I took a couple of steps toward the laundry room and stopped. Something had caught my eye. I turned and looked at the door again. There it was. A note, taped to the door. It was at eye level and all my attention had been on the doorknob. I moved closer and read it.

Don’t come in here.

“Oh,man . . .” I figured I knew what happened. I envisioned the toilet overflowing. We’d had some problems with the drains. Pat must have just locked the door and would deal with it in the morning. The hallway was dark. The only light came from a nightlight behind me. I noticed more writing on the note, so I leaned forward, squinting to read it.

Sorry for the mess. The toilet overflowing, I guess. There’s more. Notes are on the nightstand. Notes? What notes? What’s that mean?

Just a beat. Just a tiny moment. One that lasted an eternity as the realization washed over me. Locked door. Don’t come in here. Notes on the nightstand. Sorry for the mess.

Oh, Jesus.

The silence is roaring. Blasting. Thunderous.

Notes are on the nightstand.

I rushed to the bedroom and turned on the light. The bed was empty. I looked across it to Pat’s nightstand. A file folder was there and some envelopes. I ran around the bed. The file folder had “Eddie” written on it. The envelopes had names. Pat’s friends. Her principal at the school where she worked. I opened the file folder. There were pages and pages. Neatly written. Something about being tired. Can’t take the anxiety and worry anymore.

I ran back to the bathroom door. It was just so silent. Absolutely, dead silent. I started to go get the key and stopped.

I didn't want to go in there.

I couldn't go in there.

I ran to my office, got a portable phone, and dialed 911. I told the operator that my wife was locked in the bathroom. There are notes. Suicide. Send somebody. I was thinking police. Just police.

It was so very silent.

The 911 operator asked questions and I didn't have any answers. I heard somebody in the background say, “Send an ambulance, too.” I heard the words, but they didn’t register. Not at all. She asked more questions. Anger washed through me. I said, “My God, what’s wrong with you people! Just send somebody! “ She said they’re on the way. I hung up.

The police arrived. I took them downstairs. I got the key from the door jamb and took it to the policeman, who’s standing at the bathroom door, reading the note.

There’s a noise.

A noise?

Then, very plain, but very weak: “I want to die . . .I want to die. . .”

Oh my, God! She's alive!

The policeman was still standing there, staring at the door. What’s he waiting for? He was staring at the note. Sorry for the mess.

I said, “We don’t have any guns.”

The policeman stuck the key in the doorknob hole. Another policeman appeared, EMTs behind him. I stood back. The shower curtain was closed. The EMT went in the small bathroom and opened the shower curtain. I looked away. The EMT ran out of the bathroom and rushed out the back door. I backed away. There was a blur of action. A stretcher was brought in. Policemen and EMTs spoke in low tones. I couldn't hear. Didn't even try.

I saw Pat standing at the door, EMTs on either side of her. There was blood. Lots of blood. She was pale. Her lips white. They moved her the two feet to the stretcher and lifted her on it. A footprint was on the carpet – a perfect outline – bright red. Pat was lying on the stretcher. “I want to die. I want to die.” Her lips barely moved. I glanced in the bathroom. Blood – all over – the shower curtain, bathtub, floor.

Everywhere.

The EMTs pulled the stretcher out the back door. After the stretcher was put into the ambulance, I started to follow it. They said I couldn't be in the back. Ride in the front. I climbed in – sat in the middle. The ambulance turned around, and the siren started.

I reached in my pocket for my cell phone. No thought went into that. It was automatic. I called Doug. He’s the recovering alcoholic I call when I need to. I didn’t call because I was afraid I was going to ask the ambulance driver to stop on the way to the hospital to buy vodka. I had been taught to call somebody before the desire to drink hits you. It may be too late if you wait. I just needed a connection. I never, ever want to drink alcohol again. This phone call was for later. Doug answered, his voice heavy with sleep. I told him I was in the ambulance, on the way to the hospital. Pat has attempted suicide. She’s not in good shape. I don’t remember what Doug said. Doesn’t matter. It’s the connection that counts.
At the hospital, I followed the stretcher into an examining room. Doctors, nurses, technicians – scurrying. I’ve been in emergency rooms plenty of times. The pace is usually agonizingly leisurely. Not this time. Somebody finally noticed me and escorted me to a waiting room.

I sit, trying to piece it together. Stunned. What in the hell just happened?

Time passed. A doctor appeared. She’s lost lots of blood. Multiple wounds. She stabbed her chest with a knife several times. Looks like a kitchen knife. Jesus.

Pat undergoes surgery. She'd cut nearly every visible vein on her body. Deep cuts. She had damaged her liver with the kitchen knives. This was no token cry for help. The hospital's psychiatrist says she's never seen such a more significant and violent attempt at suicide.

Our daughters stayed with Pat the first two nights in the hospital. I stayed with her during the third night. We didn’t sleep much. We talked about her life-long bouts with anxiety and depression. She had kept many things hidden, but I was well aware she had issues. From time to time in frustration I’d say, “Pat we need to take you to the hospital right now.” She’d get mad and that’d be the end of it. She had talked to her internist about her unrelenting anxiety and the doctor had given her Welbutrin, an anti-anxiety medication. Pat took it and felt better, she said, so she stopped taking it. I didn’t know that. I kept my drinking secret. She kept secrets, too. Alcoholics often do what she did. They go to treatment, quit drinking, feel better and quit working at sobriety. Soon they’re drinking again. Without help, Pat kept getting worse, and eventually, she hit her bottom. Big time.

Not Just for Alcoholics

As Pat and I talked that night, I realized she was no different than me. We just had different problems. Whatever our problem is, we tend to avoid doing anything about it until we hit a brick wall or are run over by a truck. At this writing, it’s been nearly three years since Pat’s suicide attempt. She sees her counselor weekly. She takes her medication without fail. She’s much better now. She had to hit her bottom to find the willingness to change.

I have spent my entire career of more than thirty years surrounded by women. I don’t want to appear sexist, but this is the just the truth. They talk about dieting a lot. I mean a whole lot. Yet, almost none of them do anything about losing weight for any significant period of time. The ones that do lose weight and keep it off have been diagnosed with heart disease, diabetes, or some other life threatening illness. They’ve been told if they don’t lose weight, they’ll die soon and it’s not theoretical. That’s their bottom and they change.

Change is hard. We don’t do it easily. I couldn’t imagine life without alcohol and cigarettes. I dearly love French bread slathered with butter. Exercise hurts and is boring and I didn’t want to do it. I had to hit my alcohol bottom to quit drinking and smoking. I had to hit my heart disease bottom to get serious about diet and exercise. I had to hit those bottoms to find the willingness to change.

An alcoholic named Bill talks about the elevator ride all active alcoholics are taking. It’s always going down. There is no up button until the alcoholic quits drinking alcohol. Pat’s experience taught me that the elevator isn’t reserved for alcoholics only. The same is true for drug addicts, nicotine addicts, food addicts, and those who suffer from treatable mental illness. The ride is ever downward until we either find the motivation to get off the elevator or hit our bottom. Sometimes our bottom is death.

Sometimes we think we’ve hit bottom, but haven’t hit the real one yet. That’s the stuff of relapse. I received a call from the wife of an alcoholic friend. She told me my friend had gotten drunk the night before. He had just celebrated his third month of sobriety. Later that day, I talked to him. The conversation wasn’t pleasant. He was not under the influence then, but his whole attitude was different than it had been before the relapse. He was angry, petulant, and sarcastic. I just listened. When we were done, I called Doug. I needed some advice on how to respond to my friend who relapsed. Doug said, “He hadn’t hit his bottom yet.”

Yes, that’s it. Of course. He hadn’t hit his bottom yet.

A day later, my friend was full of remorse. The full effect of his actions became clear to him. He agreed to go back into the treatment center and start over. It’s been more than a year since then and he’s significantly better than he was before the relapse.

Doug was right. My friend hadn’t hit his bottom yet before the relapse, so he couldn’t maintain his sobriety. He wasn’t motivated enough. The problem with that is that we never know if we’re going to make it back or not. I remember Kenny. Great guy. An inspiration. Smart as a whip and had a thorough understanding of addiction and the tools for managing it. As it turned out, he hadn’t his bottom yet either. He got drunk again and shortly after that died from drinking liquid morpheme.

Alcohol and drug bottoms are often real big deals. The wife and family are gone. The career is ruined. The body isn’t functioning. Bottoms from fat are not nearly so dramatic. Death by fat takes years. People might become diabetic, but they don’t usually lose jobs because of that. With the bottom being relatively gentle, there is no real motivation to change. Weird as it seems, that’s a shame. If we don’t die from them, bottoms are good. Bottoms save lives.

It is possible to be a high bottom drunk, nicotine addict, food addict, and exerciser. We can press the stop button on the elevator. I know people who’ve done it. Not many, but it can be done.

Maybe you can be one of those.