Part 3: Hope, With Edges
I left off with My Guy in the ICU.
Yesterday I got up at 4:30 in the morning so that I could take my time getting ready to leave by 6am to get there for 7:30. I didn’t want to rush. I wanted to be calm. I needed to call on my ‘zen’ to be present for him to help him through this next part.
I was going to be there for the extubation.
I arrived at the hospital and, without too much delay, I was brought into the ICU to see him.
First I met his nurse—the one who had called me to arrange the timing. Over the course of the day I became more and more grateful to him. He was good at his job in a way you feel. He engaged me, and once My Guy was awake, he engaged with him as well. He explained everything, answered every question, didn’t rush any of it.
I was very grateful to him. I still am.
Seeing My Guy lying there was tough— I had been picturing him there on repeat since his first ICU visit a few weeks earlier, so I think that shaved a little off the edge of it.
I had a couple of hours to wait before the extubation.
The nurse explained that doctors would start rounds around 9am and someone would come speak to me. He also made note of my request for a psych assessment. We had talked about that earlier—my reasoning being that if they could assess him here, before he had a chance to gather every last one of his wits and be strong enough to “perform,” maybe they would actually see him.
The real him.
The one who ends up in ICU twice in a month
The one that thinks it’s easier than rehab and looking squarely at his own truth.
Because this can’t possibly be easier than that.
Still, I had a feeling he might come out of this even angrier at me than he already was.
Alcohol-fueled anger isn’t just anger—it comes with paranoia. A belief that I’m trying to control his life, manipulate him, lie about him. I know that version of him.
So yes, I was nervous.
I spent the almost four-hour wait working on the junk journal I made for him. Finishing it – for now – with room for more, because he had room for more, his story isn’t over yet. I hope.
And I talked to him. Almost non-stop.
Mom things. Stroking his forehead and his hair, holding his hand. Talking to him like maybe, somewhere underneath all of it, he could hear me.
Hoping for some kind of subconscious communication – a mind meld if you will.
I don’t actually know if that’s real – I do know the Vulcan mind meld is not
But I’m out of good ideas, so I’m willing to try the questionable ones.
When the extubation process began, I stood beside him as the most zen version of myself I could manage—which, to be fair, I find calming.
By that point he was mostly conscious, even though still sedated. And the zen seemed to work. He stayed steady through most of it, and a couple of times when I could see the panic starting to rise, I felt that I actually helped him to bring himself back down.
“It’s ok, it’s going to be ok, stay calm, still your mind, let it happen and it will be over soon..”
That alone felt like something.
He came into this world with an overactive gag reflex—not ideal—but in the end the tube came out without issue.
And then the room filled with movement.
The team moved like busy bees around him—clearing his throat, asking him to cough, adjusting things. It reminded me of delivery room scenes… only instead of crying, they were waiting for coughing.
Proof of life. Proof of function.
Once they were finished, the nurse calmly oriented him: gave him his name, where he was, why he was there, what had just happened, the day, the date, how long he’d been there.
My kid, with the gift of gab, immediately wanted to talk.
But there were no syllables. No Vowels and No volume. Nothing discernible.
The nurse encouraged him to rest his throat—it would take time.
He didn’t listen.
And I wanted desperately to understand him—through my one working ear, through background noise, through that frustrating white noise of ICU machinery and my own limitations.
When the words finally started to come through clearly, things got better.
And what surprised me most was how quickly he came back.
Even before he could speak well, he was joking. Making faces. Throwing me the bird over something I said. Giving the nurse side eye—with a smirk—and then doubling down when the nurse joked back, “don’t give me that side eye.”
It was him.
And even as I’m writing this, I can feel how enticing that was.
That pull toward: he’s back, he’s alright.
How easily that feeling dulls everything else.
Including the part of me bracing for him to decide to leave the hospital as soon as he could stand up.
I was—I am—exhausted.
A notable moment: An addiction counselor poked his head into the room. Just to say “hi” and “I’ll be back, we’ll talk.”
And the clearest thing that had come out of My Guy’s mouth so far was:
“Please stay.”
Hope.
But he didn’t stay.
Later it made sense—there was no point. My Guy had just been extubated and was still full of sedatives. Any real conversation would have been pointless. He wouldn’t remember it.
Still.
He asked.
Hope.
Later, I spoke with the social worker.
I gave her his history from my perspective—the things I know to be true, and the things I don’t actually know.
Like when this really started.
He says he’s been drinking heavily for about ten years. But addiction doesn’t come with a clear line you can point to and say, that’s it—that’s when it took hold.
Was it right at the beginning? Was it in 2018, when I first voiced concern? Was it in 2023, with the DUI?
There is no “do not cross” line.
And not everyone gets addicted—but that doesn’t mean there isn’t damage happening.
To the body. To the brain. To relationships. To self-respect.
The social worker was kind. She said she understood how awful this fight is for a mom.
That broke me a little—but I recover quickly.
As long as I stay in the logical part of my brain, I can be “stoic” in traumatic situations. But just because I look controlled doesn’t mean I don’t feel it. All of it.
We talked about the system—The canyon sized disconnect. The underlying message being that addiction doesn’t qualify as a health crisis of any sort.
I told her that’s a problem.
Because people like my son may actually want to quit—but can’t get there. The cycle is brutal: relapse, withdrawal, detox. And in his case, withdrawal itself can be fatal.
She asked if he knew he would be dead if he hadn’t been intubated.
I told her I didn’t think so.
She said doctors often soften that kind of truth.
Which makes sense for most medical emergencies.
But in this case, soft edges aren’t helping. This medical emergency was preventable.
So I said: then let’s not soften it.
And we didn’t.
When I went back into the room, about an hour had passed. The sedation was still clearing and he was confused again—where he was, why he was there.
So I told him.
Flatly.
And then I gave him the version with no soft edges.
Not long after that, he tried to restart the fight he tried to start back in March (3 months ago)
I had told him then that I believed he was drinking again—and why. He denied it. Said my “proof” was basically an attack on his character. Said it was a lie. Asked why I couldn’t admit I was wrong.
And I told him:
I can’t rely on his word anymore.
Not now.
Not after all the lies. Addiction lies. Even when the truth will do.
Not until he is firmly in recovery and able to face what he’s done in the name of protecting his drinking, I have to go with what makes sense.
And that isn’t going to change.
I told him the best we could do was let it go.
That I was willing.
That it’s really the only choice.
Then the social worker came in.
She gave him the truth—no holds barred.
It brought him to tears.
And once he was there, she shifted—to hope, to support, to we can help you, we will do everything we can to help you succeed.
Then she listed the people who would be coming to see him.
Including a psych assessment.
He nodded.
Hope.
Later, the charge nurse came in and said something similar.
Again—tears.
And then a long hug between them.
Hope.
After that, the room quieted down again. It should have felt like relief. In a lot of ways, it did. But there were small things that didn’t quite sit right. Moments where what he was seeing and what was actually there didn’t line up. Little gaps his brain tried to fill in. I told myself it made sense—sedation, everything his body had just been through, his brain catching up. And maybe that’s all it was. At the time, that’s what I chose to believe. Because I needed the day to end in that other place—the one with the tears and the nodding and the possibility of help. The one that looked, just enough, like hope.