“Delirium tremens (DTs) is the most severe and potentially life-threatening form of alcohol withdrawal. It causes sudden, severe mental and nervous system changes, typically striking individuals with a history of heavy, long-term alcohol use who suddenly reduce or stop drinking”
This is becoming stupid and increasingly frustrating. This is the fourth and final time I’m battling this blog entry. I don’t want to write a ten‑page account. These are the basics: with my mum’s help I was wheeled into the emergency ward because my blood pressure had dropped so low I couldn’t even make it to the kitchen letterbox without collapsing to my knees. That terrified me. This is why I went in. After starving my body of fluids, drinking beer daily, and withdrawing from medications, I had left myself in a very bad state. I now know I was experiencing DTs (delirium tremens). Most people think DTs are just shakes and sweats, but they are far more severe and disorienting. It’s important to stress that I hadn’t had a drink for two days before this all happened.
I am well acquainted with hallucinations, but this delirium tremens experience was far more intense. The entire weeklong stay passed in a foggy blur. Thank God my mum was with me in the ICU ward, because I was in no state to communicate coherently. Apparently I was difficult for the nurses to manage—pulling out IV drips, wandering the hospital, and upsetting the staff and everyone who was trying to help. When hospital staff spoke to me, I couldn’t tell whether they were real people or figments of my imagination, hallucinations, or simply my waking body trapped in a sleep‑like mode.
What happened next was completely unexpected. I mentioned I was having some urinary issues, and almost immediately the situation escalated: before I fully understood what was happening I found myself in surgery having a catheter inserted. What the hell? I was not in any state of mind to give meaningful consent to that procedure. It left me tethered to a drainage bag for the rest of my stay, with only the nurses able to empty it for me. It wasn’t pleasant, and I won’t go into the grisly details here. Utterly humiliating.
I had a doctor who walked into my room and told me, quite plainly, that if I had one more drink it could kill me. If that stark, direct warning wasn’t enough to nudge me toward staying sober, I don’t know what else would have been. The only problem is I’m left wondering whether I was hallucinating — I’m not completely certain the conversation actually took place.
My room at the hospital was tiny, barely more than a cramped cubicle, with only a thin, stained curtain separating me from my roommate. The beds weren’t built for people over six feet tall, so comfort was minimal and awkward; my knees jutted into the thin blanket and the mattress sagged. I would toss and turn as beepers, distant sirens and the occasional screaming of other patients went on without pause all night; they were relentless and indifferent to fatigue. Light sleep felt like a luxury I couldn’t afford. I had never been a public patient before, apart from a few very early, brief admissions, and the place felt unfamiliar and unforgiving. Frankston psych carries one of the worst reputations in the state — you often come out worse than when you went in — and some of the things that happened there were traumatic enough to leave me with lasting PTSD. I was basically stranded in my little room for the week. I dropped in and out of psychosis. All of the meds in the world couldn’t knock me out.
Blood tests every day, echocardiograms, chest x-rays and multiple bladder ultrasounds — a relentless parade of investigations. I genuinely believed I was on my deathbed and found myself coming to terms with my own mortality. It felt like the end of Dave, though I never imagined it would happen in a place like Frankston Psych. This was the lowest point in my life, a time of raw fear and helplessness. Thank God I had my folks with me, especially Mum, who took charge of managing the consultations with doctors and nurses. I was on eleven different medications, and Mum was completely on top of it — even more organised and insistent than the staff.
I never got into the drad of the DT’s. It felt as if someone had slipped me ten acid trips without warning. I was on a different planet, utterly disoriented, and I kept the nurses on their feet. A thin curtain separated me from the dying old man next to me; he left a few hours before I did and was replaced by a GHP user whose catheter lay on his bed right beside mine. There was no privacy at all. I would stumble through those curtains that seemed to go on forever, completely lost in either dream or waking hallucination. Over and over I found myself in a room where a woman lay in bed — without exaggeration I must have done this a dozen times. I was in room 21 and somehow kept being guided back to my bed again and again. Voices told me what trouble to cause. I continuously pulled at my IV drip and anything else that delivered medication. I was out of control: I hadn’t had a drink, hadn’t taken my meds properly, and I was severely dehydrated. They must have injected a strong benzo or sedative before I went to sleep, because gradually I got past the worst of the delusions and the chaos that came with them.
Mum and dad didn’t think I was going to make it; they were deeply worried and kept asking questions. It had them extremely concerned, and they later told me they feared I wouldn’t come back down. The stress I put on them through this episode, once again, was unfortunate and weighed heavily on all of us. Whether it was the doctor who delivered the grim warning — that if I drank again I might not survive — That harsh news was the push I needed. I’m not totally sure, but he seemed real enough to me at the time, and his words have stuck. I have to get my head around living a completely sober life from here on in, one hundred percent. No big deal, I tell myself; I don’t get cravings, and I haven’t thought about drinking since that message from the doctor — the ghost-man who gave me the grim news.
I was diagnosed with kidney disease. Only two percent of this vital organ was working, a sobering and startling fact. I would never have known otherwise. Now I feel tip‑top and on top of the world again. There’s not much I can do to reverse the damage, only try to protect what’s left: stay off the piss and watch my diet carefully. If this isn’t a call to stop my drinking, I don’t know what is. I think I needed this wake‑up. Drinking was no longer fun or giving me that old sense of contentment. I wasn’t drinking for the taste anymore; I was drinking to get intoxicated. It was making me genuinely ill. The hangovers dragged on for days and bore no resemblance to those I had as a young lad. It’s true — they do get worse as you get older. Now, even the thought of an alcoholic beverage makes me feel sick.
I couldn’t take another day in that place. I was determined to go home barely a week after admission. I had to persuade the medical staff — the psychiatrists, psychologists, doctors and nurses — that I was ready. I had regained my bearings and it was time to perform my magic. I promised I would go into Beleura and see my psychiatrist. I told the drug and alcohol program that I would attend all the classes and join the outpatient groups… all of it was bullshit. I would have signed up for anything to win my freedom from that awful hospital. I was discharged, and since then I have ignored every text message and calls from those programs. Like hell I’m wasting my time doing those activities. I’m not under anyone’s control now, and I’m quite confident I can take care of myself in the comfort of my own home. I don’t need psychoanalysis to fix something I believe I have complete control over.
It’s important to note that I’m not a full-blown alcoholic. I often go through long periods of abstinence — before the latest binge I managed seven months sober. I feel a little hard done by to have gone through all of this when I’m not even a hardcore drinker. Mostly I stick to beer, not bottles of the heavy stuff, and I make a point of taking breaks and drinking tonnes of water every day. It’s frustrating living in the Aussie culture where it’s widely accepted to drink as much as you want. Because I don’t have social groups or drinking buddies, I tend to drink alone. The only real deterrent for me is when I have to drive — I strictly don’t get behind the wheel after I’ve had a few. About 20 years ago I learnt my lesson the hard way when I lost my licence for drink-driving, but that story needs another blog post. Thanks for reading, guys.