Three weeks ago, my husband tried to end his life by hanging. He struggles with bipolar disorder, intermittent explosive disorder, PTSD, and other conditions. I witnessed the entire event through our back porch camera and called emergency services; they managed to get him down after he had been without oxygen for about seven minutes. Over the next 17 days, his health spiraled downward until it reached a standstill. We were unsure if he had any brain activity left. He went into cardiac arrest while in the ambulance and aspirated on his first night of intubation, which led to pneumonia, rapid respiratory failure, multiple infections, and a partially collapsed lung. He was paralyzed and sedated, showing no movement or signs of recovery.
I eventually made a difficult choice after consulting with his doctors. I couldn’t bear to watch him waste away, especially since they repeatedly told me his lungs might never heal enough for us to even evaluate his brain function. I went home that night and just broke down.
Then I received a phone call: he was awake and nodding ‘yes’ when they asked if he wanted to see me. I rushed to the hospital as quickly as possible. I was in shock—he was conscious, still on a ventilator, but moving. He gave me a hug and was desperately trying to speak. By the following morning, X-rays showed he was healing rapidly. We are now at day 21; he is off oxygen and recognizes people, though he is suffering from delirium and has to relearn how to use his body because he is so weak he cannot even swallow.
His voice is barely a whisper, and he is overwhelmed with sadness. He doesn’t fully grasp what occurred and has fragmented memories; for instance, he asked about a Mother’s Day necklace from last year. However, he also has delusions about being on a spacecraft or the hospital being a jail.
I am caught between being overjoyed by this miracle and terrified that he may never fully be himself again. I have been so preoccupied with his needs that I don’t think I’ve processed the trauma of what happened, including the fact that I watched his attempt to leave us.
There is a very long recovery ahead. Part of me feels a heavy sense of guilt because I know his current state feels like a prison to him. That is why I had made the decision I did before he woke up—I knew a life where he couldn’t do the things he loves would be a nightmare for him. He was the most active, high-energy person I knew, and now he can barely grasp a cup. Yet, it is a miracle that he is still here; it clearly wasn’t his time. There is nothing I wouldn’t do for him. In sickness and in health, until death parts us—or almost does, then changes its mind.