He came with her to all of her doctor’s appointments, more than an observer he was involved, concerned, present. He came off as her protector. I thought we were on the same team.
The alcohol was getting worse, though. So was her liver failure.
“Who buys all of the beer she drinks?”
“I do,” she spoke up. “And he does.”
I glanced over at him.
“Sometimes she makes me.”
“Makes you how exactly?”
“She can get really ugly.” He looked away sheepishly, unable to meet my eye.
“You mean to tell me that all of this time that she has been going to her liver specialist appointments, all of this time that we have been talking about how she needs a complete and immediate cessation of alcohol, all of this time that you have sat in that chair and nodded your head in agreement, you have actually been providing her with the substance that is killing her?”
I wanted to scream at him. What the hell are you doing? Sabotaging her? Murdering her? WTH?
But I don’t know what their life together has been like. Is he the equivalent to a battered woman in an abusive relationship?
I just don’t know.
So I suggest counseling, giving them contact information for treatment centers, and usher them out the door wondering all the while if I have somehow failed them both.