To avoid what I’m going through, many heroin addicts decide to seek medical help to take care of withdrawals, obtaining prescriptions such as Suboxone. That’s right, they don’t necessarily want to quit the drug, they just want to lessen the pain of withdrawals. If I had to guess, I’d make the bold statement that most Suboxone users take the drug for this reason. I’m certain that more than half of heroin addicts are very tempted by it. There’s an entire market based around selling prescriptions to lessen the pain of withdrawals, even though it’s nearly free when a doctor prescribes it. Not surprisingly, most heroin abusers aren’t eager to go to a doctor and admit their usage.
I’ve been spending a lot of time with Adriana lately, basically accompanying her everywhere and helping her slanging dope. Her legit job is working at a local Hooters as a waitress, and I stay out of her way when she works there or at other bars. I’m never called on to protect her from the perverted male customers. She handles these herself.
There is no intimacy to be had on the dark side. I tiptoe my way toward the possibility of intimacy with her, but I can tell she finds it off-putting. I’m pretty sure she wants to fuck me, but I want more than that with her, so I always hold back on making moves. I’m looking for a real relationship, but I can tell she’s not in that headspace.
Sometimes when Adriana sleeps at her parents’ house, I crash there too, in the room I used to sleep in when I lived there. One morning after we’ve slept at the house, she has a vomiting spell from opioid withdrawals; she regularly takes a bunch of different kinds. I’m dope sick too, and Greta and Francesco quickly figure out what’s going on.
They’re enraged. Adriana takes the first hit. There’s screaming, pacing, and slamming doors, getting right up in each other’s face. Italians know how to make themselves heard. I look on silently, anxiously from the living room, still sick and fiddling as I wait for my turn. Eventually, Francesco calls my name and beckons me to come sit at the kitchen table with Adriana. We sit side by side, clutching our midsections, where the nausea threatens to erupt from, and with one finger massaging our temple. I can tell her head is spinning just as wildly as mine, threatening to explode.
Still, we try to listen. Greta is upset because Adriana has been hiding her drug use from them. They’ve known full well that she, Giovanni, and I deal opioids, but they didn’t know Adriana was using scripts and heroin, like we are, maybe other things too. Francesco’s face is filled with disgust by what he sees. He accuses us of having become like the junkies we supply. I can also feel their rage at the distrust—after all, every time we use, it’s a lost sale.
After we’re caught and berated, I finish off my morning nausea at the Russos and in the afternoon I return to my townhouse. My house is in a Mexican neighborhood on Eastman Avenue, a twenty-minute drive, but a world away from the Russos’ house, and the difference is like night and day.
Once home, the conversation with the Russos is placed on the backburner. In my mind I have only one choice to make, and rehabilitation isn’t even on the table. Do I cut my drugs and multiply the profit to be made, or cut the drugs and keep some of the pure stuff for my personal use? On the scale, I weigh half of what I have left, and then I snort a thick line, my mind made up.
Feeling better and ready for some fresh air, I walk to the gas station nearby, where I pick up several types of vitamins and then head back home. I use the vitamins to make the supply look larger. Users don’t even notice them, in fact they seem to have a favorable affect, adding a blissful light and tingly sting. Other things that people mix in have a dull chalky taste and feel, usually causing the user to gag. Simply put, vitamins add a feel-good effect and anything else used to cut is downright gross. Vitamins aren’t very expensive either, so it’s a no-brainer.
In the comfort of my house, I grind the vitamins and cut them into most of the heroin, leaving one pile entirely pure and another only half cut. The overall amount has now doubled. As luck would have it, just as I’m finishing cutting I remember that my rent is due. I decide that before starting the time-consuming process of bagging up the small bindles of heroin, I’d better go drop off the check at my landlord’s house. It’s in the suburbs on the outskirts of the city’s west side, but I want to get it over with. I throw on a muscle shirt and a pair Ray-Ban aviators, grab my pack of Newport cigarettes, snort one last line, and head out.
Chapter 10
I uneventfully drop off my rent check across town and make it home safely, but just as I’m walking in my door, my limbs start to feel heavy and everything around me goes into slow motion. The intense physical pleasure has been starting to wear off and I’m anxious for another hit. I drop my cigarettes and Ray-Bans, and turn on Pink Floyd’s “Comfortably Numb.” It’s one of my favorites. I like the lyrics, the guitar solo . . . the feel of the drums escalating as the song really takes off. It’s simply brilliant, with or without drugs.
But with drugs is better, so I start to bag up some heroin. I get a fresh syringe and a spoon, and cook up a shot. I fill the syringe about halfway with water, squirt it into the spoon, then shovel a small line of dope on top and hold a lighter under the spoon, waving it back and forth as the powder dissolves and is replaced by a dark brown liquid. I draw the cocktail completely into the syringe and set it on the table as I reach for a tourniquet, tie my arm off, and begin pumping my fist open and closed. I hold the needle parallel to the top of my vein, running it the length of my index finger and then across the back of my hand, and I slowly press into the needle into my vein. Blood mixes with the brown liquid in the syringe as I press down on the button with my thumb, feeling a growing surge as it pours into my vein.
Satisfied with the dose of the shot, I take a break from bagging up the drugs, head for my couch in the living room, and grab the TV remote control along the way. Each step I take feels heavier and heavier, as if my legs are weighed down, and I begin to feel intensely tired. The sound of my breathing echoes louder and louder in my ears. I collapse onto the edge of the couch, and then fall onto the floor, where everything goes black. When I come to, I’m disoriented and pull myself up onto the couch. I stumble around in a confused daze, knowing that I’m in very bad shape, close to death. Every cell in my entire body feels like it’s being individually ripped apart. I don’t know it now, but I’m in the throes of septic shock.
I try to call my parents’ house, then their cell phones, then Austin, then Lindsay, but all of my calls go unanswered. I’ve been cut off from my family entirely, unofficially banned from interacting with them in any way.
I stumble outside and look around, baffled as to the time of day and unsure how long I was passed out. With nobody outside within eyesight to ask for help, I begin to panic, realizing there’s only one option if I want to live through this. I dial 911 and tell the operator I’m in bad shape, that I’ve been doing drugs, and that I need an ambulance right away.
I hang up and while I wait for the paramedics to arrive, a thirst overtakes my whole body, as if I’ve been waiting my entire life for a drink. I make it to the table, where there is a glass, but I lose consciousness for the briefest of seconds while I’m extending my arm to put the glass under the faucet, and it crashes down, glass shattering everywhere. From there, I stumble to the bathroom, where the bathroom mirror captivates my attention. My left eye is swollen shut and the skin is breaking open, leaking puss down the side of my face. I try to turn on the shower to get my eye under the cold water, but I can’t figure out how to operate the shower. I begin pacing back and forth, moaning aloud, “Oh God, oh God, Oh, my God!”
I have never known such utter confusion, terror, loneliness, and isolation, and along with them I feel a morbid desperation. I know that I might drop dead at any second and I am utterly helpless to prevent it. With the slightest bit of clarity, I stumble outside, figuring it’s better to pass out in a place where someone might find me.
Thankfully, I hear the sirens of the ambulance outside. Th
e paramedics park and pull me up the step and through the side door of the ambulance. I am like dead weight. They lay me down and talk to me to keep me awake, asking me questions. “What’s your name, buddy?” “What did you do today?” “Is this your house?”
They hook me up to an IV line and feed me fluids, noting a large lump on my chest. They ask who beat me up, but I tell them I woke up all bumped and bruised, that no one assaulted me. They then ask who shot up with me and who’s been in the house with me. I tell them I’ve been alone, but they don’t believe me. If you overdose hard, your brain suffocates after a few minutes, and if you’re alone, without anyone to pump you full of a Narcan antidote shot, slap you in the face, douse you with cold water, or shake you and scream your name, there is no one to save you. Somehow though, it seems that I overdosed and was out something like twenty-six hours and then woke up on my own. It doesn’t seem like they believe me, but when I insist that it’s the truth, they back off. They tell me calmly that while I was passed out on the floor, pressure on my face and chest caused a rare kind of severe inflammation and that’s why I’m in so much pain.
In the hospital, the doctors treat me and then my mother and father come, with Austin, Lindsay, Tommy, and my grandfather in tow. Apparently they were called and told I might not live through the night, so they got the whole gang together in case it was a send-off. I’m disgusted when I see them, and they’re clearly disgusted too. They just stand and stare at me with quiet, shocked expressions, their mouths open. “I’m sorry,” I cry, “I’m really scared, and I’m sorry.” The tears flow out like waterworks. Their shame and dejection weigh heavily in the room, thickening the air. They shake their heads, say nothing, and then leave.
I’m in the ICU and near death for six days. Tests are done on all of my internal organs and blood is drawn every few hours. The pain is constant and I am too weak to roll over or sit up. The doctors tell me that my liver is failing and that my heart and kidneys have been severely damaged. I’m also told that I have contracted hepatitis C, at this time considered an incurable disease. People are lucky to live to sixty with it. Doctors and nurses tell me that I’m lucky to be alive.
After fourteen full days in the hospital, my organs have, thank God, fully recovered. I’m told I won’t need any transplants. A few days later, I move into the observation unit to recover, and I contemplate for the nth time what to do with my life. I know I need to change my ways, but I don’t know what to do next. I can’t go back to the Russo family, and I am very frustrated by my own stupidity. I can’t just call them up and say, “Well, you were right, I should have listened to the rules and principles you taught me about living this La Cosa Nostra life. Because I didn’t, I have nowhere to go, so can I come back?”
My family can’t believe I decided to go down the same path as my sister, killing myself with heroin. And they’re right to be furious—I’m furious with myself too. It doesn’t make any damned logical sense. When my parents come to visit again, the hospital stages an intervention. I don’t get any prior warning, but when some asshole brings in chairs, I immediately know what’s going on.
The asshole sits in a corner chair and my family sits across from me, with me in my hospital bed as the point of the triangle. The guy turns to me and begins, “My name is Tim and I’m here because your family loves you very much.”
“Like hell,” I interrupt. “Look, man, nothing personal, I respect what you’re doing, I honestly do, but you don’t know these people.” I try to explain that what’s going on, their sitting in the room pretending to care in front of some hospital guy, is a ruse, because they don’t actually care. I tell him everything they do is to make themselves look good and that they’ve never been good to me.
When I stop, he asks, “Will you at least listen to what they have to say?”
I say, “Fine, but I’m not going to rehab. All of you can kiss my ass.” I feel my face reddening and my blood pressure beginning to rise. As if regaining the ability to sit up, roll over, and stand weren’t challenging enough, I have to listen, embarrassed, as they deliver their pitiless and self-righteous monologues to me, the root of all the family’s problems.
My mom begins, “Nick, I’ve cleaned up your puke countless times after your visits, when you tried to hide your addiction . . . [blah, blah, blah] I’m tired of having to check my wallet and belongings to make sure my money and jewelry aren’t missing . . . [blah, blah, blah].”
My dad jumps in next, “Nick, you’ve brought destruction and chaos into our home for long enough . . . I’m not going to stand by idly and watch you kill yourself.” He says that for the good of the family, I’m cut off, which puts me into a rage, as if he’s trying to convince the social worker that they’ve been wonderful to me until now.
“You’ve already cut me off! Now you’re simply justifying it because you don’t want to feel guilty if I die.” Their lies infuriate me. I look at Austin, trying to figure out if he’s stooped to their delusional level of saving face. His expression is blank and I think he knows this is complete nonsense, but just thinking that they’re likely trying to turn him against me makes me sick and I start yelling. “You make me sick! Do you hear me? You literally make me sick! Get the fuck out of here, goddammit! Leave! Now! Fuck you! Fuck you all! You’re the ones who deserve to be in my shoes! You suck! You just suck! I hate you!” My hands flail and I throw everything I can grab at them as violently as possible. All sorts of monitoring devices and IV lines are torn from my body in the process.
They get up and walk out and I yell out after them, “Austin, I’m sorry!”
I listened to them, I tried patiently to endure, but I grew more and more angry. It was as though they were oblivious to the fact that they ignored my calls for help when I needed them most. Am I surprised that none of it’s about me, and that it’s all about protecting their conscience and their image? Absolutely not, but it still makes me irate.
After my family leaves, the nurses come to reattach the lines; after them, the head chaplain of the hospital comes. The chaplain talks warmly, asking how I’m feeling, and then tries to reason with me. He says if I confess to stealing the jewelry, go to rehab, and take it all seriously, my parents will forgive me and let me back into the family, help me get back on my feet, and help me find a decent job. I refuse, and explain that theirs is not a family I want to be a part of. The chaplain sighs, and then tells me his entire tumultuous life story, as if he’s all-too-aware that I have nowhere else to be that day. He tells me that his son committed suicide and that in the aftermath, while he was grieving, God revealed His all-powerful self and called for him to become a minister, to teach God’s ways.
It’s clear to me that the chaplain is telling his story in an attempt to gain my trust and motivate me to subject myself to my family’s proposed plan of action. I know better than to trust my family, but the chaplain assures me that he will hold them accountable to their end of the bargain. I tell him none of this matters anyway, that my life is basically already over. No woman would want to marry a disease-ridden drug addict, plus my face is ruined, and I don’t even know the first thing about how to successfully start a new life. I continue to tell him that I already started over from scratch in the past, and tried my absolute best to be a good person during the time in my life when I went to school and then became a CNA. No matter what I did, though, I could not escape the fast lane and habits related to the lifestyle I have known for so long. I tell him about the vision I had of my sister, and the conflicting emotions and ideas I hold onto about what happened. Just like with the chaplain at the military school, I let it all out.
The chaplain prays with me and says that God has big plans for my life, and that I have to get to a place of surrender in order to invite Him in. He leads me in prayer and encourages me to accept Christ and ask for His help. At the end of our time together, the chaplain looks at me with tears in his eyes and urges me not to worry about having hepatitis. He tells
me that Jesus forgives me for not only destroying my life and nearly killing myself, and stealing from my parents and hurting others, but also for everything I have ever done.
The chaplain says that from this point forward I am to live a life that includes a personal relationship with God, and that I should repent and change my ways. By the end of our conversation, I have agreed not only to this, but also to enter rehab for the second time in my life, directly following my discharge from the hospital. This means taking my family up on their offer.
Chapter 11
In a high-end rehabilitation facility that cost tens of thousands of dollars, I have the feeling of truly belonging for the first time in my life. My fears of being alone and enslaved to opioid addiction are totally relieved as I am submerged into much-needed treatment. I receive individual counseling, recreation time with my housemates, excellent food, and open sharing times with my peers. The recovery is challenging and requires concentrated effort and investment from me, but the schedule is lax enough that there is time for me to rest and physically recuperate. I am never bored and I feel like I have genuine friendships with everyone in the house. The patients are a mixed lot: a thirty-year-old train conductor who is an alcoholic; a gay lawyer who is addicted to meth; a very kind man in his sixties, who is my roommate and an alcoholic; three or four other middle-aged people who are also alcoholics; and five or six people around my age, in their early twenties, who are all addicted to heroin.
Simply put, Green Bay is the drunkest city in the nation, the heaviest drinking metro area, and there are studies that back me up on this. Over half of traffic accidents and domestic abuse cases in Green Bay are alcohol related. One study noted that 26 percent of adults in Green Bay regularly drink to the point of getting wasted; the national average is 18 percent. The revenue generated by alcohol sales related to the size of the population purchasing it is surpassed by only one other city in the United States, Appleton, Wisconsin, a twenty-minute drive south. These two areas combined create a perfect storm for alcohol-related crime, and the problem seems to be all consuming of their giant populations.
One by One Page 17