Why I Have PTSD - 3

This is the third of a series of posts about my son, Parrish, his addictions and his mental illness.  These posts chronicle his latest crisis, how it affects both of us.  The series starts here

When I arrived at emergency, Parrish was already in a treatment room.  His hands and were restrained  in order to stop him from pulling out his IV and taking off his oxygen mask.  He struggled to get up, arching his back and thrashing about on the stretcher.  He knew me, I think.  It is hard to say.

Although his blood alcohol was only 260, he had so much Ativan on board, the MD was considering incubating him and putting him on a ventilator.  He took me aside and explained what was happening.  I could only say to him that I trusted his judgement.  Blood gasses drawn on admission revealed that he was not circulating enough air.  This was due to his depressed lung function.

The MD said he would get another set of blood gasses before he tubed Parrish, and when they came back, they were slightly better.  So we dodged a bullet.  

(While I was waiting to see what would happen, Marcy, phoned to check on Parrish. When I said what was happening, she told me that, while he was in Fort Lauderdale, Parrish was intubated three times in recent weeks in Ft Lauderdale - all for alcohol toxicity).

The medical people were pumping him with phenobarbital, and he finally calmed.

The MD sent me home to rest with the assurance that he would admit Parrish this time.  He promised not to dismiss Parrish in the shape he was in.

So, I got some sleep for a change.

On Tuesday, when I called the hospital, I learned that Parrish had been admitted to a general care floor.

Sophie and I went to visit him, and like always when he is sober, he was cogent, oriented, and for the most part, appropriate.

On Wednesday, Parrish was transferred to the psych floor, where he remained until Monday morning.  Sophie a and I drove him to the Greyhound station where I bought him a ticket back to Ft. Lauderdale.  Determined to see him get on the bus, we endured an hour and half of waiting.  

There is a chicken wing restaurant next to the station.

Parrish proclaimed himself hungry and went to get a snack.  Sophie, ever vigilant, walked out to the sidewalk and watched Parrish walk to the gas station on the other side of the wing restaurant.  She got him in her line of sight, and saw him buy two to beers, walk outside and slam both. 

He stopped at the wing restaurant and returned to us.  The aroma and the heat of the wings completely masked the smell of beer.

We sat and sat, waiting for the bus.  It finally arrived, and Sophie and I stood outside until we saw the bus turn onto the Interstate ramp. 

I learned later that Parrish was arrested twice on the way back to Ft. Lauderdle   Police in Orlando pulled him off the bus and charged him with public intoxication.  They did not take him to jail, instead waited for him to sober up and put him on the next bus.  He was arrested again in Fort Lauderdale and taken to hospital where he was admitted to the psych floor.

There is no hope for Parrish.  He is too sick both in body and mind to recover now.  I lost him long ago.