I’ve touched on this subject in some of my earlier posts, but it’s something I feel compelled to write about more fully, as it may well have been the worst week of my life. I know that’s a heavy claim and I don’t make it lightly, but I truly went through hell. What follows is what I can recall firsthand, along with details I was later told by others who were involved or witnessed parts of it. I hope this post helps bring some closure to the whole debacle. It gives me no pleasure to revisit these events, and I won’t be censoring myself. Here we go…
I was falling down. I couldn’t make it to the kitchen or front door without getting lightheaded and collapsing to the floor, and it was becoming increasingly difficult to haul myself back up. The episodes were getting worse and more frequent, occurring a few times each day. I called my wonderful mother and told her I needed to go to hospital. My dad arrived and picked me up — literally as I was falling at home — and I was still on the floor when he reached me. He lifted me, but I couldn’t even stand without feeling like I was about to pass out. Holding on to him for support, I fell again and badly injured my coccyx; it still hurts a month later. We somehow managed to get me into the car and drive me to my parents’ house. After my mum checked me over she insisted we go to the emergency room at Frankston Hospital. In hindsight that was a bad idea — I should have used my health insurance and gone to a private hospital where the whole ordeal would likely have been handled more smoothly. I was wheeled into a crowded waiting room, and from past experience I feared it could be a long wait.
What’s important to know is that I hadn’t been drinking at all before this happened — no alcohol, no drugs, nothing of that sort.
Something happened between the ER and the psychiatric ward that I’ll never fully understand. It was at that point that I lost all memory of what came next. It felt strange to be taken to the psych ward when the problem I’d been admitted for would normally have sent me to a different unit. For the following two days I endured the most intense psychotic attack I have ever experienced. It was as if someone had given me fifty potent doses of LSD without any warning. At least when you’re tripping you have some sense of why things are distorted; here I was plunged into staggering confusion with no explanation. I couldn’t tell what was real, what was a dream, or where reality began and ended. What the hell was happening? Have I died? I remember thinking that. I won’t claim to have had a full out-of-body experience, but I was overwhelmed by the strong sensation of wandering the hospital, passing through walls, and hallucinating vividly. I felt compelled to find my body so I could be pulled back from that terrifying, disorienting state.
Mum and dad were apparently there trying to calm me as I was pulling out my IVs and giving the nurses a hard time. I can’t remember doing any of this, but they say I was agitated and confused, lashing out at anyone who tried to help. Security was going to be called because I couldn’t follow what I was being told, my attention drifting and my behaviour becoming unpredictable. I wandered off into other patients’ rooms, interacting with all of the crazies you’d expect to find in Frankston, striking up strange conversations and alarming staff. For some reason — which, like so much of this blog, makes as much sense as anything else — I believed I had been scrummaging through a bin filled with used sharps. I imagined them sticking out of my arm and felt compelled to pull each one out, one by one. “You’re going to definitely die now,” I can recall thinking, terrified and certain of the outcome. It took me a few days, even after I was back to reality, to realise none of that had actually happened. The memory was so vivid it felt real.
I called my dad to tell him my car had been stolen after hearing an announcement over the PA. It came through as clear as day: “David, your car has been towed… with the numberplates…” — and it mentioned my exact numberplate. Dad told me I must be confused. I was more than confused; I felt utterly psychotic.
On the second or third day I alerted one of the nurses that I couldn’t urinate. That was enough for them to perform an ultrasound on my bladder, and we discovered it was over a litre full. Without my prior knowledge I was rushed to another part of the hospital, only to realise they were going to insert a catheter. I was still not entirely myself, although I was much improved. Seriously, guys, I wouldn’t recommend this as something to do for kicks. It was painful. They attached a drainage bag to me which meant I needed the nurses to empty it regularly. All of this felt deeply embarrassing — the whole ordeal was humiliating. How did I manage to find myself here? I wondered. What on earth did I do to deserve this?
What happened next was something I needed to hear but had never been told before. I’m not sure whether it was a dream or just another vivid hallucination. A doctor poked his head into my small room and told me that if I drank alcohol again I would most likely die. It was exactly what I did not want to hear in the fragile state I was in. I’m not 100% certain it was real, but regardless I’m choosing to take it seriously and to tell myself that it was indeed real. I’ve posted about this many times, and it’s become a warning that helps keep me sober for the rest of my life. Imagine what would have happened if I hadn’t gone to the hospital that particular day — I would have been at home drinking beer, accelerating the breakdown of my kidneys.
Nobody had any clear idea what was happening to me until we discovered I had overdosed on calcium from Quick-Eze. I had been consuming about 20 of those a day, sometimes even more, relying on them to ease persistent heartburn. Who would have thought that my repeated falls, dizzy spells and fainting were all caused by antacids? Apparently my calcium levels were absolutely off the chart. Once I stopped taking them, the symptoms disappeared. The only remaining issue to be diagnosed was the bladder problem. It wasn’t the first time I’d experienced that issue, but previously it had only occurred a few times in the distant past. Unfortunately, that problem still hasn’t been resolved.
As a far-out guess, I would say I had the DTs, since several features matched classic delirium tremens: the intense auditory and visual hallucinations, the profound confusion, and the timing — roughly 48 hours after my last drink. I can’t find any other plausible causes. I’ve read extensively about DTs, have books on the subject, and have watched dozens of people describe their experiences on YouTube, so perhaps this is what was happening to me. There was a lot of similarities.
A week after being admitted I finally went home. I had been pushing for this constantly, as you can probably imagine. I wanted out of that place like someone desperate to leave a prison. I wanted real food again, I needed proper, uninterrupted sleep, and I missed the little comforts of home—there was no wi‑fi or TV, only the frequent screams from other mentally ill patients. The lights stayed on all the time, there were beeps and buzzers sounding day and night, and I was repeatedly jolted awake by nurses coming in to draw blood or take my blood pressure. In the end I got next to no sleep at all while I was there.
Once I left the hospital I went back to live with my folks. I go into this in detail in older posts. This blog has gone for too long. I just wanted to share my experience. Still, there are so many unanswered questions that I will never get to the bottom of. Thank you for reading.
I have to throw this out there; THANK YOU, Mum. You were there for me every single day while I was in the hospital—bringing me fresh clothes, keeping me company, and sitting with me through the worst of it. Thank you for staying calm when I was behaving erratically, for working closely with the doctors and nurses, and for handling everything I couldn’t. I’m so grateful for all the care, patience, and love you gave me during that difficult time.