. Good. Then I raised my head and looked down the street, mentally preparing to stumble back past all of the shops and locals who had seen me sprinting through the rain to get here. One foot in front of another. I had to make it back.

When Mark drank, he couldn’t stop. He knew he had an issue, but whatever turn his mental health had taken this year had left him with the debilitating need to keep picking up the bottle. Usually he tried to hide it, to varying degrees of success, for a couple of days. Sometimes I realized it sooner. Sometimes it was only when he needed a ride to the emergency room that I would be allowed to know. Seeing Mark, the love of my life for years before this cycle, covered in tubes, spasming as his body fought to control the poison he had overloaded it with, never failed to terrify me. More than the thousands of dollars of medical bills we had accumulated, more than my own failing mental health, all I wished was for him to regain his sobriety. I wanted the lies to stop and the games with death to stop and all of that hinged on his stopping the god-damned drinking.

I knew he needed me now. I knew I shouldn’t have run out on him when he told me that he had been lying and drinking again. I dragged myself inside and up the steps to our second-floor condo, only pausing right outside our door. My body ached. My brain felt tight and spent; half-formed thoughts rolled around within me but it would be hours before I could detangle them. Sleep would probably help, but if we were headed back to the hospital I knew I would have to make do with a quick nap on the tile floor instead of anything substantial.

Work tomorrow was going to be a bitch.

I stumbled inside, then righted myself. I needed to be the stable one now. I needed to get Mark to a place with some help. I knocked on the bedroom door, and opened it to his sleeping form, stretched corner to corner across our bed. At least he wasn’t waiting, angry, after seeing me flee. Mark’s right arm spasmed, turning him over like a twisted pretzel. Detox had begun and I needed to get a move on.

“Mark.” I said, my voice still shaky but as calm as I could make it. “Mark, I’m home. I’m sorry I left. Come on, we need to get you to the hospital.” The man’s one eye opened and stared at me, half-asleep.

“No I’m fine, I can wean myself down.”

“Mark. You’re spasming. Take a breathalyzer if you need to assure yourself your BAC is high enough to be admitted. I promise, and I’ve seen you like this enough times to promise, that we need to get in the car. Now.”

Now that I was home, in caretaker mode, I could feel my brain begin to regain focus. I concentrated on moving Mark into the car step by step. Get the shoes that are easy to slip off and on. Grab his wallet. Grab my wallet. Then I let the driving become the same. Right turn at the first light. Left turn at the second. I knew the way to the hospital by heart as long as I could keep awake.

The rain fell in sheets against the car window, and I locked my gaze on the barely perceptible lines marking the right and left sides of the street. With my brain still so fuzzy, those lines gave me just barely enough guidance to keep the car in lane and in the right direction. I was glad no one else was on the road though, just in case. Every second felt like a war within myself. There was a side of me that just wanted to spin the wheel as hard as it would go and let everything stop for both of us.

I couldn’t let that side win. Not when Mark was relying on me.

We pulled up to the hospital and I went to Mark’s side just in time to see him throw open the door and spew vomit beside the car. He must have been holding it in during the drive. Normally we think to bring a trash can, but of course this time we hadn’t brought anything beyond the necessities to get him checked in. I gave him a couple minutes, and when he finally looked up and met my gaze I nodded once, stepped around the bile, and offered him my arm so he could brace on something as he got out.

We stumbled inside together and I watched as he checked himself in, grabbing one of the little round throw up bags in case the need arose again. I was always surprised by everything that Mark remembered in these moments, although I assumed it had to do with the number of times he had had to check himself into hospitals on autopilot without someone there beside him. The staff secured a patient bracelet around his left hand and ushered us into the back.

Normally when we came in for Mark’s alcohol abuse, the hospital would take a good hour to check in and another thirty minutes at least to set up the drugs and fluids that would ease the symptoms in Mark’s body and allow him to cycle out the alcohol. Today though, the doctor was there within seconds to talk with the patient and determine what Mark would need. Definitely nausea medication and a couple rounds of fluids. Then some heavier drugs to help him actually coast. It was always combinations of the same basic ingredients, but the speed this time was welcomed. As the familiar medication names were thrown around and needles inserted, I leaned back into the hard plastic chair and managed to fall asleep.

The dream I entered into was dreary and dark. I was back on that bench, the one I had run to when I had realized that Mark was drinking again. This time though, I wasn’t alone. There was a young girl beside me, bright blond hair with blue-gray eyes that showed intelligence beyond her years. With a start, I realized that the girl was in fact a younger version of myself. I froze and stared at her as she kicked her legs under the bench and looked off into the inky distance.

“You know, you aren’t wrong for wanting someone who will protect you too.” she said, her voice - my voice - was high pitched and so much more carefree than I remembered ever being. “Even if you love him, it’s okay to still want someone who wants to live.”

Obviously, my brain was trying to help me come to terms with the fact that I didn’t have a lot of these nights left in me. I didn’t respond. I just buried my head back into my hands, and once again began to weep.