I couldn’t believe the scars and track marks all over my arms. And I was so thin I actually shocked myself.
My sneakers were so disgustingly rank I had to throw them away. I didn’t notice before, because my senses were all numb. And all I had packed were long-sleeved shirts and jeans. Guelph was experiencing a heat wave. I had nothing to wear. I remember laughing because that guy with the garbage bag probably had more than I did.
The routine I would learn on my first day was the same each and every day at Homewood. At 6:45 a.m., everyone met for morning exercise in the gymnasium. Whether you’ve been there for a day or a month, you’re expected to be there for morning exercise. If you’re late, you get written up. Everyone stands in a circle; homeless people, wealthy people, doctors, uber rich business owners, housewives, nurses…everyone’s equal. After the morning stretches, we’d go outside for a walk around the grounds.
On that first day, I couldn’t believe how green the grass was. I was in complete awe that there were leaves on the trees. That there was a smell to the outdoors. It wasn’t all a blur. I was waking up! This is what the world looks like! This is what a bird sounds like!
I’d been numb for years.
This is why I was able to work as a physician while I was using. Opiates sharpen your focus on the task at hand. You’re like a robot. You do this one thing and you don’t notice anything else. The drug is all you need.
After our time outside came group. (Everyone is assigned to a physician and put into a group when they first get to Homewood.) My physician was a big overweight guy. “What the hell is this guy going to do for me?” I thought. But, it turned out, he was an addictions specialist and he was in recovery. I learned that most of the doctors there were.
There was a whole crew of professionals assigned to our group: a doctor, nurses, occupational therapist, physiotherapist, addictions counsellor…an entire team.
During my first group meeting, when it was my turn to introduce myself, the words were so strange to hear coming out of my mouth:
“I’m Grant. I’m an alcoholic and an addict. My dry date is May 23, 2005.”
28 DAYS (Plus Two)
As part of my therapy, I was instructed to keep a journal.
This is a collection of my thoughts during rehab.
Day One.
Tuesday, May 24, 2005.
I don’t see how writing in this journal is going to help me with my recovery but I am trying to keep an open mind. I did, in all fairness, fail miserably tending to my own care. They’ve made it very clear to me here that I am a patient and my medical degree means nothing. I guess I would agree with that. But it’s hard to be a patient. I still can’t believe it when I look down and see my name on my purple identification bracelet listed as the patient instead of the doctor.
The meds must be working. My withdrawal symptoms are manageable.
It was 1:00 p.m. when I registered yesterday. I spent the rest of the day getting to know the layout of this big old building and the program’s many rules (exercise at 6:45 a.m., doors locked 11 p.m.–6 a.m., lights out at 11:30 p.m., absolutely no romantic relationships, etc.). There is still a voice inside screaming for me to run, and even though I have surrendered to the process, another voice keeps saying that when I get out I will try it again. Just once more.
I talked with others today who’ve been here longer. I learned they felt those feelings initially, too. I feel so much less alone here. There is definitely something to be said for being in a place where others are sharing the same experiences. It just makes it so much more tolerable knowing that I’m not all alone. I keep thinking back to my running days and how a marathon would have been so much more difficult without the company of others. My addiction made me feel completely isolated, even in a room full of people. But for the first time in a long time, I feel like I’m part of…something. Even though I’m overdressed in wrinkled, blood-splattered clothes from poking my veins repeatedly, and wearing a bright purple hospital bracelet on my track-marked wrist, I feel like I belong somewhere. And where I belong is right here, right now, sitting on this bed, clicking the night light off to end my first day at rehab.
Goodnight, Moon.
Day Two. Wednesday, May 25, 2005.
Today was my first full day of the program. The new admissions/patients are all filtered into one group that’s called Phase 1. It’s basically an educational week that looks at topics such as addiction as a disease, the addicted brain, impact of addiction on others, and how to participate properly in recovery groups. (Things doctors should learn in medical school, maybe. Just maybe.)
I’ll enter a recovery group soon. We all will. And we have to be respectful, confidential, and, in the end, healing.
I’m still having a lot of physical symptoms. The diarrhea is interfering with my punctuality. We’re expected to be on time for every session. Running to the bathroom constantly makes this difficult. I’m sweating, as Lorenzo likes to say, “like a whore at confession.”
I didn’t pack any shorts or T-shirts, which doesn’t help. The nurses are saying the sweat is the drugs leaving my body. I think it might be the heat wave but true or not, that makes me feel better.
Other things that make this better:
This concept of “one day at a time” they keep telling me is the best way to think right now is giving me comfort
The thought of never using again in my life
The thought of just making it
Withdrawal is more manageable when you break it up into small portions of time. This helps me to stay in this day and not focus on how much I lost or would lose. I just focus on making it through this one day without using.
I have to force myself not to think of home. When I think of home, I start to cry. Not just a few tears, but blubbering sobs that activate my whole body into a convulsive shaking collapse. I can’t go there in my mind. Besides, I’m supposed to be focusing on myself now.
My thoughts are seeming more rational now.
I go to bed tonight with the Seductress still calling, but she’s not as loud.
I try to tell myself I will never use again, but I don’t know yet.
Goodnight, Grant.
Day Three.
Thursday, May 26, 2005.
I’m waking most mornings at 4:30. Lorenzo throws his bed covers off during the night and lays there naked beside me on his hospital-style bed. Note: the beds are too close for my liking.
I thought about using today. I’d like to get a vial of Dilaudid. My symptoms are getting better, but I miss the routine. I miss it. I miss Scarlett.
My handwriting in this journal is even worse than you would expect from a doctor. My hands are shaking so much I can barely use them. I’m also getting worried that my brain is injured. I’m getting this odd, high-pitched noise in my head intermittently. It’s like the sound of high tension wires in the summertime. I’ve stopped asking the nurses and others about my symptoms. I’ve come to realize that narcotics can cause a multitude of sensations, so of course I’ll experience the same array as they leave my body.
I attended a Narcotics Anonymous meeting last night. I had no idea such a group existed and that there were regular meetings back home. It was like the AA meeting I went to the night before, but there were some differences. The one thing both meetings emphasized was that they were “we” programs. Recovery was an individual journey but the people who stay sober draw their strength from others.
I can’t believe how many health professionals are in here. I thought I was the only doctor in Canada with a problem like mine. But I am not alone. It makes me feel better.
There was a rough-looking kid in the group. He looked like the classic idea we all have of a homeless drug addict. He looked at me and said, “Man, finally someone whose arms are worse than mine!” That was hard to hear.
Day Four.
Friday, May 27, 20
05.
The cafeteria opens at 5:00 a.m. and we’re expected to eat. The structure is serious here. I’m starting to get my appetite back. I still can’t eat much and my hands are too shaky to use a fork, but the food is fantastic.
There’s quite an assortment of characters in my program.
There’s a total of eighty-four of us and approximately twenty of those people were admitted this week, like me. It feels a bit like we’re playing Big Brother, all of us forming alliances. I’ve been mixing with everyone in this place; it is expected of us as part of the program. We aren’t supposed to get too close with any one person. I’ve made a point to learn everyone’s names. I can’t believe how my short-term memory has returned. I know every single person’s name in the group. When I was using, I couldn’t recall details about people very easily.
I’ve chosen my alliance or trust circle. It consists of a female dancer, a male and female nurse, an alpha male jock, and a computer programmer. We all bring something different to the group and our backgrounds are very diverse. The one thing we all have in common is our disease and a sense of compassion. I could feel that from these people and it seemed to draw us together. I don’t know anyone here. What I say or do isn’t going to be in the local papers or on the news. I feel like I can let my guard down here, with the staff, and my alliance.
This morning, I checked the board outside the nurses’ station to see if my privileges have been changed, and they were. I’m allowed to leave the grounds now. I need to go shopping soon.
Day Five.
Saturday, May 28, 2005.
Today was an eventful day. It was my first weekend in rehab. Most of the inhabitants were allowed to go home on therapeutic passes but that was not the case for me. My home was too far away, and to be honest I don’t think they feel like I’m ready yet. I agree.
I am in desperate need of some clothes. Dancer and I decided to go shopping because it was her birthday.
We took the bus to the Stoneroad Mall. Of course, we saw the irony in the name but tried not to dwell on it. Talking about our pasts is okay but glorifying them is dangerous. It felt so strange to be out in public again. It’s been less than a week since I got here, but it feels like it’s been three months.
As we entered the mall, the sights and sounds were overwhelming. I felt raw and excited but also very humble. I was now walking about in a society that was providing the means for my care. I had always been the caregiver and now I was on the other side of the equation. As I looked around at our group I suddenly realized that all of us owed our lives to the segment of the populace that supports treatment for addicts. Most people don’t understand or even acknowledge addiction, but, obviously, society as a whole cares.
Clothes shopping accomplished. I’m starting to like being sober.
Off to bed in my new T-shirt. (Take notes, Lorenzo. Cover it up.)
Day Six.
Sunday, May 29, 2005.
The weekends allow us a little more free time, except we must attend two twelve-step meetings and show up in the morning, early afternoon, and early evening for check-in. Addicts’ lives become very unstructured and chaotic. Part of the treatment process is to introduce structure into our lives and to strongly encourage healthy activities. During the weekdays these are organized for us, but right now I have gym, billiards, tennis, horseshoes, basketball, and baseball to occupy me. There are also puzzles and chess for anyone unable to take on more physical activities.
My withdrawal symptoms are gone. So is that voice in my head that was telling me how I would use one more time when I get out. Methadone is amazing. It’s a much kinder way to detox.
I tried to lift some weights with Jock yesterday, but the tendons in my mid-arm were too sore. I have huge volcano-like lesions in this area from repeated use of the same IV site. I know by looking at them that these battle scars will never completely go away.
How could I do this to my body? My parents fought so hard to keep me alive when I was sick as a child. And I’ve worked so hard in my adult years to be fit… Okay, Grant. Enough beating yourself up. You can’t change the past. Dancer’s track marks are just as bad as yours. Not quite as deep but more distributed.
It’s helping me immensely to talk about the marks with her and with others. I put on one of my new short-sleeved shirts to wear for Dancer’s birthday pizza last night. It was the first time I’ve worn short sleeves in two years and I swear I’ll never again wear long sleeves to cover my scars.
We had pizza delivered to the front door and brought it up to one of the lounge rooms. The party was fun. We all had a good laugh at the fact that we were having a pizza party in a mental institution. And then something amazing happened. Someone told a joke. I laughed. A from-the-belly-bringing-tears-to-your-eyes laugh.
I haven’t laughed like that in years. It felt so…unnerving? It’s been so long since I’ve been Grant that I really don’t know who I am now. I know I’m not the Grant from my childhood, either.
When I woke up this morning, I thought of the many Sunday mornings I spent as a child, preparing for church and Sunday School. I used to be so full of this enthusiastic spirit. I was spiritual. I was never extremely religious but for most of my life I did believe. In what? I don’t even know anymore. I know that recently I’ve been so ashamed of myself that I’ve had no desire to think about it. I’ve basically been like a child wanting to hide his sordid ways from his parents.
Silicon asked me if he could talk to me after this morning’s AA meeting. His fingers are nicotine-stained and he talks with a bit of a lisp because he perforated his nasal septum due to extreme cocaine use. His demeanour this morning was so guarded that it made me a secretly excited to hear what he wanted to talk about.
His dilemma was simple, but for a newly recovering addict, it seemed shameful and hazardous. He was scared to mention it before our road trip yesterday, but he had a car parked in the lot. The look on his face said all I needed to know. This vehicle, in its present state, was not safe for him.
I immediately offered to clean it for him. This was likely reckless but I’d never even seen cocaine before, let alone used it. Besides, my selfishness saw this as a way for the group to be more mobile.
I approached the vehicle much like a SWAT team would. I felt like I was involved in a DEA take down. My heart pounded. My hands were sweating. I didn’t wait to get caught with my hands on cocaine! I had enough problems to deal with.
It was a dark blue two-door Honda Accord. I thought he did well to hang onto it because it was such an old car, but after opening the door I realized it was also probably his home. The interior of the car smelled like stale cigarettes and pot.
There were dozens of coffee cups, fast-food bags, and scattered pieces of clothing.
As I started to empty things into a garbage bag, I couldn’t help but notice all the CDs were out of their cases and flung all over the car. He was using the CDs’ smooth surfaces to snort from.
I wiped off the CDs and put them back in their cases. I took the car to a nearby car wash and vacuumed it out, combing it like I was on an episode of CSI.
I never told him (or anyone else) about the bag of cocaine I found in the space beside the spare tire. I put it deep in the garbage bag at the car wash. He never warned me or asked me about it. I knew from my own experience that I’d hide things and never remember doing so.
He was so grateful to see his car clean that he started to cry. That made me cry. He hugged me and thanked me. Everyone hugs each other here. It was awkward at first, but I find it comforting now. Hugs not drugs.
Afterwards, I came back here and lay on my bed and closed my eyes and hugged my stiff plastic pillow. I imagined one of my daughters in my arms. The pillowcase grew damp with my tears.
One day at a time.
I wrote those words on a sheet of paper to remind myself.
Seeing the chaos that was created in my
new friend’s life gave me a small glimpse into my own. I can’t let this overwhelm me. All that matters is that today I’m sober and I helped a recovering addict.
The buzzing in my ears has gone away. Thank goodness.
Now I lay me down to sleep.
Day Seven.
Monday, May 30, 2005.
The start of a new week means we’re back into full program. We start every day with stretches in the gym that’s located at the far end of the building. Stretches are followed with a brisk outdoor walk through the sprawling, picturesque grounds. It’s the one time every day that all of us are in one place. We slowly walk around the gym, clockwise, doing active stretches.
I noticed a new, young pregnant girl this morning. Her breasts were basically hanging out of her shirt. The fog is lifting. I feel my natural desires emerging again. A week ago, I wouldn’t have given her a second glance.
I walked today with Dancer. I don’t want to spend too much time with her or they’ll separate us. There’s a purpose to everything they do here. They document who did the walk and who walked with whom. If you’re spending too much time with any one person, they have a little chat with you. This is one of the many ways they keep tabs on us and our associations.
I had my group session this morning and at 11:30 we had our health professional group.
Bear and Danger are also in this group. (Bear is the male nurse because he reminds me of a Koala Bear. Danger…well…she’s young and cute and that’s what Jock calls her.) This group meets three times a week and there is extra time in the program for anyone who’s a health professional or a professional caregiver. Our group has mostly nurses, but there’s a pastor, social workers, pharmacists, and physicians. It’s the whole reason I was sent here. Not many institutions in Canada deal with the nuances of addicted health professionals.
The shame, professional fallout, access to meds, etc. It’s a very private group and one thing that I’ll say about it is that it’s going to be essential to getting me well again.
The Golden Boy Page 6