Dying to Survive

by Rachael Keogh

  My mother came into the room now. ‘Rachael, look, you’re in the paper,’ she said as she placed a copy of the Irish Independent on my lap. There I was in black and white, arms held out to the nation, looking like something from a horror movie. It was too surreal for me to take in. The girl on the page didn’t look like me. I knew I looked a little bit broken, but I never realised it was this bad.

  Over the next few days my flat became like a circus, with a whirlwind of curious journalists and photographers asking personal questions and wanting to take photographs of my arms. I faced a barrage of questions:

  ‘How did your arms get so bad?’

  ‘Is that just from using drugs?’

  ‘What age were you when you started using drugs?’

  ‘How are you feeding your habit?’

  I wanted my voice to be heard but I also knew that I had to be very careful how I answered these questions. I was extremely sceptical of a lot of these journalists and I didn’t want to be exploited in any way. All that I wanted was to get into a treatment centre and get clean.

  I was twenty-seven years of age and I had been in and out of treatment centres since I was thirteen. I had tried everything: religious retreats, locking myself into my bedroom and going through cold turkey, holistic therapy. I had been to Cuba, Texas and Italy in search of a cure for my addiction, but even travelling around the world didn’t work. I now know that it was because I had never got clean for the right reasons. It was either for my family’s sake, or because I had burned so many bridges and had run out of people to fool and manipulate. I had been given so many chances without having to work for a thing. Every excuse under the sun had been exhausted by me to enable my drug use. People eventually grew tired of my lies and false promises and it was only a matter of time before I was left on my own. Between 2004 and now, 2006, I had been more or less left to my own devices: people got on with their lives and I was the one who was left in the gutter. It was the loneliest time of my life.

  But, as difficult as this was for myself and my family, being left on my own was my saving grace. It helped me to realise that, by taking drugs, I was fooling nobody but myself. I could no longer point my finger and blame others for my addiction. I couldn’t blame my mother and her decision to leave when I was just seven; I could no longer blame my father and his own drug addiction and the fact that he had never been a father to me in any way; I couldn’t blame my grandfather John and the tension his unpredictability caused within the family. Now, I was on my own.

  But this time, my family agreed to support me if I was willing to meet them half-way. If I wanted to get clean and stay clean I would have to face up to my own demons and take full responsibility for my own actions. However, in order for me to do this, I needed to come off the drugs first. Something drastic needed to happen—and it needed to happen very quickly.

  I had given the gardaí at Pearse Street my grandmother’s address in Ballymun, so they had no idea where to find me. My mother was bombarded with calls from the gardaí, insisting that she get me to hand myself in. But my mother refused. She told them that unless they could promise her that I would receive proper medical treatment, she wouldn’t give me up. We knew that it wouldn’t be long before they found out where I was.

  After two or three days of my story being highlighted in the papers, everything became strangely quiet. My mother’s phone stopped ringing. There didn’t seem to be any further interest in my plea for help. My fears, that nobody would want to know or even care, seemed to be confirmed. I sat on my own in my bedroom, incapable of seeing the wood for the trees, but I was certain of one thing: my next destination would be death, or worse, the Dóchas women’s prison. I cried like a baby and fell to my knees, begging God to give me one more chance, promising that I would do my best this time, that I would never hurt myself or those around me ever again.

  Later on that night, my mother received a phone call. I could hear her talking and sounding very upset. ‘We don’t know what to do, Alison. Nothing seems to be working. She’s very sick and we really need to get her into a treatment centre as soon as possible...She’s with me now. Would you like to talk to her? Rachael, somebody wants to talk to you,’ my mother said, handing me the phone.

  The voice at the other end sounded friendly. ‘Hiya, Rachael, my name is Alison O’Reilly. I’m a journalist at Sky News Ireland. I have been following your story and I was wondering if it would be possible to meet up with you? Your mother was just telling me that you really want to get into a detox centre and we think we might be able to help you. Would you be interested in doing an interview for Sky News? It would be broadcast in both England and Ireland and a lot of people will be watching. So you’ll have more of a chance of getting help.’

  I couldn’t believe my ears. She had to be winding me up. How on earth could something as big as Sky News want someone like me—strung out to bits—to be on their show. It just wasn’t possible. Only the likes of Tony Blair and people of high status went onto Sky News. But even then, I knew Alison genuinely wanted to help me. For some reason I felt like I could really trust her. That night myself and Alison spoke to each other for hours and she promised me that she would come and see me the next day to do the interview.

  _____

  ‘What are ye like, ye lucky little bitch, getting to go on Sky News. Sure we’ll have ye lookin’ like Christina Aguilera in no time,’ Neil said jokingly as he styled and transformed my hair into big tumbling curls.

  ‘Rachael, don’t be getting yourself all dolled up. You’re not going on the Rose of Tralee,’ my mother said, looking at myself and Neil as though we were deranged. God forbid that people might think I looked like a junkie. In my family, we have always prided ourselves on our looks and appearance. Looking good and wearing the right clothes can disguise a lot. And so my arms might be eaten away by heroin, but once my hair was groomed and my make-up perfect, I could pretend to myself that I was Ireland’s next top model.

  Neil, who was a professional hairstylist, considered himself to be a high-class drug addict as well. He didn’t have a tooth in his head, but once he kept his mouth shut, his fingernails well hidden and moisturiser in his hair, he could pass for a normal civilian. As myself and Neil fought over the mirror, my mother rushed around our tiny one-bedroomed flat trying to make it look a little bit presentable and insisting that I stash my drug paraphernalia well out of sight.

  Eventually Alison arrived, along with a cool-looking cameraman. She wasn’t what I expected, the killer journalist in search of a story. She had shoulder-length chestnut hair and a kind and friendly face. She hugged me as though we were old friends and handed me a Marks and Spencer bag full of posh chocolates and wine. ‘The chocolates are for you, because a little bird told me that you loved munchies, and the wine is for your mother,’ Alison said smoothly, sounding exactly like someone from Sky News. ‘This is Gavin. He’ll be filming the interview,’ she said, pointing to the cameraman, who looked as ordinary and down to earth as she did. Straight away I felt at ease and comfortable with these people. I didn’t feel as though they were looking down on me and judging me. I was ready to drop my pretence and open my heart to them and to anyone who cared to listen. My life was at stake and if I had to humiliate myself in front of the whole world to save it, then that’s what I would do.

  ‘Ok, Rachael, just relax, focus on me and pretend that the camera isn’t even here. I’m going to ask you a few questions, so just be yourself,’ Alison said, soothingly. I looked across the sitting-room at my mother who hovered nervously behind Gavin. She knew by my face that I wanted to do this on my own. ‘Right, I’ll leave you to it. I’ll be in the kitchen if you need me,’ she said reassuringly.

  Alison proceeded to ask me some questions, similar to the ones I had answered before from other journalists. I didn’t feel nervous at first. But then she asked me to show her my arms. This was the part that I had been dreading. Nobody had seen my arms in the flesh except for my family, the doctors and a couple of friends. Ev
en using in front of other drug addicts was shameful and embarrassing. On the rare occasions that I did, no comment would be made about my arms, but I could see them looking at me in horror and disgust.

  I pulled up my sleeves, expecting Alison and Gavin to make a sprint for the door, but they didn’t flinch. ‘What is that on your arms?’ Alison asked.

  ‘Well, because I’ve been using drugs for so long, I literally have no veins left. I have been rooting around for veins and you could easily mistake capillaries for veins. The capillaries are so small that they can’t handle the heroin. What happens is, the heroin burns through the capillaries and now I literally have black necrosis all over both my arms.’

  ‘How does that make you feel? Does it make you feel frightened?’

  ‘It does, yeah. I’m terrified of losing my arms,’ I replied, as I felt my voice begin to wobble and my eyes well up with tears. Don’t cry, don’t cry, I told myself, and I attempted to force the tears back down. But it was too late. Once I had started, I couldn’t stop. I could no longer see Gavin or the camera in the room; I was no longer conscious that thousands of people would be watching me. It all faded away to nothing. All I could see was this woman who, I knew in my heart, was reaching out to help me.

  ‘I don’t want to be using drugs,’ I continued as I began to sob. ‘I have to go off later on and do whatever I have to do to get drugs. It’s like all my morals go out the window. My family instilled a lot of goodness in me. I mean, I’m not a scumbag. I’m a good person.’

  ‘What’s out there to help you get through this really bad situation that you’re in?’ Alison prompted.

  ‘I need to be hospitalised. I rang a few places and I’ve been told that I will have to go on a waiting list, but if I go on a waiting list, I’ll have no arms, or I’ll be dead by the time I get in there.’

  ‘Do you really think you could die?’

  ‘I know for a fact that I will be dead. Your body can only take so much and the doctors told me if I continue to use, they will have to amputate both my arms’.

  ‘But you just can’t stop yourself?’ she asked.

  ‘I just can’t stop myself. I’m gone so far and I feel so sick, I don’t have the strength to do it on my own. I need help. I know I have the potential to do a lot more with my life.’

  The interview ended there and I was relieved. It was as though a great weight had been lifted from my shoulders. The rest of the day became a blur. I lay on my chair and felt as if I was floating and there I stayed until the next day.

  _____

  Or so I thought. My mother’s screams nearly gave me a heart attack. ‘Jesus Christ, Jacqueline, look at this!’ I woke up and saw my mother standing at the end of my chair, staring at me as though I had ten heads. ‘Rachael, what on earth did you do to yourself?’

  I was completely baffled; I had no idea what she was talking about. ‘You’re like a bloody ad for Cadbury chocolate.’ Suddenly memories of the night before came flooding back to me. Memories in the form of fancy walnut whips, orange delights and chocolate strawberry hearts raced through my mind. I had got up in the middle of the night, craving something sweet. I devoured half of my posh chocolates and fell asleep on top of the rest. Any delusions of being Ireland’s next top model quickly went out the window. Especially when I looked down at my feet, which had blown up like two big purple balloons.

  ‘Were you injecting into your feet?’ my mother asked, as the blood drained from her face.

  ‘I had to,’ I replied, avoiding eye contact with her.

  ‘That’s it. You’re coming to the hospital with me now. C’mon, get up and get dressed.’ My mother attempted to lift me up off the chair.

  Neil lifted his head up from where he had been sleeping on the floor beside me. ‘What’s wrong?’ he said in a husky voice, still half asleep. He looked at me with one eye still closed. Then it dawned on him...‘What are ye like, the bleedin’ state of ye,’ he said as he fell back into his sleeping position. By this stage, my mother was no longer in the room, so I took the opportunity to ask, ‘Neil, where’s the gear?’

  ‘It’s in your arm, love,’ he replied.

  ‘It’s not. I still had a bit left. D’ye know what I done with it?’

  ‘Check under the chair,’ he suggested. I put my hand under the chair and pulled out a one-ml barrel. The heroin was still in the needle, but it had turned to crystal overnight. ‘Shit, I’m gonna have to cook this up again.’ I could hear my mother coming back into the sitting-room, so I quickly hid my ‘works’ under my blanket.

  ‘I’ve just been talking to Garda John White on the phone. I told him that I was bringing you to the hospital,’ she told me. ‘And as soon as you were a feeling bit better, you would ring him to try and get your warrants sorted out.’

  ‘What did he say to that?’ I asked her doubtfully.

  ‘He was actually very nice to me; he said that your health was the most important thing and you’re not to worry. When you’re ready, you have to hand yourself in.’

  I looked at my mother, not believing a word she had said. It just sounded too good to be true. My health ‘is the most important thing’—they weren’t saying that when they had me in custody, were they? ‘They’ve changed their tune quick enough,’ I said to my mother, knowing that something wasn’t right.

  My mother just smiled and we chatted for fifteen minutes or so. Then suddenly I heard a loud knock on the door. It was a knock of authority and I immediately knew it was the gardaí. I looked at my mother, eyes wide with fear. ‘Neil, it’s the guards,’ I blurted out, as he jumped up, still fully clothed and grabbing his man-bag that was almost like his second skin.

  ‘I’ll answer the door. Wait here,’ my mother told me and Neil.

  ‘I can’t, Lynda. I never went to court the other day. I have a warrant as well,’ Neil said to my mother as he ran into the bedroom and hid down the side of the bed. I sat frozen to the spot and held my breath as my mother opened the door to the gardaí.

  ‘I’ve just been speaking to John White and he told me he would give me some grace to get Rachael better before she handed herself in,’ I heard my mother say loudly. ‘That’s not possible, Mrs Keogh. I’m John White and I didn’t speak to you at all. We have a warrant to come into your flat. We’re taking Rachael down to the station.’

  ‘Don’t you dare try and take my daughter down to the station. She needs to go to the hospital!’ My mother sounded hysterical now.

  ‘Lynda, step out of the way or we’ll be taking you down as well.’

  My mother shouted back, ‘You can do what you want with me, but you’re not getting into this flat.’

  I had no choice but to face the music. I shoved my works, filled with heroin, up my sleeve and walked out, still covered in chocolate. ‘Ma, just let them in,’ I said to my mother who was beginning to get very upset. She stepped aside and in strolled five gardaí, looking very satisfied with themselves. One of them was a woman, who looked three times the size of me and I knew by her face that she wasn’t to be messed with.

  ‘There ye are, Rachael,’ the female garda said to me. ‘You’ve been a hard girl to get hold of. You know why we’re here. Come on, you’re coming with us.’

  ‘You could at least let her wash her face and put some clothes on,’ my mother said protectively.

  ‘No, you’re coming the way you are,’ the garda said, not wanting to let me out of her sight

  ‘She can’t go in her nightdress. Just give her a few minutes, it’s not as if she’s gonna jump out the window,’ my mother protested.

  ‘Well, we wouldn‘t be surprised,’ the garda said sarcastically as she walked into the bedroom to have a look around. Myself and my mother quickly followed her, well aware of Neil in his hiding place behind the bed. My mother stood at the end of the bed, barely blocking Neil’s feet. The female garda continued to snoop around, then she slowly walked up to my mother and stared her right in the eyes. ‘I’m giving her two minutes. That’s it.’

 
‘Rachael, hurry up, just throw your jeans on,’ my mother said, closing the door behind her and leaving me in the bedroom. Needless to say, the first thing I did was make a dash for my bag of tricks, which included spoons, citric, a tourniquet and everything I needed to have a ‘turn-on’.

  ‘What the fuck are you doing?’ Neil asked quietly.

  ‘I have to get something into me, Neil. I’m not sitting in that station dying sick again.’ My hands were shaking as I put the heroin onto the spoon and tried to burn the crystals down into liquid. Then I wrapped the blood-stained tourniquet around my arm and began to search for a vein.

  It was as if my mother knew what I was doing, because she kept talking to the gardaí, clearly in an attempt to buy me time. They were having none of it, though, and before I knew it, my two minutes were up. Bang, bang, bang on the door.

  ‘Rachael, are you ready?’

  ‘Yeah, I’m coming now.’ I still couldn’t get the heroin into me.

  ‘C’mon, open the door.’ I knew that unless they kicked the door in, they wouldn’t be able to open it—the handle was missing from the outside, so they would just have to wait. ‘I’m just ready, will you give me a chance!’

  ‘Lynda, open this door right now, or we’ll arrest you as well,’ the female garda said, getting more and more frustrated by the minute.

  ‘Ye’d easily know you had no kids,’ my mother retorted. ‘Anyway, I can’t open the door; she can only open it from the inside,’ she continued calmly. Then I could hear the woman trying to pull the door from the top. I realised that I was definitely making things harder for myself with the gardaí. It was bad enough having eight warrants for my arrest and an escape from garda custody hanging over my head, never mind resisting arrest as well. I threw the needle on the bed, resigned to going through some withdrawals. I got dressed quicker than ever before and handed myself over to the gardaí.

  Down at the station, the gardaí were delighted to see me. They kept cracking jokes about Sky News and my escape from custody. ‘Don’t worry, Rachael, we’re not keeping you here. You’re being brought straight to court, then you can go to the hospital if you feel you need to. Is that ok?’ one of them asked me. They were making sure to treat me with respect and giving me no reason to bad-mouth them.