by Dina Kucera
Twenty minutes later, John and Carly and I were walking out the door. Carly was suddenly in a better mood. She hugged her dog and said, “I’m sorry, Squirty. I just need more time. I love you.”
So John and I drove Carly back to Tucson. And on the two-and-a-half hour trip, her attitude became better. She talked about how it was possible that she needed more time in rehab. She was also thankful that they were willing to take her back.
We brought in all her things, and they welcomed her back. John and I again drove away, exhausted, but relieved.
After Carly was gone, Andy came by to apologize. We appreciated it, but told him they seem to fuel each other’s drug addictions. I think Carly and Andy are also starting to realize this. Now the question is, if you love someone but are not good for each other, do you stay away or do you die together?
Carly came home after three months away, and this time it seemed like she was really getting the idea of how to stay clean. Andy was also clean. And Carly and Andy were still inseparable. I couldn’t have asked for anything more. They were both clean. Finally.
I jokingly said to Carly that I needed a big finish for my book. I needed the house to burn down, or the car to explode just as I was walking away from it. Something big.
Right then Carly hurled a Tootsie Roll at me at about three hundred miles an hour. It hit me in the hand. I thought my hand was shattered.
Carly said, “You needed a big ending.” Then she rolled on the floor laughing.
That’s my big ending? I get hit by a Tootsie Roll? Do you read books? Not one person will read this book and say, “It’s the book about how a lady got hit by a Tootsie Roll.” Even if she shattered my hand and my whole arm, it still isn’t enough. Now if she had hit me in the throat and the Tootsie Roll lodged itself in my windpipe, that’s an ending. Fucking kids.
Seven months after rehab, Carly was still clean. She had a job. She quit smoking. She ran every day. She ate carrots and granola. It was confusing. I thought, Can I let go of the fear? Are the girls growing up a little bit? Growing up enough to know that all the trauma isn’t worth the price they have to pay the following day? It was quiet. Knock wood. Burn some candles. Roast a pig.
Carly had three ideas for a big ending for my book other than hitting me with candy. She said she and Andy could get married. They could have a baby. Or they could relapse. All bad ideas.
I was feeling really good about life. The girls were doing well. The sun was shining. I was thankful for everything.
I thought, Yes, I can let go of fearing everything is going to crash to the ground at any second. What if we became a completely normal family? That would be insane. I loved the idea. Yes. Let go of the fear.
Then I walked into Carly’s room. She was holding her dinner plate full of food, hugging it sitting up, asleep, with food all over her lap.
So, okay, she was high on heroin. There is no better way to say it other than it boggles the fucking mind.
I thought she was clean. But Carly and Andy had been using heroin for the last three months, and we didn’t have a clue. Looking back, I could see it. But when I was in it, I couldn’t see it. It’s like it was so close to my face that I simply didn’t see it happening.
Opiates aren’t as easy to recognize as you would think. As long as a person “maintains” and doesn’t overdo it (at least until their parents go to sleep), you could pretend to be normal for a while. But eventually you will overdo it and end up hugging a plate with chicken all over your lap.
Methamphetamines, on the other hand, I can spot a hundred miles away. People on meth are usually taking things apart and putting them back together.
Andy took a washing machine completely apart to find the recording device the FBI put in there to bust him with drugs. He also did this with cell phones and televisions. I love you, Andy, but the FBI has bigger fish to fry. But you can’t explain that to someone who hasn’t slept or eaten for nine days.
So I tried to find Carly a detox. I went to the usual places, but found out they no longer accepted state-funded insurance. They told me there was only one place, with two locations, to go to detox in the entire city of Phoenix. One location was full, but the hospital was able to get Carly into the other. It was in downtown Phoenix, and she would have to go by ambulance.
The ambulance drivers took Carly and they rolled her into detox hell. They said later they didn’t feel like it was safe for them to drop her off there. But the lady at the desk explained that this was the only place in the city to leave her. So they left her.
These two different locations obviously couldn’t handle all of the detoxing drug addicts in a city the size of Phoenix. So they had a process to weed out the sick people. They put them on a bed in a room with a bunch of other beds. They give them a bed pan to vomit in, and tell them if they want to leave, to sign out and leave. So as the addict becomes increasingly ill, she knows she can leave and use at any point. They say they only help the ones who fight off the withdrawal because this shows who really wants help. Many of the sick people walk out.
I know people might say, “Fuck them... if they really want to get clean, they will stay.” I say fuck the process that makes people prove they would rather have seizures and vomit repeatedly and have cramps from their heads to their toes, than leave and walk down one block and feel better in seconds. A person says they want to change their life and this is how we help them?
In defense of the facility, how the hell are they supposed to treat an entire city of people nobody wants? What would happen if all these fucked-up, high people sat on the steps of the White House and said, “We aren’t leaving until we get medical treatment”?
The people on crystal meth would say, “Let’s tear this bitch down then rebuild it.” The people on heroin would say, “Don’t tear it down, man. I want to take a nap in the Red Room.”
We continue to put sick people in prison when what they need is medical treatment. If you have to continuously build bigger prisons, isn’t that a clear indication that the plan isn’t working? Because if it was working, and people were “learning a lesson” by being locked up, wouldn’t the prison population become smaller?
As it turned out, Carly “passed” the test. She didn’t leave, and she eventually went back into the rehab she had previously been in.
Since Carly turned eighteen, she has been able to get treatment at a state-funded rehab center. Before that, the only way to get help for her was through our health insurance, which involved thousands of phone calls and lots of screaming and begging for help.
Always remember, “no” doesn’t mean “no” with insurance companies. If you think your kid is going to die, do not accept “no.” Stalk the insurance company until they get so tired of you they agree to pay for treatment. When you’re talking to someone, ask to talk to their boss, and then to their boss, and so on until they hear your crazy voice on the phone and they crack. Ask them what they would do if it was their child. Tell them about your child, and tell them how much you love your child. I’ve learned to balance anger with kindness. Utilize the saying, “You catch more bees with honey than you do with vinegar.” In the end, your kid will probably get treatment. “No” doesn’t mean “no.” But speak from your heart, because the person on the other end of the phone also has a heart. You hope.
It had been about a week since Carly’s latest trip to rehab, and John and I were feeling sort of low. The therapists at the rehab told us we should “nurture” our marriage. Of course, that means something different to John than it does to me. As far as I’m concerned, the best place for “nurturing” is Vegas, so off we went with our sad little hearts.
We arrive in Vegas and check into our room. John lies down, and I go into the bathroom and start a bath.
I come back around the corner and see John lying on the bed, clutching his chest and dripping with sweat. I mean, soaking wet. Buckets of sweat are running down his face. He says he feels like he is being crushed.
I call 911 and describe John�
��s symptoms. They say he is having a heart attack. That sounds so bizarre that I say, “When you say ‘heart attack,’ you mean, he’s having a heart attack and he just needs some rest and tomorrow he’ll be okay? Right?” They send an ambulance to take John to the hospital.
At the hospital, a doctor says John is having a massive heart attack, but they can’t handle a heart attack of this level at this hospital. So they put John back in the ambulance and take him to another hospital. I ride in the ambulance with John, and then follow as they push John’s gurney through the hallways, and then into an operating room where doctors are waiting, dressed to fix him. They tell me I can’t go in, and the double doors shut in front of me. I stand there, alone, staring at the doors.
The only place we have ever gone in Vegas is casinos. The hospital is beautiful, and I can’t help but think, They didn’t build this place on “winners.”
I was terrified. My sister flew in that night. John’s sister, Cheryl, and our niece, Michelle, drove in, so that made my panic subside. John’s son, Michael, was in Vegas, so he came to the hospital, too. I felt better surrounded by familiar faces.
John had two blocked arteries. One they unblocked, and the other they said they couldn’t fix because it wasn’t safe. I guess it’s located under and around the back of his heart. On the one they fixed, they used a thing called a “stent.” It goes into the artery and blows it open with a balloon.
To hear the doctors talk, they do this procedure thousands of times a day. Like I guess most people have a stent, which means most people in the world have had a tube shoved up their groin, all in the effort to blow open the artery in their heart. The doctors make it sound simple. You could be standing in line at Starbucks, and you could have your artery blown open by the time they prepare your Grande Carmel Macchiato. They make it sound like maybe I should get a stent as well, because everybody who’s anybody has a stent. Seriously. Google it.
John was lying in the intensive care unit, bleeding out of his groin area, so we had to wait for days until it stopped. Lisa, Cheryl, and Michelle left. So it was just me and Michael sitting in the room.
I didn’t know how I would cope without John. One minute, we were a team together. Five minutes later, I could be alone. I remember being so filled with fear. So afraid I couldn’t speak. I remember watching the door to the operating room shut in front of me, and just standing there, completely silent, trying to comprehend what was happening and wondering what would happen to my head if they came out of those doors and told me something I couldn’t hear.
Later, I was sitting alone in a corner of the waiting room, staring at a fish tank. I was thinking, John is my guy, and my biggest fear is that the world would be empty without him. John tells me I’m pretty. John makes me laugh. John has always been the one who loves us.
John was in intensive care for seven days, and then they said he could go home. They say what happens in Vegas stays in Vegas. Not always. It’s like one minute you’re sitting at a slot machine waiting for three Wayne Newton heads to come up, and the next minute, you’re having a stent shoved up your privates. Life is trippy.
We got home from the heart attack trip, and I felt overwhelmed with responsibility. I was already overwhelmed, but I was able to handle it because John was my helper. Now, I had no helper and another really sick person to care for.
At work, it felt like a bolt had been twisted in my brain because now I was even more stuck there. We needed our health insurance more than ever because a massive heart attack is expensive. John’s medications alone would have been twelve hundred dollars a month if we didn’t have health insurance. So the weight of work, with the huddles, and signing this and that, and your smile is part of your uniform, and the people are your flesh and blood, all of it—it felt like a crushing weight. It felt like, “You can’t do one wrong thing or you’ll get fired and your life will be destroyed and John will have a heart attack and die and it will be your fault.” Holy fucking shit!
The doctor told me not to allow John to have stress. What? Every single thing in our lives involves the word “stress.” The girls, Mom, financial problems. So anything that happened, I had to hide it from John and deal with it and make sure no one upset him.
At that point, the twin had been living with us for six months. Having him there was daily stress, and it got worse after John’s heart attack. I was suffocating, and every time I looked at Geo, I wanted to unleash on him with an ice pick. I mean, I didn’t do that, but I really, really wanted to. I really wanted this. I would just surprise him. With an ice pick. It was nice to imagine.
“How heavy are the weights?” I ask, but then before he can answer, I scream, “I don’t care! I don’t care! I don’t care!” Each time, over and over, with the ice pick. Again and again and again until I begin to sweat and fall exhausted to the floor. Then one more time for good measure. Then a few more times. Then one, two, three, four, five more times. Then one more time, but it doesn’t even pierce his skin because I am so tired from all the stabbing, over and over and over. I drop the ice pick on the floor with compete satisfaction. Then, finally, silence.
I forgot my original point.
Oh, yeah. So I’d drive home from work, crying half the time because I hated my job so much. Then I’d walk in the front door to Geo, and he’d tell me a story about himself and how heavy his weights are and how far he ran, and the whole time I was wishing the roof would cave in and kill both of us. Meanwhile, Mom would be ringing her bell, and the dog would be staring at me, and everyone was starving, but John couldn’t eat anything but wheat sticks.
I would take all the incoming problems and do the best I could. I’d situate the people in the house, and then go in the back room and close the door. I sat in the back room watching TV for months.
After John got a little better, he went to Tucson with me so I could do a comedy job. I woke up that morning with a headache, John and I went to visit Carly in rehab, and then we drove to Tucson so I could do two shows that night.
When we go to Tucson we are fortunate to be able to stay in our dear friends’ guest house way up in the hills. It’s beautiful and peaceful and I would like to never leave. John and I have known these people for twenty years.
Okay, so the wife, Denise. Denise is as gorgeous as she was twenty years ago. I know people always say that, but in her case, it’s actually true. She drinks a lot of wine, so we’re thinking she’s actually pickled. I on the other hand I have aged like a normal human.
Denise is one of those women who doesn’t really know how beautiful she is, so that makes her more beautiful.
So that should be enough, don’t you think? Beauty? Who needs more? Denise cooks all our meals when we stay with them. I don’t mean grilled cheese. I mean Chicken a la Red Wine Marsala with Basil and Tomatoes—tomatoes that she hand-picked from some hill in Spain. Then she makes the salad dressing: Tomato a la Burberry Something Something. She prepares a different dish each evening.
I asked her, “What can I help with?”
She said, “Nothing. This dish is so simple. You relax.”
Okay. So she’s beautiful and she can cook. She and her husband also own a comedy club. We walked through the doors of the club, and I noticed since my last visit there was beautiful artwork covering the walls.
I said, “Wow. This looks amazing!”
Denise then proceeded to explain how she painted each piece of art, and how painting isn’t really her thing but they needed something on the walls, so a girl does what she has to do.
What?
We went back to their home in the hills, and I demanded that I be allowed to do the dishes, without question. I was washing and I saw this wildly fantastic ceramic bowl. I was carefully washing it, thinking it was probably expensive and I didn’t want to break it. I carefully turned it over and on the bottom of the dish it said, “by Denise B.” At this point, I hung my head and turned to her and moaned, “You make your own dishes?”
The point I’m making is, could God
spread it around a little? Why heap all the beauty and talent on a few people? If someone is short, make them really funny. If someone is bald, give them lots of money. On the other hand, if someone is beautiful, give them a constant toothache. Or if a person is a gifted artist, maybe they could have herpes.
It seems like God is in the people-making factory, and Jennifer Aniston comes down the belt and he takes his bucket of beauty and talent and dumps a shitload on her. Then Danny DeVito rolls by and God walks away to check his Facebook.
Back at Denise’s, I set my drink on a table. Then I picked it back up and asked for a coaster because I don’t want to ruin the beautiful table.
Denise said, “Oh, please. That table is so old. I made it when we lived in Germany.”
I laughed and said, “Of course you did. We all made a table or two. In Germany.”
God could spread the sweet sauce a little more evenly.
So that particular Friday, I was done with my two shows, and we were back at the house. But as that day progressed, my headache had become a migraine.
We were sitting outside by Denise’s waterfall, on chairs that Denise welded together with scrap metal from an old washing machine. The seat cushions were covered with skin from a zebra that she harpooned while she was on a trip to South Africa.
For a fleeting second, I felt sad that a zebra had to die to make these beautiful cushions. But, man, zebra skin is so soft to sit on.
A week before our trip, John had a kidney stone (as if he hadn’t been physically tortured enough). So I knew he had painkillers. I wasn’t in my painkiller stage anymore, but my head felt like it was going to explode. So I said to John, “Give me half of one of your painkillers.”
That was the beginning of a beautiful life. We woke up the next morning, and Denise was making crepes. We ate, hugged Denise and her husband goodbye, and then went back to Phoenix where we had a freezer filled with Swanson frozen entrées. Over the next week, I took all of John’s painkillers.