Early New Year’s Day, my husband, Bob, was swiftly transported by ambulance to the emergency section at Cape Cod Hospital. Despite the complexity of the day, it remarkably birthed transformation. The story unfolds as we proceed.

On the eve of the New Year, I was alone, steering my attention towards TV showings of New Year’s Eve festivities. As we clocked midnight, I decided to immerse in a real drink. I spotted an aged bottle of whiskey, savored my drink, and thereafter, retreated to bed.

Startling noises from the living room woke me up the next morning. There was my husband, on the floor. His constant attempts to stand ended in tumbles, his head hitting the floor each time. He was speechless.

The 911 call I made ushered in the paramedics in about seven to eight minutes. “My husband is plagued with dementia,” was all I could tell them. Bob lay still, unresponsive as ever. It was similar to witnessing a severe stroke incident.

Watching the paramedics carry Bob out of our home on a stretcher, I was filled with a sense of dread as I realized it might be the last time I saw my husband.

In a state of panic, I hurriedly dressed to follow him to the hospital. It was then my eyes fell on the empty bottle of whiskey. Last night it was unopened. Now it was void of any contents.

Bob isn’t a drinker. He hadn’t indulged in any form of alcohol for the past 40 years.

The whiskey was similar in color to the iced tea which Bob consumed in large quantities throughout the day. Mistaking it for his usual beverage, he had consumed the entire bottle within an hour.

Now panic got to me. I dialed 911 again and exclaimed, “I’ve figured out what’s wrong! My spouse has consumed an entire container of whiskey!”

The attending operator affirmed that she would alert the Emergency Room (or the medical responders).

Regrettably, under the presumption that the necessary information had been conveyed, I chose to end the call.

You inevitably can guess where this situation is leading.

When I discovered Bob in the emergency room, five medical professionals were attending to him. I queried, “You’re aware of his alcohol intake, aren’t you?”

They were clueless. This critical information that could potentially save his life was not relayed.

Bob had undergone numerous tests, none of which involved checking his blood or urine for alcohol levels. Given the tremendous amount of alcohol he had consumed, it might have been fatal for him.

Once I conveyed this to the medical team, the requisite tests were conducted and the results were as anticipated.

Bob, in his disoriented state, persistently attempted to rise from the bed. Despite my best efforts to keep him down, it took the combined strength of two individuals to prevent him from doing so.

After approximately four hours at the hospital, I decided to fetch some food from the cafeteria. Due to my spinal cord injury, the walk to the cafeteria alone took a strenuous 45 minutes. However, upon returning, I found Bob being swiftly transported elsewhere. In my bewilderment, I cried out to the nurse who was rapidly pushing his gurney, “Where are you taking him?”

Her curt reply was, “To get a chest X-ray.”

Struggling to catch up with the brusque nurse using my cane, I found myself gasping for breath. Desperately, I continued trying to communicate with her, demanding, “Why an X-ray?” and “What transpired while I was away?”

I am certain she was aware of my presence, but she nevertheless accelerated and then vanished behind a door.

I will forever question the reason behind the doctor’s prescription of that chest X-ray.

I managed to keep my temper in check, which regrettably, is a struggle I’ve been grappling with tremendously lately. It isn’t merely about the frustrations in the hospital, but at home as well. I yell; I holler; I shriek. Due to my fury towards… towards the cursed illness, the inevitability, the dreadful prediction of the future, I’ve let our marriage fray.

At 6:30 p.m., Bob was given permission to return home. After making sure he was comfortably seated in his chair, I lost control – not only did I discard all alcoholic beverages in the house, but I also concealed all liquids – including dish soap. Bob, you see, lacks the ability to distinguish between what is drinkable or edible and what is toxic. I have taken measures to lock all cabinets.

I’m convinced that the excessive alcohol consumption, combined with the chaos of the emergency room, greatly impacted him. Ever since, his ability to recall even our names has been lost, not to mention simple words like “chair”.

In spite of my recent and unjustifiable fits of anger, there was a time in the ER when tears wouldn’t stop flowing. I watched my best friend, my confidant, lost amidst the tumultuous rush of people, the vast room, and the strange hues of the hospital walls.

I stared helplessly as the memories of our long years of companionship seemed to flash swiftly by. In my mind’s eye, I recalled our adventures in our double kayak, irrespective of the weather — raining, snowing, or in the biting winter. We would paddle in sync, lost in the melody from our portable CD player, as the serene waters of Cape Cod Bay bore us upon its surface.

I juxtaposed the picture of us then with the stark reality of now and proceeded to make a hard self-evaluation. The results were bleak. That was when I realized that it was time for me to change.

I refuse to let Bob’s dementia become our downfall.

I won’t let this terrible ailment obliterate the love that we share. Regardless of where this horrifying journey may lead, I promise to stand by him. Despite the numerous instances I have exclaimed out of despair, “I can’t cope with this anymore!” I will cope. I might not always do it with poise, or with dignity, and often without forgiving myself for my substantial flaws.

Here are the words of my newly-discovered prayer:

May I be bestowed with the fortitude to endure just one more day.

May I fearlessly learn to say, “Easy does it,” whenever I’m internally screaming, “I hate this!” Or worse ―“I hate myself.”

May I always see the part that is my beautiful soulmate, not just the disease of dementia.

And if it’s at all possible, please, oh please grant me the wisdom to know the difference.

Award-winning columnist, Saralee Perel, lives in Marstons Mills. She can be reached at: sperel@saraleeperel.com. Her column runs the first Friday of each month.

This article originally appeared on Cape Cod Times: Column: Dementia steals husband’s memory, threatens couple’s memories