by Brad Willis
“Excuse me,” I say to a male staffer striding down the hall who looks vaguely familiar, “I have a broken back. I brought a portable lounge chair with me. I need it. I can’t sit up to eat.”
“I remember,” he says. “It was too big and bulky, we had to put it in storage. Sorry.” He walks off. Then I realize it. He’s the one who confiscated my box of drugs the day I arrived.
I peek into the lunchroom. There are nine or ten patients sitting at tables with their breakfasts. A buffet on the right has an assortment of cereals, fruit, coffee, and juices. I glance to my left. A big, red couch. A godsend. I step over and roll myself onto it, still trying to figure out how I’m going to manage this.
“You look like you’re in pain,” says a young woman in pink flannel pajamas with thick, short cut blond hair and a perky smile. She gets up from her chair and kneels down by me. “Hi, my name is Sherry. I’m a nurse. Well, I was until I lost my job and ended up here. Anyway, can I bring you something to eat?”
I can’t believe my luck. “Thanks, Sherry. My name is Brad. I have a bad back. It would be great if you brought me something. Anything. Just a lot of it, please. I haven’t eaten much lately.”
A few others stop by the couch to say hello as they finish their meals. Everyone seems soft. Humble. I feel the same way. We’re all in the process of facing ourselves. It’s painful, facing ourselves and putting our egos in their place.
“I’ll take your tray,” Sherry says just as I finish. “I don’t mind doing this for you every meal. It makes me feel like I’m still a nurse.”
“Thanks, Sherry,” I say as I struggle up from the couch. “You’re a gem.”
Sherry is the only one here bubbling over with hope and enthusiasm. She’s pregnant with her first child. Her boyfriend, the father, comes to visit her every day. She was hooked on Vicodin, but now she’s over it. “I’m leaving detox in a few days to spend a month in the residential unit,” she says with a wide smile. “Then I go back home and have my baby. I can’t wait!”
“What residential unit?” I ask.
Sherry explains that we’re all required to leave detox when the staff determines we’re ready. They move us to a complex in a three-story brick building next door. We’ll be assigned rooms that are like small efficiency apartments where we prepare our own meals, do our own laundry, become more self-sufficient. In another wing, there’s a full schedule of counseling sessions and classes designed to help us build new lives. We’ll be required to attend daily Alcoholics and Narcotics Anonymous meetings in the grand meeting room just across the courtyard from the detox ward. It’s a minimum thirty-day stay.
I’ve been so out of it, I never knew any of this. No one ever explained the program to me. Or if they did, I have no recollection. I assumed I’d go through detox, rest for a few days, attend a few meetings with staff specialists to make sure I’m stabilized, and then head home. I never really thought it through.
“It’s time for your first meeting,” Sherry says brightly. “Sort of a taste of what’s in store once you move to residential. It’s right next door. The room has a couch you can lie on. Come on, I’ll help you get there.”
Sherry takes my free arm and guides me into the meeting room and over to the couch. I flop myself down on the brown cushions and drop my cane on the tan carpet. There are six or seven other patients already in the room as the counselor walks in. He sees me on the couch and says, “You’re here for the first time, right?” He strides over, leans down, and shakes my hand. “Welcome. It’s good to have you with us.” Then he takes his place at the front of the room.
“My name is Don and I’m an alcoholic,” he says with authority. “Hi Don,” everyone but me chimes in. I’ll soon learn this is the formal greeting in AA. “I was a successful businessman,” Don continues with a smile, tugging at the lapels of his tan sport coat. “I had a beautiful wife and two great kids. But there was so much stress in my job that I started drinking at noon and didn’t stop until I passed out in bed at midnight.”
Don’s smile disappears as he continues. “My family intervened many times. I’d sober up for a week, then get right back on the booze. Finally, my wife threatened to leave me, so I hid my drinking from everyone. I had bottles stashed everywhere: at work, at home, in the garage, in the trunk of my car. I’d sneak out, knock down a pint of vodka in a few gulps, fill my mouth with breath mints, and keep on going. Finally, I crashed. Literally. I crashed my car in the middle of the day, drunk as a skunk. It was my third DUI, and when I got out of jail my family was gone. The McDonald Center saved my life. It can save yours, too.”
On this note, Don asks each of us to share our story. Sherry leans over and whispers to me, “We have to do this every time. It’s part of the program.”
The first person to speak up says, “Hi, I’m Tony and I’m a drug addict.” Tony is a building contractor who started on painkillers after an injury on the job and got hooked. Next, a businessman named Michael tells us he’s an alcoholic who needed a quart of scotch every day just to keep going. Steve is a sometime student in his twenties, addicted to cocaine and methamphetamine. He shares details of his suicide attempts. Sherry tells us she’s thirty, pregnant, and was hooked on Vicodin. Judith is a forty-something housewife who mixed wine with Valium for too many years.
Each of their stories touches me to the core of my being. I can feel their pain, their anguish, and their fear of returning to addiction and empty lives. As much as I would like to think otherwise, I realize my story is no different from theirs, except for one thing: I don’t miss the drugs or feel any compulsions. I’m never going back. When it’s my turn to share, I say, “Hi, I’m Brad. I’ve got a broken back and cancer. I’ve taken too many medications and drank too much wine and beer. But I don’t think I’m an alcoholic or drug addict.” I’m met with glances of disbelief and guffaws of dismissal as a wave of embarrassment floods through me. After the meeting, I ask Don for a moment of his time and try to explain myself. He stops me mid-sentence.
“You’re an addict, just like everyone else here,” he says resolutely. “I’ve heard what you’re saying too many times before from too many different people in denial. They always go out those doors and straight back to booze and drugs. You need to join AA, go to meetings every day for the rest of your life. Get with the program and stay with it, or you’ll fall right back on your face.” Before I can respond, Don pats me gently on the shoulder and heads down the hall.
There was great kindness in his firmness, but Don’s words hit me like a punch in the stomach. Am I an addict for life? Incapable of going forward without daily meetings? Always on the brink of relapse? It’s hard for me to believe. My whole body rejects the idea. I’m sure the residential program is wonderful and has a lot to offer, but I know it’s not for me. It’s more than believing I don’t have lingering addictions. It doesn’t fit my circumstances. I’m in great pain and barely mobile, can’t sit for meetings, do laundry, or cook meals, much less hike up and down the stairs for the rest of the required activities. The problem is, it looks like I don’t have any choice, and I know I’m nowhere near ready to try to go home.
“I just spoke with Don,” a woman from the front desk walks up as I turn to leave the lounge and head for my room. “He told me how you’re feeling. The residential program is a requirement of your stay here. We’ve been in touch with your wife, and she is adamant that you follow the program.”
“Thank you,” I answer, feeling powerless and realizing the futility of attempting a discussion. I’m sure they’ve all heard it innumerable times from too many people like me. I trudge back into my room with pain in my back, legs, and throat as stress grips my body. Lying on my bed, I ask myself if I’m in denial. If I shouldn’t just give in and go with the program. I get the same answer. I know I’m off drugs for good and I’m not addicted to alcohol. I can’t tell you how I know with such certainty, but I do. I also know I’m not going to move into the residential unit. It doesn’t fit, and I’m not physicall
y capable of handling the routine. I have no idea what to do next. It feels like I’m free-falling, and it grips me with fear.
When I return to the cafeteria for lunch, Sherry has everything ready on my tray. I can’t figure out why she’s so upbeat and bubbly. Everyone else here has their tail between their legs, including me. I thank her and lie on the couch again to eat, trying not to spill anything on my only clean T-shirt. I’m still famished, but the food doesn’t taste as good and my stomach feels acidic. I know it’s because I’m stressing about the residential thing.
Dr. Gasparo is waiting at my door when I head back down the hall. I lie on the bed as he pulls up a chair. Then I give him the whole story. Tell him I can’t do the residential thing. Beg for an option.
“I’ve never had a case like yours,” he says when I’m done. “I’m aware of the pressure for you to go into the residential program, but this is the first time I’ve felt it’s not right for someone. Give me a few days and let me see what I can come up with.”
“Thanks for listening,” I say with a huge sigh of exasperation. When he leaves, I stare at the ceiling, wondering what I’ve gotten myself into.
It goes on like this for two more days. Vitals, meals, and meetings. Waiting for news from Dr. Gasparo. Wondering where I fit in. If anywhere. I’m obedient and avoid making waves. But it’s frustrating. The pain is getting overwhelming without the drugs. And I still feel the residual effects of all that dope. I’m dazed. Blurry. Fuzzy. Like I’m wrapped in invisible gauze.
On the third morning, Sherry isn’t there with my breakfast tray. I get myself a bowl of cereal. It’s not so hard. I can handle this at least once or twice a day. As I’m finishing my meal on the couch, Judith comes over. She’s the one with the Valium problem.
“We just heard about Sherry,” she says with a teary face. “Her boyfriend was bringing her Vicodin every time he came here. The staff caught him slipping it to her in the parking lot. Sherry got angry and drove off with the guy, shouting that she’s never coming back.”
Now it makes sense. I remember how Vicodin gave me a false sense of optimism and joy. Sherry’s upbeat demeanor was only the drugs talking. It’s just like Don predicted. And now it’s going to be even harder to argue my case. As I slog back into my room after the morning meeting, I feel like a hostage.
Every day I’ve been pressured by the staff to prepare for the residential program. Pamela remains adamant about it as well. She insists that a phone call with Morgan still isn’t possible. It makes me furious. I’m starting to suspect there’s more to all this than I understand, maybe a plan to keep me from returning home. But even though no one but me has legal power over my decisions, I lack the strength to argue and feel helpless. I’m weak. I’m humiliated. I’m stuck.
A knock at the door. Dr. Gasparo steps in and whispers with a grin, “I have good news.”
I want to jump up and scream with joy before I even know what it is.
“A few months ago, the hospital opened what it calls the Pain Center across the way, in the McDonald complex, right next to the residential facility. I wanted to be sure they would take you before I mentioned it. It’s not related at all to the detox program and it’s very experimental. They use a blend of ancient Eastern healing modalities and modern holistic Western medicine to help patients cope with pain without using narcotic painkillers. They can’t help you with cancer, but they think you are a perfect candidate for help with back pain, and so do I. Are you interested in trying it?”
I’m not sure I understand a thing he’s saying, but I’m in scorching pain and need to do something, anything. “Yes. Immediately. Today. When can I start?”
“Not quite yet,” he answers. “It might be a few more days. We still need to work some things out.”
Dr. Gasparo explains that when a patient is in recovery, the center always seeks to consult closely with the family in determining any course of action. He’ll need to convince the detox staff and work with Pamela, let her know he feels it’s in my best interest. I sense it will be a power struggle, but I haven’t signed away total control over my destiny, and there’s no law to prevent me from doing this. This is a lifeline being handed to me. I’ve surrendered enough. It’s time to take a stand.
“I’ve got to do this,” I say to Dr. Gasparo. “I’ve got to. Get me in that program. Please. It’s my only hope.”
“I’ll do everything I can,” he promises as he pats my shoulder. “Everything I can.”
I feel like a caged animal. I’ve packed all my belongings and no longer attend the mandatory meetings. I take my meals from the cafeteria to my room and eat on my bed in silence. I’ve removed my nameplate from the door and thrown it away. I read my novel and wait, wondering what the Pain Center might be like. Three days go by before I hear from Dr. Gasparo again. I almost bolt up in bed when he comes into my room. He tells me everyone has finally agreed, albeit grudgingly so. I can check into the Pain Center on Monday morning after the coming weekend.
“I can’t spend another night here,” I tell the doctor with desperation in my voice. “I’ll go completely crazy. You’ll have to put me in a straightjacket, admit me to a psycho ward, and give me a lobotomy.”
He laughs and says, “We don’t want that. Just a few more days, okay? We have to make sure the transition is smooth. Don’t worry. There’s a long waiting list for people to get into detox. They’ll be glad to move you along. There’s no residential unit for the Pain Center, however, so you’re going to need to find a place to stay.”
“Thank you for everything, doctor,” I say, knowing there are no words for how much gratitude I feel toward this man. “Can you stay with me for a minute longer?”
He agrees. We walk to the front desk and I ask for my box of medications. The same staffer who confiscated the drugs is at the desk. When I ask for the meds I brought in with me, he glances at Dr. Gasparo and gets a nod of permission. Then he walks to the vault and retrieves the box of drugs. Still wary of me. Surveying the hall for danger. Like a horde of crazed patients might launch an attack. As I carry the drugs to my room, he follows me like a security guard even though Dr. Gasparo is by my side. I go into the tiny bathroom, open all the bottles, and dump the pills into the toilet. It takes a dozen flushes before the last handful swirls down the pipe and disappears.
CHAPTER 25
The Pain Center
AS I WALK OUT the entry doors of the detox ward, through the courtyard, and past the residential facility, I still look like a robot, hobbling along in my body brace and gripping my cane for support. Only, my gait is worse than ever. The pain in my back and legs is growing more intense as the residual effects of the drugs continue to wear off. I’m exhausted by the time I limp across the large foyer of the building housing the Pain Center and reach the elevator. My mind is as unsteady as my body. I’m nervous and unsure of myself. There are a few others waiting at the elevator bank. I realize I’m staring at the floor again. Hiding. Wondering if they’re thinking here’s another addict who destroyed his life. The ride to the third floor takes forever.
When I step out of the elevator into the entryway, it feels like a boutique university. The lobby is carpeted green with two long, padded sitting benches, upholstered with burgundy fabric, neatly secured against one wall. There’s a wide reception counter with class schedules posted on a large corkboard. I’m filled with hope and scared to death at the same time. I don’t know if I have the strength to do this. But I can’t fail. I just can’t. It’s my only shot.
“Please have a seat,” the receptionist says politely, standing behind the counter and looking very busy. “Someone will be with you shortly.”
I lurch over stiffly and use my cane to support myself as I lie down on the padded bench.
“You cannot lie down in this area,” the receptionist says firmly. “Please sit up.”
“I’m sorry, I can’t,” I answer. “I’ve had a failed back surgery and it hurts too much.” I’ve barely stepped in the door and I’m already
breaking the rules. Not fitting in. Like the first day I entered the McDonald Center with my box of drugs.
“You still need to sit up, sir.” She’s adamant, but there’s no way I can do it and get through the day.
“I’m sorry,” I say again with a pleading tone this time. “I hurt too much, and if I sit up for a few minutes you might have to carry me out of here on a stretcher.” I give her my best smile, but my attempt to be witty and charming falls flat.
“Then you can lie there and fill out these forms,” she says with pique as she comes from behind the counter and hands me a clipboard. It’s the typical paperwork. Medical history. An explanation of my current pain situation. Financial status. A release of my right to take legal action if I’m injured. There’s also a form requiring me to promise not to touch any alcohol or drugs and consent to random blood and urine tests. If you fail a test, it warns, you will be suspended from the program.
It’s not a suspension I’m worried about. I’m physically and emotionally weaker than I’ve ever been in my life. It’s hard to pay attention or be enthusiastic with my nerve endings on fire. A bright light, harsh noise, or stern word continues to make my skin hurt. My emotions remain sensitive and easily wounded. It’s still all too easy to get fed up or angry in an instant over trivial things. I have to contain myself or I’ll say something sarcastic about the way the clipboard was delivered. I also feel confused and disoriented, which Dr. Gasparo warned me often happens after detox, especially with so many years of heavy medications. Their deranging effects tend to wear off in layers over weeks and months. Sometimes it takes years.
Pamela arrives in the lobby. This was part of the arrangement. She has to sign some of the papers and take care of the payments because I left her my checkbook and credit cards when I checked into detox. I can feel how much she still opposes this course of action, but we don’t debate it. Once everything is arranged she wishes me luck and departs. It’s like she’s a thousand miles away. Who could blame her?