Facts about alcohol poisoning:
Alcohol poisoning is when there's too much alcohol in your blood, and it causes parts of your brain to shut down. It's also called alcohol overdose. Alcohol is a depressant. That means it can affect your brain and nervous system to slow your breathing, your heart rate, and other important tasks that your body does.
Symptoms of alcohol overdose include mental confusion, difficulty remaining conscious, vomiting, seizure, trouble breathing, slow heart rate, clammy skin, dulled responses such as no gag reflex (which prevents choking), and extremely low body temperature. Alcohol overdose can lead to permanent brain damage or death.
0.200-0.249% - needs assistance in walking; total mental confusion. Dysphoria with nausea and vomiting; possible black out.
0.250-0.399% - Alcohol poisoning. Loss of consciousness.
0.40%+Onset of coma, possible death due to respiratory arrest.
Sources: https://www.webmd.com; https://www.niaaa.nih.gov; https://mcwell.nd.edu
Miggy's POV
When I arrived at the hospital, Carla met me outside the ER with swollen eyes and a trembling mouth. One look at her and I knew this wasn't a minor emergency.
"She passed out in her bedroom," she said shakily. "I came home and found her on the floor. The bottle was still in her hand."
The pit in my stomach hardened. I pushed past the sliding glass doors and found Aunt Beth pacing just beyond the emergency bay.
"She's stable for now," the nurse told me, her voice kind but clinical. "But she was severely dehydrated. Her blood pressure dropped too low, and she hadn't eaten properly for days."
I nodded, barely able to breathe.
Aunt Beth rushed to my side, wrapping me in a shaky hug. "Miggy… thank God you're here."
"What happened?" My voice cracked.
"She's been drinking almost every night. I've been trying to visit her, to talk to her, but…" She sighed. "She always says she has no appetite. Every time I visit, she just cries."
I clenched my fists. "Why didn't anyone tell me it had gotten this bad?"
"She didn't want you to know," Carla whispered. "She said she didn't want to be a burden."
"She's my mother," I said. "I should've known. I should've—"
"You did your best," Aunt Beth said gently. "But your dad's death… it broke her. And she won't let anyone help her pick up the pieces."
A few minutes later, the doctor came out, clipboard in hand.
"Mr. San Sebastian," he said, eyes settling on me. "Your mother is stable, but this can't happen again. Physically, her body's weakening—malnutrition, alcohol dependency. But emotionally… she's fragile. We strongly recommend a psychiatric evaluation and regular counseling."
I nodded. "Of course. We'll do whatever it takes."
The doctor gave me a sympathetic look. "We're seeing a rise in these cases. Silent grief, masked by alcohol. It doesn't mean she's weak—it means she's drowning."
When they wheeled her into a private room, I stepped in alone. Carla and Aunt Beth waited outside.
She looked so small in that hospital bed. Pale. Lost. My strong, elegant mother—reduced to this fragile version of herself.
I walked over and took her hand.
"Mom… it's me." My voice broke.
Her eyes fluttered open slightly. She blinked slowly, like she was unsure if I was real.
"I'm here," I said, gripping her hand tighter. "You scared me."
She let out a soft, hoarse whisper. "I'm sorry…"
I leaned closer. "Don't be. Just… just don't leave me, okay?"
Tears slipped down her cheeks.
"Dad's gone," I whispered. "But I'm still here. You're not alone."
She turned her face toward the window, silent. I sat down beside her, my throat burning.
"I know I haven't been around much. Work's been crazy, but that's no excuse. I still called. I asked Carla about you all the time. I know you've been skipping meals and drinking too much. I just—I didn't know how bad it was."
She didn't answer. Just kept staring at the pale blue curtain fluttering against the glass.
"I miss him too," I said, my voice cracking. "But if I lose you too, I won't survive it."
Her fingers twitched in mine. She squeezed weakly.
"I didn't mean to…" she whispered.
"I know. But you need help. Real help. Not just visits and phone calls. Please, Mom. Let us help you."
A pause. Then a shaky nod.
I sat with her in silence, just listening to the beeping of the machines and the soft hum of the air conditioning. For the first time in months, I felt her pain. Not just observed it from afar, but sat inside it. Let it settle in my chest.
A few hours later, she fell asleep. Peacefully, this time.
Outside, the rain had started to fall. Soft at first, then harder. I stood at the window, watching the drops blur the city lights.
Carla joined me, a warm coffee cup in hand.
"She'll be okay," she said.
I nodded, though I wasn't sure if I believed it. But I needed to.
Because for all her silence and all my distractions, we still had each other. And maybe that was enough to start healing.
***
Meynard and I made it back to the condo quickly—the roads were clear, the late hour shaving off what would've been a frustrating commute. We didn't talk much on the drive. Maybe we were too tired. Maybe we were both still processing what had happened.
Once home, we went straight to our rooms. No words, just the quiet shuffle of two exhausted bodies eager for rest. We both needed to be up early for work tomorrow.
Sleep came fast for me. I didn't even realize I'd dozed off until Meynard was shaking me awake.
"Bro, we're going to be late," he said groggily.
He hadn't cooked breakfast—understandable, considering how drained we both were. So, we hit a drive-thru on our way to the office.
In the car, Meynard gave me a rundown of the day.
"The second batch of auditions starts at nine at the hotel," he said. "After that, you can watch the footage of the ones you missed yesterday."
"Alright," I replied.
"Oh, and you have a folder waiting on your desk—a project proposal from the other team. Needs your approval."
"Just bring all the documents to the hotel. I'll review them during breaks," I told him. "No point going back and forth."
"Got it," he nodded. "I'll grab them from your office after I check my desk. Wait for me in the lobby if you finish first."
We went our separate ways after that. I had to meet someone quickly before heading back to the hotel.
Around lunchtime, I called Carla again to check on Mom. It was the second time today—I'd called earlier too, hoping she might still be awake. But Carla said she was resting again.
"She had a good morning," Carla told me. "She talked to your nanny a bit when she woke up. Jenny was with her too."
That gave me a little comfort.
The day passed quickly at the hotel. We finished the second batch of auditions, and I finally caught up on the ones I'd missed. I needed to be prepared for the deliberation meeting later.
Back at the office, I sat down to go through the pile of documents on my desk. Meynard had placed them there just like he said he would.
I worked in silence, skimming proposals, reviewing notes, and signing off where needed. I wanted to finish everything before the panel meeting. I was anxious to get to the hospital tonight—to see my mom, to talk to her without the weight of deadlines in my head.
"Sir," Meynard called out. "Meeting starts in five minutes. Everyone's in the conference room."
"I'll be right there," I said, closing the last folder. "The proposal's signed. Tell the team to prepare for their presentation as soon as possible."
"Noted, sir."
We headed to the conference room together. The deliberation began the moment I took my seat.
It wasn't an easy process. The five of us on the panel had very different preferences. But we agreed to stick to the criteria, not personal biases. In the end, fifteen were selected to move on to the second screening.
By the time we finished, it was already past six. The staff had prepared dinner, but I didn't stay. I had somewhere more important to be.
Thankfully, I'd asked Meynard to prep everything before the meeting ended. When I reached the parking lot, he was already there—engine running, take-out bags in the backseat.
As we drove, I gave him a quick debrief.
"We're moving forward with fifteen candidates," I said. "Tomorrow, coordinate with the team. The second screening starts in the morning. They'll be using the actual product and reciting their lines for the commercial. We're testing delivery and confidence on camera."
He nodded, focused on the road.
"Draw lots for their order," I added. "And make sure they memorize the script—no stammering or blank-outs. We're looking for someone who really fits the brand. Someone who can carry it."
"Got it," he said.
I looked out the window as we neared the hospital.
I'd missed my mom all day. Missed her voice. Her presence. Even in her weakest moments, I just wanted to be near her—just to remind her, and maybe myself, that we still had each other.