“You’re on your way to Paris. Alone. And you’re here,” he says, tapping the table. ”On a blind date with me. No one twisted your arm—at least I don’t think Thora did, though she can be quite persuasive. Seriously, your willingness to meet me for a salad is a big deal. You have every right to be gun shy. However, should we end up becoming friends, I hope we can still meet in Paris for a drink one day. No strings attached. On the other hand, if you think I’m a complete jerk and you never want to see me again, I want you to know I give you a lot of credit for realizing what you can live with and what you can live without.”
Well, damn, since he put it like that.
Recovery Road
“So, what are you on?” Bernadine’s new roommate asked her.
“Nothing,” she said, and sat up in her twin-sized bed.
“Well, I can see you’re not wearing your purple wristband. And you’re in your own clothes, so you’ve already been through the hardest part. I’m Belinda,” she said, reaching out her shaking hand. “So, put another way. What were you on?”
“Xanax and Ambien.”
“Well, I’ve got you beat by a long shot, honey. What were your numbers?”
“What do you mean?”
“How many a day?”
“One or two Xanax. And—”
“Stop right there. Did you just say ‘one or two’?”
Bernadine nodded. “Sometimes two or three Ambien a week.”
“Then what the fuck are you doing in here? I’m sorry for swearing. You’re not one of those religious ones, are you?”
Bernadine shook her head. Belinda looked like she’d been on something for a long time. Her brown hair was greasy. Her skin was so pasty it looked like she never went outside. Her blue eyes looked like glass. The sockets under them were so swollen, Bernadine saw a freeway of veins. “What are you on?”
“Looks like that morphine drip got me again.”
“I’m confused.”
“Aren’t we all,” Belinda said. “I’m a nurse. Or I should say, I was a nurse. Thanks to my loving husband, who turned me in this time. Anyway, I cared for terminally ill patients and unfortunately, after some of them died, there was still a little of my drug of choice left, so I figured, what a waste to toss it.”
“Well, you couldn’t have had people dying every day.”
She pulled her hospital gown to cover her shoulders, then pointed her index finger at Bernadine. “You are correct. Which is why I started helping myself. Anyway, you may find this hard to believe, but I took Xanax and Vicodin to detox off morphine. To the tune of about ten or twenty a day. Don’t even ask how many milligrams. It’s a moot point.”
Bernadine swallowed hard. “Didn’t you ever worry about overdosing?”
Belinda just looked at her. “Haven’t you met any of the other honorary members at A New Day yet?”
“Yesterday was my first full day participating.”
“Wasn’t it fun? Especially the meet and greet. ‘Hi, I’m Belinda and I’m a drug addict from San Bernardino.’ So you got the addiction-is-a- disease lecture and you have to find your Higher Power or you’re doomed. Right?”
“Somewhat. I learned a lot.”
“Oh, they’re just warming up, honey bunny. Take a look at the schedule of lectures and movies. You’ll be able to run your own facility by the time you’re ready to go home.”
There were about thirty people there. Some were there because it was either rehab or jail. Some were there due to intervention. Addiction certainly didn’t discriminate. There was a judge, a schoolteacher, a college professor, at least three doctors, a couple of lawyers, housewives, musicians, an accountant, a model Bernadine had never seen anywhere, a vineyard manager, a few local politicians and even a police chief. Bernadine was the only black person. Not that it bothered her. She just couldn’t help noticing.
“Who’s your counselor? You better pray you get Mignon. She’s the only one around here who has a soft heart. Her approach isn’t from some rehab bible. She looks at your situation as yours. Don’t judge her by those Hush Puppies. Check your paperwork over there.”
Bernadine walked over to their shared dresser. “Yep. It is Mignon.”
“Have you been to group yet?”
“You mean group therapy?”
“Yes.”
“Tomorrow.”
“You’ll be able to get up close and personal with a few of your fellow alcoholics and druggies. It’s quite intimate. You’re going to hear some horror stories that’ll make your mouth drop. Lots of tears. So be prepared. And believe everything you hear so you don’t ever come back to one of these fucking places.”
“So, you’ve obviously been here before.”
She holds up three fingers. “They say five is the magic number. This is my second stint at A New Day. I like this place better than the others. Anyway, you’re gonna have to pour your heart out in group, you know. Right before you split, they make you write this dreadful letter to explain how and why you think you got here and how you plan to stay sober. Plead the fifth when they start badgering you afterward.”
“Will you be there?”
“Honey, I’m just getting started. In a matter of hours I’ll be in a coma. I’m just kidding. Seriously, I probably won’t leave this room for at least a week. They have to give me the hard stuff to keep me from jumping out the window. But may I ask you a big favor?”
“It depends.”
“First, I should warn you. Watch out for Nurse Ratched. Her real name is Mary. She’s the one who dispenses all the meds at night. She’s just like the nurse from Cuckoo’s Nest. I kid you not. She’s on a power trip. Everybody hates her. If you tell her you’re in pain or hyper or can’t sleep, she won’t give you any more meds. She likes watching us suffer. Are you taking any of yours?”
“No. They told me I could refuse them. Since everything is out of my system now, popping another pill doesn’t make any sense to me. The only thing I’m taking is a multivitamin, iron and a new antidepressant they put me on until I see my doctor when I get home.”
“May I have yours, then? All you have to do is tell Nurse Ratched you’ve changed your mind.”
“But won’t she be suspicious?”
“They have your stats behind that desk. They know you’re a kindergartener, that you might be a little scared being in here for the first time. Anyway, if you don’t feel comfortable doing it, I understand.”
“I’ll see.”
“Well, I’ve said more than I thought I could. Good luck to you. Bernadine, wasn’t it?”
“You sound like you’re going somewhere.”
“It’s gonna be lights out in the reptile house for me in a matter of minutes, that’s why I’m chattering away now.”
“Did they give you something to help you?”
“Of course. Otherwise I could go through hell at home. Oh, a few more pieces of advice from an alumna. Do all the physical stuff. The walks. The yoga. Pick up those weights. Good luck trying to meditate. Some people swear it helps them relax. One last thing: don’t fall for the guilt trips they try to lay on you doing those Steps. I’m not kidding. I think the people who run AA and NA are all part of one big cult. They want you to drink the Kool-Aid. Just go along with them until you get back to your real life. After you see some of the folks in here, myself included, you should never want to pop anything heavier than an Advil, sister. End of rehab lecture. I’m headed for a comfort zone.”
“Thanks for the insight. Get some rest.”
Belinda pulled the covers over her head. “You seem like you’re going to be a cool roommate,” she said. “I need a friend.”
“Hi, I’m Bernadine, and I’m an addict from Phoenix,” she said when it was her turn to introduce herself. Hearing herself say this was like scratching her fingernails on a chalkboard. Bernadine didn’t feel like a drug addict. She’d developed a dependency on pills. She didn’t take them to get high, and she certainly didn’t enjoy taking them. Didn’t that make a d
ifference? Over the next few weeks, she would get tired of saying this and even more tired of hearing it. What she wanted to say was “Hi, I’m Bernadine. I’m a great cook. I live in Scottsdale. I’m here because I’ve been doing a number on myself for years, but guess what? Game over.”
By the time she got back from her walk, went to breakfast, sat in on two lectures about the nature of addiction and getting clean, went to a Yoga class, ate lunch, watched a film about the history of Alcoholics Anonymous and how following the Twelve Steps could help you on the road to recovery, Bernadine was exhausted.
She returned to their room. Belinda wasn’t in her bed. Bernadine wondered where she could be. She went to the kitchen, the reading room, both ladies’ rooms. The gym and yoga studio, the meditation room, the steam room and sauna. Belinda wasn’t there. Finally, Bernadine went to the front desk. “Has anyone seen Belinda?”
“She’s gone,” Polly said. She was not Nurse Ratched, although Bernadine would discover that Polly ran a close second. She had greeted Bernadine when she arrived. After John had left, Polly looked at Bernadine’s two large suitcases and said, “Where do you think you’re going? To a resort?”
“What do you mean she’s gone?” Bernadine said. “She just got here.”
“Her insurance company refused to cover her treatment.”
“I thought you guys verified this before we get here?”
“This happens more than we care to acknowledge. It’s more paperwork for us. Is there anything else I can do for you?”
Bernadine shook her head. It wasn’t until she walked back into the room that she noticed Belinda’s quilted overnight bag was gone.
The sound of moaning woke Bernadine up. It was the middle of the night. She hadn’t had a roommate since Belinda had been sent packing over a week ago. Bernadine looked over at the other bed. Whoever it was, she was bone thin. Another hour went by. The girl fell out of the bed. Bernadine helped her get back in, then walked down to the front desk.
“The girl in the bed next to me is not doing so well. She seems to be in a lot of pain,” Bernadine told Mary, a/k/a Nurse Ratched.
“She’s just having a tough time. Do you need a sleep aid?”
“No, I don’t want a sleep aid.”
“I’ve got earplugs.”
“I just want to know how long she’s going to go through this.”
“It depends. She could be better tomorrow. Maybe worse. This is what happens in rehab, honey.”
“If she isn’t any better, would it be possible to change rooms?”
Nurse Ratched chuckled. “If this were a hotel, we could upgrade you to a suite. We’re short on rooms, sweetheart. See how she does tomorrow.”
The next night was just as bad. Her legs seemed to kick uncontrollably. She complained she was freezing. A new nurse wrapped her in blankets and gave her something that eventually calmed her down. This made her snore like a trucker. As it turned out, this girl was only nineteen, was detoxing off that Oxycontin, another new pill Bernadine never knew existed. When she saw daylight peeking through the blinds, Bernadine got up. She drank a small glass of orange juice in the kitchen, grabbed a bottle of water, then joined the small group who walked four miles every morning. She was up to two.
“I don’t like it here,” Bernadine told Mignon at the end of her second week.
“What don’t you like about it?”
“Being forced to go to those AA or NA meetings. Saying that serenity prayer over and over. Hearing all those depressing stories and testimonials. And the lectures. I’ve learned enough about addiction to last the rest of my life. Don’t get me wrong, it’s good to know. But I would love to talk about something else.”
“Like what?”
“Like what to do once you leave here.”
“That’s next week. It’s under recovery.”
“I mean, I’m not ungrateful. I’m getting a lot out of being here. I haven’t had a pill for thirteen days and I feel great.”
“So what do you like about being here?”
“Honestly?”
Mignon nods. Pushes her glasses up. Crosses her legs. Those gray Hush Puppies are dreadful.
“Going to yoga class and meditation. The morning walks.”
“What about group?”
“I mean, the impact letters are pretty powerful, but I’m not sure what they prove.”
“Why don’t you see how you feel after you share yours next week. Then tell me if it mattered. How’s that sound?”
“It sounds good.”
“I’d like to share something with you, Bernadine.”
“Sure.”
“Please keep this between us—it’s not meant to be shared with the other counselors, during discussion after the lectures or with any other people in the program.”
“Okay.”
“One of the things you said in your written statement was how the horrible way your marriage ended made you feel like a victim.”
“That’s true.”
“That you still feel a great deal of anger and resentment toward your ex-husband.”
“That’s putting it mildly.”
“What if I told you these emotions and thoughts were totally justified?”
“It’s what I’ve been trying to get my friends and everybody to understand for years!”
“What if I also told you it doesn’t make a bit of difference if they’re justified or not?”
“I thought you just said you got it?”
“I do. But so what? Tell me what holding on to all of this anger and resentment has helped you do.”
“Pop pills.”
“What else?”
“Be unhappy.”
“So, would it be safe to say that you’ve been letting the pain from your past turn the present into the enemy?”
“That’s one way to look at it.”
“Tell me in your own words what you hoped to accomplish by coming to A New Day.”
“I wanted to stop taking pills and learn how to live a healthy life again.”
“That means you’re pretty damn tired of living like a victim, right?”
“Absolutely.”
“Then I’m going to ask you to try something.”
“Look, Mignon. I don’t want you to think I think I’m better than any of the people in this program. Or that I don’t have a problem. Watching what drugs and alcohol have done to some of these people is exhausting, not to mention depressing as hell. I’m just trying to figure out how to get to happy.”
“This is precisely why the steps are so important for so many people.”
Bernadine shook her head. She was thinking about what Belinda had said. She was also wondering where she was and how she might be doing. “I have a problem with the idea that if God could remove all of our defects and shortcomings, then we’d all be perfect.”
“I totally agree. This is one reason why I’m going to ask you to take what you need from the program during the next two weeks.”
“I’m glad you understand.”
“There’s something I’d like you to try after you leave my office.”
Bernadine looked a bit apprehensive. “Like what?”
“If you can, try to pretend that your life is a one-thousand-page book. You’re how old?”
“Fifty-one.”
“At fifty-one you’ve already lived, say, six hundred of those pages.”
“Okay.”
“You’ve got four hundred more to go. Today, you’re starting on page six hundred and one. You can live these next four hundred pages without clinging to what appeared on pages one to six hundred. Keep in mind that no one’s asking you to forget what’s on those other six hundred. For now, leave them just where they are. At least until you’re ready to accept whatever it was that was painful. The idea is to live the next four hundred pages the way you wish to. How’s that sound?”
“This is the kind of stuff they need to suggest in those lectures. Instead of scaring the hell out of you.”
“Thank you,” Bernadine said.
“You’re welcome. See you in group?”
Bonjour
The day after my surprisingly pleasant date, my doctor left me a message saying she wanted to see me right away but there was no need to be alarmed. I could drop by at my convenience. This freaked me out. I’m probably dying. They never want to give you bad news over the phone. I bet it’s some kind of cancer. Or my liver or kidneys. Something that can’t be fixed. I’ll have to cancel my trip because I’ll probably be getting prepped for chemo. Fuck.
I should never have done drugs in college and after graduate school. I should never have smoked those stupid cigarettes! I should’ve stopped with the French fries and double cheeseburgers and large Cokes once I hit twenty-three. Just said no to those second and third helpings of peach cobbler and sweet potato pie and fried chicken and macaroni and cheese and that extra dollop of sour cream on my baked potato, knowing I’m lactose intolerant. But no. I have always said yes to Savannah, and now look at the price I’m going to have to pay for being so self-indulgent.
Is this what happens after fifty? Your body starts turning against you? Years ago, it seemed as if every time I called Mama she was either on her way to, or just coming back from, the doctor. Or going to pick up a prescription. Now my friends and I are doing the exact same thing. There’s always some mandatory test we have to take. Some new ailment or complaint. We’re always getting repaired.
I was sitting on the exam table, waiting for the doctor to walk in and give me the bad news. My heart was beating like crazy. I looked at all the disease pamphlets on the wall to see which one I might be lucky enough to get. As soon as Dr. Mizrahi walked in, she gave me a reassuring pat on the knee. “So. You’re producing too much glucose, which is the same as sugar, which means you’ve got diabetes two.”
My chest sank. “I know what diabetes is. But what does this mean for me?”
“That your glucose levels are much higher than they should be. Your mother was diabetic, right?” she asked, flipping the pages of my chart.
Getting to Happy Page 32