The doctor who runs the group told me this morning that I’m the sickest person in here.
I almost snickered, but he looked me straight in the eye and said he was serious. Talk about breaking through a person’s denial.
I had a flash of ten to twenty vivid scenes projecting on the insides of my momentarily closed eyes. That long paused blink revealed to me what he meant. I am a very sick man.
Sitting here on my bed, I reflect again on my day. Those flashes of memories I had earlier. It was like the time my short life flashed before my eyes when I was ten years old and almost drowned.
Strangely, though, the near-drowning flashes were comforting while these were horrifying.
Goodnight to me and to all of those with scary memories. May we learn to make peace with them.
Day Eight.
Tuesday, May 31, 2005.
It’s the end of my second Tuesday in rehab. I spent the bulk of my day in group sessions and I played some tennis this afternoon. I can’t believe I was playing tennis when I could barely walk up a set of stairs two weeks ago. The body recovers amazingly. My physical symptoms are all gone now.
I had my first Caduceus meeting today at 4 p.m. I was feeling both invigorated and nervous about it. A Caduceus meeting is where all health professionals in recovery within the greater Toronto area come together. This includes everyone who has a college overseeing their license and privileges…so pharmacists, dentists, veterinarians, registered nurses, and physicians. These people all have easy access to prescription medications and need a lot of support after recovery.
They have to attend their Caduceus meetings for at least five years after they’re discharged from rehab. It’s not so much a support group as an accountability group.
This is a very secretive meeting so I can’t go into any details about discussions that were had, but, for example, if someone was going away on vacation, they come to Caduceus and go through every possible scenario of how they could relapse and put safeguards in place to prevent something from happening. Members of the group also have the ability to immediately call for a drug test of another member. Everyone in the group gets tested regularly anyway, but this is something else built in as a safeguard.
At first, I was intimidated. Listening to all the different titles and stories. Then I realized I wasn’t the only professional to fuck up and get in trouble. I have to admit I was holding my head a little higher after leaving that room than I was when I entered it.
Health professionals are people, too, and when they develop the disease of addiction, the access they have just makes them all the more likely to become severely ill.
I think I’m getting better. This evening when I was in the hallway on my way back to bed, I wanted some ginger cookies for a snack. I snuck up the stairs to the other unit, creeping along the hallway so as not to be spotted, looking for those cookies. I could see into someone’s empty room that there was a box of cookies lying on a desk. I wanted those cookies, but I couldn’t do it. I couldn’t take what was not mine.
Has my thinking ever changed over these nine days. I would have taken anything a couple weeks ago, especially if it would alter my mood. My moral compass must be turning around again.
Now, my body tells me it’s time for sleep.
God, please take care of my children while I’m away.
Night.
Day Nine.
Wednesday, June 1, 2005.
Today was the first day I went into “recovery group.” After you’re in rehab for at least a week, if the medical team agrees that you’ve progressed enough that you’re ready to dig deeper, you join the recovery group. Today was my first day there.
There are a lot of rules in recovery group:
You need to have your feet flat on the floor
No interrupting someone who’s speaking
No commenting on what someone has shared
Only use your own experience when talking about something
“What you hear and see here, let it stay here when you leave here.”
If you ever break the rules, you’re thrown out of the group. Because of this, I will never talk about anyone’s specific story, even in my own journal. I’ll only talk about general topics we covered.
It was amazing how we all just opened up to each other. All of us, total strangers. Every week the group changes; people graduate and people join all the time. Today, I shared deeper dark secrets than I’ve ever shared with anyone before. These people understand me. Things normal people would think were crazy were things these people get. Because they would have done the same thing in my situation. With addiction, we all do wild things. This disease wants us dead so it makes us push the boundaries of what is normal and it rips our moral fabric to shreds.
Today I met people who sold their bodies for drugs, stole for drugs, one woman even had her husband arrested, having faked domestic abuse, just so she could have him out of the house so she could keep using. I had to admit that if I was as desperate as these people without the kind of access I had, I probably would have done the same things as they did.
Addiction makes us so desperate that we’re willing to do anything. I went from being a fully functional doctor who wouldn’t even give his brother in withdrawal a prescription, to being an intravenous drug user. I’ve crossed so many lines so many times…the guilt and shame of all of it has been feeding my disease.
I’m starting to finally be able to look back, as a sober person, at what I’ve done, with the support of my new friends.
I see now that I was not corrupt. I was sick.
Today has been a great day. I’ve started the process of healing the inside of myself while the scars on my arm start to (hopefully) fade. All of this will eventually heal if I stay away from using again.
This plastic pillow I’m lying on is actually starting to feel comfortable. I feel safe again. And I thank the heavens for one more sober day.
Sweet dreams, Grant.
Day Ten.
Thursday, June 2, 2005.
So, I started smoking. I’m not proud, but 98 per cent of the people here smoke and I basically wasn’t part of the group because I wasn’t going out for a cigarette. So, I started. When I first got here, I would just have a cigarette once in a while, but I’m keeping up with them now. It’s really the best way to stay social. I sound like a teenager making excuses for Mom and Dad, but the way I see it, it’s better than shooting drugs into my vein. I’ll quit when I leave this place.
On our breaks, we all go to the smoking pit and sit around talking about recovery, sometimes making fun of each other. We have our own little clique so sometimes we poke fun at the other groups huddled in the other corners in their own circles. It reminds me of inmates in prison. Our own little gangs.
We all come from a society where people have treated us like outcasts, so we are like inmates in that regard.
I don’t feel like a doctor anymore. I feel more like a patient. An addict. Also, sometimes I feel like a voice of reason in my group. Maybe because my addiction didn’t hit me until I was older? Maybe because I’m older and educated and haven’t hit the streets yet?
I say, “not yet” because if I hadn’t come here, I would have been guaranteed to be on the streets.
People look up to me because recovery seems to be coming easily to me. I feel a bit like a ringleader in our group. Like if someone were to say something about me, I would be fiercely protected. A lot of people don’t like doctors in rehab because it’s us who initiate medications that made them addicted. As everyone gets to know me, they realize doctors are just people. Plus, I try to explain that Big Pharma hadn’t informed us well enough about the dangers of giving weeks worth of prescriptions to people.
I’ve been trying to reach out to other people while I’m out at the smoke pit, too. When I see someone sitting alone, I’ll go and talk to them. Ask their name
and find out why they’re here. Not as a doctor but as a new addict in recovery. Hearing their stories makes mine make more sense. For some reason, people loosen up more in the smoking area. It’s the same everywhere, I suppose. Not just rehab. I was never a smoker before, but I always saw people huddled up talking outside of buildings like they have their own little club. Now I was part of one. People share things in the smoke pit that they wouldn’t within the walls of the building.
I thought about this as I was getting ready for bed, spending more time washing my hands and brushing my teeth to get rid of the stink of the cigarettes. Now as I lay down, I think about one girl I met outside today. A young girl. She said her parents disowned her because of her addiction. Because of that, she moved in with her dealer boyfriend. She became even more addicted because he kept enabling her behaviour for his own sexual satisfaction.
My heart breaks for her. I think of my own daughters and how I must get myself better so I can help make sure they don’t end up down this path.
We all end up coming to the same fork in the road. The one on the left has a sign that says, “Numb away your worries.” The other says, “Life on life’s terms.” Even though that seems a little harsher, life on life’s terms is the one everyone should choose.
Drugs help us cope momentarily, but they will destroy everything in the end.
That’s how I made it onto this plastic-covered mattress on a single bed.
Good night, babe.
Day Eleven. Friday, June 3, 2005.
It’s Friday. Almost the end of my second week in rehab. I’ve been spending weekdays in groups and doing activities, but this afternoon I went for a walk with Dancer. She seemed melancholy this afternoon and wasn’t walking as fast as she usually did. I asked her what was wrong and she said something came up in group that morning that reminded her of something that happened in her past.
She was driving home one night when a police officer pulled her over on the side of the road.
He knew she was an addict. He forced her into the backseat of her own car and raped her. She said he was riding her from behind with her skirt down around her knees. He was stronger than she was, and she couldn’t fight him off. When he finished, he laughed and said, “You’re nothing but an addict. No one’s gonna believe you.” He zipped himself up and went back to his car, then drove away.
She started to cry as she told me her story and I could tell she was ashamed of the fact that she put herself in that situation. I told her it wasn’t her fault and what he did was extremely wrong, but more so because he was in a position of authority. Unfortunately, way too many addicts are thought of as just scum, junkies, outcasts of society. The fact of the matter is that addicts are human beings…sons, daughters, mothers, and fathers. These are people who have made a bad choice and then life spirals into a place where they (we) can no longer protect ourselves. We don’t even have a voice anymore if something happens like it did to Dancer.
I encouraged her to share her story with her recovery group. Secrets keep us sick. The more we talk about these things and understand that others have gone through them, the more healing will take place.
Dancer is my best friend in here. I hate that someone did that to her.
As we kept walking, she picked up to her usual pace again. She seemed a bit lighter on her feet when she got that load off her shoulders. We both started to laugh about how people like us, from very straitlaced homes, can end up where we did. Much better to laugh than to cry about it.
We held each other’s hands as we walked back to Homewood. Making sure we let go before we got too close to the grounds where we would get in trouble for doing so.
It feels good to have a connection with someone. It makes me like the place more. I’m forming more intimate connections than I had been able to when I was living a life of drugs. Your whole existence is so superficial when you’re using.
Tonight, I looked at the Narcotics Anonymous book on my night table. I realized it is, indeed, a “we” program. It’s almost impossible to get through recovery without other people. No wonder I’ve not been successful before. Addiction tries to isolate us. When the only way to get help is by reaching out to others. Especially those who have been down this road before.
I am trying not to think about how terrified Dancer must have been when she was being raped.
My dear friend, I wish that hadn’t happened to you and I’m so glad that nothing like that has ever happened to me. If she can recover from that, I can certainly recover from my past. Dancer, you’ve given me the strength I need to get through this. I love you to the moon and back.
Day Twelve.
Saturday, June 4, 2005.
It’s Saturday, but I couldn’t go home like many others, because home is very far away. I’ve been trying not to think about my family while I’m here because the program wants us to focus on ourselves. I’m really trying to do that. Besides, whenever I call home, I cry, so I can’t do it often.
I love Scarlett and my three sweet girls so much. My youngest is only two years old and she doesn’t understand what’s going on.
I’ve put my family through so much over the past couple of years… I knew what they said to me here must be true. That to put up with someone like me, Scarlett must be a very sick woman.
I spent much of the day wandering around the grounds by myself, and when I got hungry around lunchtime I went for a walk to find something to eat. I found a pizza joint and ordered a twelve-inch veggie pizza. The kind Scarlett and I usually share. I took it back with me to the beautiful grounds of Homewood and found a picnic table at the lowest level of the property.
I looked above me at the three tiers of grass and bushes and the beautiful flowers in front of the sprawling old structure. I set down the two plastic glasses, and the one-litre bottle of Diet Coke I’d ordered, next to the pizza. I poured a glass for me and one for Scarlett, as if she were there with me. I feel responsible for the progression of her addiction.
They say I’m sick but I’ve been feeling so ashamed for all the things I’ve done. All the grief I’ve caused those around me. My family, friends, colleagues, and my patients. I’ve done them wrong. And I am sorry.
I looked across the table as if Scarlett was sitting there, and I said, “I’m sorry for all of this.” I cried.
Others were going home to see their families, and not only was I too far away to see mine, but I am still too ashamed to face them.
I toasted Scarlett’s glass with mine. This time, no wine. Only pop. I recalled, one time, her spilling wine on a table at a restaurant. I was so mad and aghast at the waste of wine that I almost licked it off the table. My God, what had I become? I was always such a good date. Polite, gentlemanly, able to carry a conversation. Always ready to pay the bill.
I wanted to be him again. That Grant. I knew I could be him again. Substances have robbed me of that just like so many other things. I’m determined now to get it back and to be that man again.
I never did eat any of that pizza. I couldn’t bring myself to have a single bite. But our little fake date made me think deeply about the people at home who were counting on me, and how I must work on my recovery while I’m here.
I want to be that person again. The person someone would be proud to go to dinner with. I’m starting to feel like that might be possible.
Good night, Scarlett. I love you!
Day Thirteen.
Sunday, June 5, 2005.
This morning I had my regular morning check-in and then went to one of my two compulsory twelve-step meetings that we have on weekends. Bear, Dancer, and I decided afterwards to wander off to check out the town of Guelph.
As we meandered through the streets, we noticed a man sitting alone in the square outside the mall. He asked us if we were buying. We realized he’d noticed our purple hospital bracelets. I thought to myself, “That’s pretty sick.” This guy knows w
e’re in rehab and that’s why he’s targeting us. We all know that just a few weeks ago, we would have taken him up on it.
Bear wanted to go into the mall to buy something for his wife, so Dancer and I decided to go get something to eat.
One of the rules of rehab is to not dine at licensed establishments, but the only place we could find that fit that description was a Pita Pit. Dancer didn’t feel like pitas, so she talked me into going into a pub. We found a booth way in the back corner. We sat across from each other. I was feeling mischievous about what we were doing, but, at the same time, being in that atmosphere made me feel uneasy. I tried to focus on our conversation to keep my mind off it.
She told me about her days as a dancer and how she had lost so much because of her addiction. Her latest boyfriend had been a drug dealer. Another reason why the cop thought he could rape her without consequence. I started to look at her in a whole new way today. She’s my friend but I’m developing feelings for her.
I’ve never had feelings for anyone since I met Scarlett.
These aren’t feelings like I had with Scarlett, but they’re feelings nonetheless. Until now I’ve been existing in this altered state of reality where I’ve had no ability to feel deeply about anything, really.
My feelings during my addiction were superficial. Not even true feelings. More like reactions to enable my sick behaviour to continue.
As I looked at Dancer today, I felt an overwhelmingly warm feeling of compassion. She’s tall and attractive. I haven’t noticed that before.
It was amazing that two people with such bad needle-marked arms could be having such a great time laughing over French fries. Others in the pub were looking at us like they thought we were cute together. If only they could have seen the two of us a couple weeks ago!
I can’t help but think of Scarlett. Will I feel the same way for her when I return home? Our lives have become so very codependent. If I’m having feelings like this for Dancer, what does that say about my relationship? A relationship that has been built completely upon a shared addiction.
The Homewood people were right when they told us we might try to substitute other things for our substance of choice. Is Dancer my substitution?
The Golden Boy Page 7