I stumbled through the sliding glass doors underneath the giant, brightly lit sign marked: EMERGENCY, and pushed forward toward the desk, leaning for momentum as if against the wind. In my hand I held the bucket that had become my best friend for the last four days. I had not been friends with the bucket long enough to give a face and call it Wilson, but I think it is safe to say I referred to him as Rolph.

The girl behind the counter jumped back as I plowed into the desk and slammed Rolph onto its surface. I had a million things to say, but all that would come out was, “I need help”. In retrospect, it probably sounded more like three grunts. There would be no waiting room for me.

The girl helped me sit down in a chair next to the desk and asked just a few basic questions before ushering me back; my name, date of birth, and why I was there. She quickly prepared two bracelets and attached them to my wrists. I could hardly stand, much less answer her questions, but she seemed to understand.

The reason for being in the emergency room that evening, was that once again my attempts to dissolve a lifetime of fear, shame, regret and self-hatred by dropping them in glasses of vodka like a couple of Alka-Seltzer had failed miserably (Oh, what a relief it isn’t). I had simply woken up one morning two weeks before and did not have the ability to face life any longer, so I just decided to drink and drink, alone on my couch, and hope that the world would just come down around me. I know… what a pussy.

I gave up on everything, including time. If I passed out at 10pm and woke up at 2am, I just started drinking again until the next time I passed out. I did this again and again until the couch became a prison.

Sounds delusional? You don’t know the half of it. If I told you the things that went through my mind during those two weeks, even the greatest miser among you would gladly contribute to a Kickstarter campaign to keep me in the most fashionable of straight-jackets for the remainder of my life.

Regardless, sometime around the two week mark I had a moment I like to call “falling awake” (the fact that I have a name for it probably says it all). That day, I rose to make the morning drink that might make it all go away, when the vodka suddenly tasted like poison. As I waited for the feeling to pass, so that I could get back on the road to nothingness, a ray of sanity penetrated my thoughts. When this happens, I can’t really remember how I got here, and I am shocked that it is happening at all.

With no other recourse, I stopped drinking. I have done this before and the price of stopping these benders involves days of uncontrollable shaking, sleeplessness, hallucinations, cold sweats and some vomiting. However; this time it came with something new – a complete shutdown of my ability to consume anything at all.

Within the first day, food was impossible and soon I could not even hold down a glass of water. By that evening, I had resorted to sucking on ice cubes in an attempt to get some moisture in my body. Unfortunately, after about four ice cubes I would be forced to reach for my new buddy Rolph and give them back. To add insult to injury, these returns would be so violent that my entire body would sweat as if I had just completed a high-intensity run; thereby robbing me of even more of my precious bodily fluids (you will have to have seen the 1960’s classic Dr. Strangelove to get that joke, but trust me-it’s funny).

We all take water for granted, but if you should ever find yourself in a situation where you cannot consume water, you will appreciate it in ways you never thought possible. As I laid on my prison/couch, trying to distract myself with television, I would fixate longingly every time a character would take a drink of anything and I would jealously listen to the dog lap water in the next room and it felt as if she were doing it right in my ear out of spite.

By the fourth day, I was able to consume neither food nor water, slept a total of five hours, lost fifteen pounds (I don’t recommend this diet), could barely move, and my heart was pounding so hard that it was all that I could hear. When it was dark and I was praying to a god I no longer believed in to just give me one hour of sleep, I began to see little animals scurrying around on the ground around me. These were not real.

Faced with another night of hell, one that I was uncertain I would survive, I went to the hospital. After many bags of fluids and medications, I began to feel human again. When they finally felt it was safe, an angel brought me a Popsicle. I would like to describe how magical that frozen flavored water tasted, but I am just not a good enough writer to do so. I would have traded the winning Powerball ticket for that Popsicle. As I consumed the heavenly treat, I began making promises.

In the interest of full disclosure, I am a man of broken promises, but intend to keep this one if it kills me. I will never consume alcohol again for the rest of my life and I will do whatever it takes to achieve that goal. There is nothing wrong with drinking if you are the kind of person that can, but I am just not one of those people. I have been sober for seven days and I will work to peel away each new day as if it is part of an eternal advent calendar with a priceless prize underneath each new slot.

When it was time to leave the hospital and remove the bracelets I had been given, I noticed something strange. On my right wrist was the large white band that listed my name, age, date of birth, as well as multiple bar-codes that linked to every bit of information about me. On my left was a simple yellow bracelet, like one you would get in a nightclub, and it said even more about me than the other with just two simple words in bold black letters… FALL RISK

Post Script:

The place where I was treated is called Memorial Hospital. The care I received there was nothing short of amazing. One of the nights, after I turned off the television and tried to sleep, I lay in my bed and listened to the sounds of human suffering all around me. Through my doorway I watched as nurses, assistants and technicians selflessly battled these strangers’ suffering. I suddenly realized that these women and men engage in this combat every day. I would like to offer a toast to these caregivers, and although it is considered bad form, I know they will understand if the glass I raise is filled with water.