I Don’t Want My Wife to Get a Liver Transplant
My wife needs a liver transplant, and part of me wants her to pass before getting one. Honestly, I struggled using the word “want,” but if I am confessing, I’ll be blunt.
Now that that is out there, how about a little background? My wife and I have been married for 12 years and have one child. We met in Germany (she is German) but moved to the States in 2010.
Things were good for the first couple years. Some culture shock, disappointments when education didn’t transfer, and learning the ins-and-outs of living stateside, but nothing drastic.
That’s when the depression began. The wife became super depressed. She was working part-time, where I was working 12-hour days. I would leave for work before she woke up, and I would get home after her.
Despite that, I would have to get our son ready and take him to daycare in the mornings, and most days I would pick him. This is where things started to go downhill around the house. Dishes would get left in the sink overnight, floors wouldn’t get swept as often, stuff like that.
And I’m not saying that is all her fault; I’m an adult and know how to wash a dish or operate a broom, but sometimes after 12 hours at work, screw that noise.
I chalked it up to having a toddler, a dog, and two working adults. It is a house, not a museum. I mentioned the depression, let’s get back to that. It started simple enough, crashing on the couch.
She’d get home after a rough day, have some drinks, and pass out on the couch. Not every night, maybe once a month. This lasted for months, but over the course of over two years, it became more and more normal and she was drinking more and more until it was more often than not.
With her on the couch, intimacy started to wane. Again it was gradual, and again I chalked it up to raising a family. Then the rejections started. As a kind of joke throughout our relationship, we would “trade” things for intimacy.
For example, “If you cook dinner and do the dishes tonight, you’ll get lucky,” or “If you want to go hang out with the boys, you better sleep with me now.”
Just our thing. Well, she kept making those same promises, but would never go through with it. Yes, I know that no one ever owes anyone else intimacy. Yes, I know it is her body.
But at that point, we were going without for months. I was still asking, she was still saying yes later, and then she would pass out. No biggie once or twice or ten times, but this had become the unending norm.
Every time that she promised but passed out instead was a rejection. I would stare at her while she slept and just feel hurt. Fast forward a few years; she is drinking more and I’ve stopped asking.
We are roommates at this point. She has stopped working and stays at home full time. The house is a wreck. Clutter and dirt everywhere.
We stop having friends over so no one will see the clutter. Piles of unfolded laundry in baskets. Every morning I would search for matching socks.
Every morning I was reminded of how little she did around the house. This is also when we were fighting all the time. Both yelling, her crying, her passing out…it was our nightly routine.
One of my often repeated points in our arguments was the house. I’m working full time, the kid was in school, she was home all day, why is the place a mess?
What was happening was she was getting wasted in the morning, passing out, getting up in the afternoon, just to drink and pass out in the evening, but not before squeezing in a fight.
I was done and was ready for a divorce, but the only thing that was keeping me from doing it was my son. Still, something had to change. I laid down my ultimatum: get a job, go back to school, or GET OUT.
She picks going back to school. I help her look for a school and find a program she is really excited about. The drinking lessens (never stops), and good times are here again. Until I get the phone call at work.
She called to let me know she was about to kill herself. Didn’t see that coming. Rush home, get there just in time. Let’s revisit that depression I mentioned earlier.
She was in counseling and working to find the right balance of medication, but something that day was too much. She was checked into the kind of hospital that takes your shoelaces and was there a week or two.
After this, she was like a changed person. Fast forward a few years. You need a psychiatrist to prescribe medication. Hers retires. The office where she gets counseling didn’t hire a new one.
She stops taking the medication. Hello again depression, and I see you brought anxiety with you. Awesome. Oh, and here comes the drinking again, but it has managed to increase.
Double awesome. This time, the wife couldn’t be without drinks. She started sleeping downstairs again, a drink always within reach. ALWAYS. She would carry a bottle in her purse. Eventually, she got sick.
Wow, that was a lot, but it brings us to the last two years. At the beginning of 2017, she was hospitalized. Early stages of liver failure, but still treatable.
Think she quit drinking? Nope. A few months later, I come home with my son and find my wife collapsed and unresponsive on the floor. Ambulance ride, ICU, coma. The doctors aren’t sure she’ll live.
At this point, I’m devastated but I try to steel myself for the possibility. The last few years haven’t been great, and I was ready for a divorce, but I didn’t want her gone.
She is the mother of…….OH GOD! It hits me. It hits me hard. I was prepared for her to get sick, possibly pass, but facing the real possibility I realized I would have to tell my son.
I would have to look him in the eyes and say, “Mommy is gone.” I hit bottom. I know I cried the rest of that night. She made it. Eventually, she woke up, was moved out of the ICU, and sent home.
For a week. That is when the seizure happened. Another ambulance ride. She aspirated during the seizure, which led to pneumonia, which led to the ICU. However, in her weakened state, she couldn’t be treated locally.
She was transferred to a university hospital. She needed a new liver, but to get one, you must be sober for six months.
She got worse. She was transferred again, this time to a hospital we’ll just say is ranked pretty high GLOBALLY. No new liver, but things got better. She was released with a new lease on life.
She quit drinking. She was transferred back to the local hospital, and continued outpatient treatment. End 2017. 2018 started good, but, about midway through, her condition worsened again.
No worries. She is being treated by a doctor, and with her new sobriety, they’ll put her on the list. She can’t do a lot on her own.
I have to open bottles of water, help with medication, and some activities of daily living. The house is more cluttered than ever, the wife still sleeps downstairs, and intimacy is nonexistent (obviously), but things are looking good.
I’m not going to lie, these last two years have been rough. I know I haven’t been perfect, and things have fallen by the wayside, but the major things are taken care of.
The boy gets hot food every night, help with his homework, and clean clothes every day. The wife gets to her appointments and gets her treatments. I’m still working, and even picked up a promotion. Then tonight happened.
I just found two grocery bags full of empty cans and bottles. She has been hiding drinks. I’m done. The last two years have been an absolute nightmare. It has taken every ounce of me to not lose it. To manage everything. I can’t anymore. Every day I would drive home from work, I would get stressed.
As soon as I open the door, I’m overwhelmed with everything that needs to be done, but I focus on getting all the necessary things taken care of to keep the household rolling.
I’ve been so lonesome having a wife, who turned into a roommate, who turned into a responsibility. During the many, many appointments I’ve been to, one doctor explained the liver transplant this way:
“Two people will pass so that you can live. The person who gave you the liver and the person who didn’t get it in time, because you did.” So here it is, here is my confession:
Part of me thinks my wife doesn’t deserve the transplant, and my life would be easier if she wasn’t here. meco64