1990 — The Year My Body Broke and My Life Changed

I don’t remember the exact moment I collapsed on the night of 24 May 1990. What I remember is the feeling that had been building all day — a kind of internal trembling, as if something inside me was loosening, slipping, preparing to give way. I was twenty‑six, trying to keep up with the demands placed on me: the Civil Service alcohol policy, the treatment programme at RN Hospital, the pressure to stay sober on Antabuse. I was frightened, and I was trying to hold together a life that was already fraying at the edges.

Three months earlier, I had completed the mandatory alcohol awareness course at the RN Hospital. I was the only civilian among thirty naval staff. The Surgeon Commander prescribed me Antabuse, and I took it because I thought that was what responsible people did — they followed instructions, they complied, they didn’t make trouble. I didn’t understand the drug. I didn’t understand what it could do. I didn’t understand how violently it reacts with alcohol. I only knew I was trying to follow the rules.

Antabuse didn’t just sit quietly in my system. It blocked the breakdown of acetaldehyde — a toxic by‑product of alcohol — causing it to build up rapidly in the bloodstream. Even small amounts of alcohol could trigger flushing, palpitations, vomiting, collapse, and in severe cases, respiratory failure. I didn’t know any of this. Nobody seemed to. I was young, scared, and trying to stay afloat in a system that didn’t explain itself.

The First Collapse — 25 May 1990

At some point that night, my body finally said what I couldn’t. I collapsed outside my front door. I don’t remember hitting the ground. I don’t remember the fitting. I don’t remember the head injury. But the hospital notes later recorded “withdrawal – fitted + banged head” .

When I arrived at A&E, my vital signs were already telling a story of crisis:

• Pulse 183
• Blood pressure 140/90
• Respiratory rate unstable

My arterial blood gases painted an even clearer picture:

“PcO₂ 6.25, H⁺ 52.2, PO₂ 22.83, Standard Bicarbonate 20.4, Base Excess -4.9, O₂ sat 99.1%”

These numbers meant:

• PCO₂ 6.25 kPa → high, showing respiratory compromise
• H⁺ 52.2 nmol/L → acidotic
• PO₂ 22.83 kPa → extremely high due to oxygen therapy
• HCO₃⁻ 20.4 mmol/L → low
• Base Excess -4.9 → metabolic acidosis

My blood chemistry was equally alarming:

“Urea 14.1, Creatinine 266, Potassium 5.2, Sodium 135”

The creatinine of 266 µmol/L showed acute kidney stress. The urea of 14.1 mmol/L showed dehydration. I had fractured the base of my skull.

They discharged me, but I wasn’t well. My brain had taken a blow. My electrolytes were unstable. My nervous system was under strain. I went home to a house that was becoming increasingly chaotic — a reflection of my own deterioration.

The Slow Decline — Late May to June

The days that followed were a blur of falling, vomiting, dehydration, and confusion. My blood tests showed how unstable I was becoming.

On 26 May, my electrolytes collapsed:

“Potassium 2.1, Sodium 126, CO₂ 33.8, Urea 14.2, Creatinine 139”

A potassium level of 2.1 mmol/L is life‑threatening. Sodium at 126 mmol/L meant hyponatraemia. CO₂ at 33.8 mmol/L meant metabolic alkalosis.

My blood gases that day were even worse:

“PCO₂ 6.23, PO₂ 35.83, HCO₃⁻ 44.3, Base Excess 19.8, O₂ sat 99.8%”

This was severe metabolic alkalosis, the kind that causes confusion, seizures, and collapse.

By 28 May, my potassium was still critically low at 2.2 mmol/L.

I was living alone, deteriorating, and trying to survive. I didn’t know Antabuse was still active. I didn’t know my liver hadn’t recovered. I didn’t know my nervous system was under strain. I only knew I was slipping further away from myself.

The Second Collapse — 24–25 June 1990

By late June, I was barely functioning.

On 24 June, I was found unconscious and uncountable. The hospital record states:

“admitted … unconscious uncountable”

My blood gases showed metabolic alkalosis again — the same pattern that had been building for weeks.

On 28 June, my CO₂ was 32.9 mmol/L, potassium 3.7, sodium 140, albumin 35, calcium 2.20 .

I wasn’t speaking. I wasn’t responding. I was slipping away again.

Catastrophe — 25 June 1990

The next morning, everything collapsed.

I became unconscious and unrousable. I was fitting intermittently. I was incontinent. I couldn’t maintain my airway. I was dying, though I didn’t know it.

The blood gases from this period show catastrophic instability:

“H⁺ 7.1” (28 June)

This value is physiologically impossible in a living person — it reflects severe metabolic collapse, the kind seen in respiratory failure.

During that collapse, the oxygen supply to my brain failed. The damage was done quietly, invisibly, deep inside the basal ganglia — specifically the globus pallidus. This part of the brain is extremely sensitive to oxygen deprivation. It controls movement, balance, initiation, coordination, and motor planning.

I didn’t feel it happen. I didn’t know it had happened. But that moment changed the rest of my life.

Waking Up — Late June 1990

I woke up two days later after rehydration and potassium replacement. My blood chemistry on 29 June showed partial recovery:

“Urea 3.7, Creatinine 63, CO₂ 28.5, Potassium 3.9, Sodium 137, Albumin 35, Calcium 2.13”

But I didn’t feel recovered. I felt slow, heavy, foggy — as if something inside me had been switched off.

On 2 July, my potassium was 5.0, sodium 139, protein 40, albumin 40 — stable numbers, but I was not stable inside.

The July Aftermath

They transferred me back to the second Hospital on 3 July. I couldn’t walk properly. My movements were stiff. My reactions were slow. My face felt frozen. My voice felt flat.

No one recognised the basal ganglia injury.

My symptoms were misinterpreted as behavioural rather than neurological. I was told to sort out my house. I was told to attend appointments. I was told to comply. I tried. I couldn’t. My brain wasn’t working the way it used to.

On 24 July, they discharged me in my absence.

I left the hospital with a body that felt unfamiliar and a mind that felt foggy. I left with a future I didn’t understand. I left with a brain injury no one had diagnosed yet. I left with the weight of a month that had changed everything.

July was the beginning of the aftermath — the beginning of trying to live with a condition I didn’t know I had, caused by a collapse I couldn’t remember, triggered by a treatment I didn’t understand.

It was the beginning of the rest of my life.