I came across this terrifying, yet oddly mesmerizing, 184-year-old quote while reading Ch. 6 of Under the Influence by James Milam & Katherine Ketcham.
“Among all sources of disease, alcohol stands preeminent as a destroyer….This pestilent principle generally seeks for asylum where it may practice its deadliest deeds in some important and vital organ of the body. It sometimes makes the brain more particularly the seat of its venom, and victim of its cruelties. At another time, it hides itself in the inmost recess of the heart, or coils around it like a serpent; now it fixes upon the lungs; now upon the kidneys, upon the liver; the bladder; the pancreas, the intestines or the skin. It can agitate the heart until it throbs and bursts, or it can reduce pulsation until it becomes impalpable. It can distract the head until the brain ‘sweats blood,’ and horrified reason flies away and leaves the man a maniac or a madman….I never knew a person become insane who was not in the habit of taking a portion of alcohol daily.” — Rev. Benjamin Parsons, 1840
The rest of the reverend’s essay depicts the gruesome realities of alcoholism in equally visceral language, but these lines stood out to me the most. I was surprised at how closely it echoed my dad’s experiences when I first read it a year or two after his passing. Much of Under the Influence mirrors my dad’s final year of life.
When I compared the book to Dad’s hospital records and saw how everything lined up, I felt like such a fool. His records were unbelievably painful to read, but I was determined to get through all 2,989 pages, lest I miss something important or, gods forbid, I hadn’t adequately flogged myself for not being there for him.
Discovering that Dad had been admitted to the hospital just three days before his death was devastating.
He’d also been to the hospital twice in May, the first for two days and the second for a week, only three days after being discharged. I was in Washington getting engaged to my boyfriend. To keep that moment special for me, my mom and little sister refrained from telling me about his hospitalization until I got home. By the time I did, Dad was already back in the hospital again. So, I just assumed he’d never left, and it was all one long stay.
After my sister informed me of Dad’s whereabouts, I contacted the hospital to inquire about his status. I was naïve enough to believe that his perilous situation would finally be addressed when the nurse assured me that an elder abuse investigation had been opened, but nothing would come of it. It was up to Dad to decide whether to pursue that course of action, and his current mental state was not exactly filling him with determination.
His ex-wife told me her concerns after Dad was checked out by his new fiancée. But I failed to grasp the seriousness of his condition. Would that have made a difference? I have to wonder if I brushed his ex off because Dad had conditioned me not to believe her.
Maybe the truth’s even bleaker: I’d given him up as hopeless. Or maybe I was just so preoccupied with getting Dad away from what I perceived as “the problem” that I neglected to ask more vital questions.
We were encouraged to believe that Dad was “pretty darn healthy” by the woman who took over his care from us. Perhaps if I had a more magnanimous and lenient disposition, I could’ve entertained the possibility that the doctors neglected to tell her about the gravity of Dad’s swiftly declining health. But I can’t do that because I remember what it was like when I was the person sitting with Dad at the hospital. His doctors might’ve only told us half of what they should have, which I’d only understand once we subpoenaed his hospital records after his death, but they did keep us informed at a bare minimum.
Putting all that aside, Dad’s chosen paramour was once a registered nurse. She lost her license for HIPPA violations, but we can’t overlook the years of study and expertise she gained. As a former RN, she should’ve recognized that Dad was far from pretty darn healthy.
One of Dad’s old friends visited him before he left the hospital; afterward, she told Dad’s recent ex-wife that her number, along with many others, had been blocked in his phone, making it impossible for certain people to reach him. (My recurring nightmare: what if Dad had tried reaching out to me, couldn’t, and thought I was ignoring him?)
When I heard that, I quickly texted him my love, telling him, while I still could, that I had gotten engaged and how heartbroken I was that he hadn’t been involved with any of it. I told him he could still come live with me while he recovered, but I couldn’t watch him die like this.
Six days after his last hospital visit in May, on the 1st of June, Dad’s fiancée of 35 days was in a car accident while driving Dad’s rental car.
She made a run for it, hiding out with one of her two boyfriends. The same one who would later bail her out of jail. This man was the first person she called after the accident, according to the police report; she did not call my dad, her husband-to-be, yet the very next day she still married him. In secret. My sister and I would not know they had actually gotten married until after Dad’s death. We found out with everyone else when she posted a massive photo dump on his Facebook wall.
Given Dad’s uncanny resemblance to the Grim Reaper in their wedding pictures, it’s no surprise that she opted to keep the photos under wraps or that she waited until his passing to reveal their secret marriage. (This woman was chronically online so there’s no excuse for her not posting them sooner.)
I’m grateful someone warned my mom about her post so she could tell me about my dad’s death in person before I saw it on Facebook.
Four days before his death, Dad’s brand-new wife is allegedly spotted out in a white dress at the Coronation Ball, a local event, with her second side piece. We live in a small town where everybody knows everybody, so it’s easy to find these things out if you have the gumption. It’s the night before Dad calls 911 for the final time.
On the 12th of June, Dad goes to the hospital one last time.
This visit nearly breaks me when I find out about it. When we finally receive the hospital records, I’m at a loss. I can’t understand how the doctors could have let such a seriously ill man leave. They could have saved him. He was right there.
At this visit, Dad’s alcohol level was 497, which commonly leads to coma, respiratory arrest, hypotension, and even death. Yet an hour after receiving this critically high test result, his doctor allowed his wife to check him out and take him home.
To die alone.
“The late-stage alcoholic spends most of his time drinking, since otherwise his agony is excruciating….The late-stage alcoholic is so ravaged by his disease that he cannot even understand that alcohol is destroying him. He is only aware that alcohol offers quick and miraculous relief from the constant agony, mental confusion, and emotional turmoil. Alcohol, his deadly poison, is also his necessary medicine.” (Milam and Ketcham, 82)
Resources:
Milam, James Robert, and Katherine Ketcham. Under the Influence. Bantam, 1983.
Parsons, Benjamin. “ANTI-BACCHUS; AN ESSAY ON THE CRIMES, DISASTERS, AND OTHER EVILS CONNECTED WITH THE USE OF INTOXICATING DRINKS.” IN THIS WORK THE CHARACTERS OF THE WINES OF SCRIPTURES IS SETTLED IN ACCORDANCE WITH THE INDUCTIONS OF SCIENCE AND THE FACTS OF HISTORY, J. Snow, London, 1840, pp. 34–35. books.google.com/books?id=NOxhAAAAcAAJ&pg=PA34&lpg=PA34&dq.
Hotlines:
- National Helpline for Substance Abuse and Mental Health Services Administration (SAMHSA): 1-800-662-HELP (4357)
Websites:
- Alcoholics Anonymous (AA)
- Al-Anon Family Groups
- National Institute on Alcohol Abuse and Alcoholism (NIAAA)
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This is an epic warning. But also a reality check- we are all