I feel at peace now.
Goodnight, Alex Grant.
Day Twenty-One.
Monday, June 13, 2005.
Today was Monday, which meant group team rounds. It’s like a regular meeting, but we have a full health team here with us. There are six health professionals per group of fourteen patients and the health team consists of a physician, nurse, nutritionist, recreational therapist, addiction therapist, and social worker.
The physicians tend to lead the groups, and the team physician in my group is a very robust man with a way about him that just exudes confidence. I respect him immensely.
At the beginning of the meeting today, the doctor went around the room asking if anyone wanted time to talk to the group. I said I would like to say something. When the time came for me to talk, I had a crying fit as I was trying to explain what was bothering me so much.
It was Scarlett. I was still afraid to divulge to the staff about her active addiction, but I did. I just poured out my heart, about how I am afraid to go back home.
I love her so much, but with an active addiction in the house I was second-guessing my feelings. I know I love her, but with me sober, I don’t know if what we had will ever be the same. I was sharing this with the group and I was so upset.
The doctor looked at me from across the room and threw me a set of keys. I caught them. He asked me to look through the keys and pick the one I thought was the most appealing.
I went through the keys, looking at them carefully. I picked a thick, bright little key because it had some ornamental details on it. I told him that’s the one I choose.
He said, great. Go over to the door and insert the key in the lock.
So, I took the key and crossed the room. I tried a few times to put the key in the lock, but it didn’t fit.
I didn’t get the point at first, but many in the group got it right away.
I walked over and stood in front of him and shrugged. Telling him I didn’t understand.
He said, “Grant, sometimes the things we think are best for us, don’t turn out to be the right fit.”
I have to go back home reassessing my relationship. It’s going to be very difficult to live with a drug addict and remain sober.
Tonight, I say a prayer for my family. We make a lot of choices in life and who knows what exactly is the right fit? I know one thing for certain. The right fit does not involve ending up in rehab for an IV narcotic addiction.
Bedtime now.
Goodnight, John Boy.
Day Twenty-Two.
Tuesday, June 14, 2005.
Lonzo left today. When someone graduates from here, or completes the program, they get a pin. They can ask someone in their group to pin them and say a few words. I was honoured when Lonzo asked me.
We stood in the middle of the group, twelve people around us, and I tried to express to him what he has meant to me and how his example has helped me through my journey.
I started to cry. I could barely get the words out of my mouth. We hugged each other and when he stepped back, he said he chose me because I’m the person here who surprised him the most. That he thought this doctor would think he’s so much better than everyone else. But he learned what I already knew. That I’m no different than anyone else.
I was again honoured that he felt this way. I feel like I’m just one more survivor on this lifeboat, trying to make it after the ship sank.
On the lifeboat, it doesn’t matter what you are or who you are. You’re just trying to survive and that’s what I feel like here. Lonzo is a sharp guy and he spotted this in me. It makes me feel good that he did.
I feel proud tonight going to bed.
Proud that I got to pin my friend. Proud I haven’t gotten myself in any relationships. And proud I haven’t used today.
Goodnight, Full Moon.
Day Twenty-Three.
Wednesday, June 15, 2005.
This afternoon was recreation time. It was beautiful outside so we went down to the ball field. There’s a volleyball net, tennis courts, horseshoe pits, baseball, soccer, and basketball equipment. A group of us decided to play volleyball. I am amazed at the physical recovery I’ve made since I got here. In a little more than three weeks, I’ve gone from barely being able to walk up a set of stairs to being able to run up a steep set of stairs two or three steps at a time.
The track marks are starting to heal, though I suspect I’ll have lifelong scars. Dancer’s are just as bad, if not worse. I think that’s one of the reasons I was drawn to her. She makes me feel better about myself. Or at least like we’re on equal footing.
Intravenous drug users tend to talk to each other here because there’s a whole other side of the addiction. The needles (which we call rigs), the tourniquet, the cooking…it’s all a ritual that becomes an addiction in itself.
Anyway, back to volleyball. I’m amazed at how these people I saw shuffling into Homewood are now playing a vigorous game of volleyball. The competitiveness is pretty incredible. We all worked up a pretty good sweat, both because of the exercise and because it’s hot outside.
It was my turn to go off as a substitute, and I took the time to just sit back and watch them. A month ago, these people were living life in disarray. Back then, they were physically, mentally, and spiritually bankrupt. Somehow, we all ended up in this wonderful place, able to enjoy each other’s company and work together to get a ball over a net. It doesn’t seem like much, but three weeks ago that would have been impossible for me. Not only physically, but I wouldn’t have been able to work with others like this.
I’m glad these rooms are air-conditioned. My bedroom would be very warm if it wasn’t. It makes it easier to sleep. I’m able to sleep better now. I can focus more on being in the moment.
I listen to the hum of the air conditioner now instead of the noise in my head that always made me feel uncomfortable. That bad feeling is quiet now.
Keep me safe until morning light.
Day Twenty-Four.
Thursday, June 16, 2005.
Today in recovery group, we were asked to bring the letters we’d written. I had mine to my brother. Others had some to people who had harmed them, or against whom they have resentments. We all took these letters outside to the fire pit. One at a time, we slowly approached the fire and put our letters on the flame and watched them go up in smoke.
There was so much grief, anger, and pain. But somehow, sharing this together and watching the fire consume our words helped us to heal.
Drug use made me focus on all of the negatives in my life and it just made them all worse.
I remember the pain I suffered when I was in withdrawal. Now here I am without an ache or pain in my body. Including the heartache.
I’ve been blaming myself for my brother’s death for so many years. Every time I’ve seen Mom cry about it, I’ve wanted to crawl into a hole. It’s hard to pretend you’re this important doctor when you feel so low and unworthy. But I wasn’t feeling like that anymore. This place has been healing me and for the first time in a very long time, I have hope.
We all joined hands around the fire and said the serenity prayer. The leader of the group said this is just the beginning of our journey and we should all journal anytime we’re feeling uncomfortable or even happy. Seeing things on paper sometimes helps us with our feelings. I know that since I’ve been journaling, I often don’t know I’m feeling something until it spills out on the page.
It’s hard to put into words how much recovery group has helped me. I feel safe there. Like I can talk about anything. And the more I talk, the more others share their own secrets. There’s been a lot of healing in that group. I know that when I go home, I’m going to be under a lot of public scrutiny. I need to be strong to face that. I guess not so much strong as able and willing to let things go, and try not to worry about what people think of me.
I love the expression, “What others think of me is none of my business.”
Goodnight, Me.
Day Twenty-Five.
Friday, June 17, 2005.
Today was the beginning of my last weekend here and it was beautiful. The weather was sunny and about 26°C.
I attended the Native AA meeting this morning. It’s unique in that we sit in a circle and anyone entering the room must go around the circle and not cross through it. The person who is speaking must have the speaking stick which is passed to whoever wants to share.
They refer to the higher power as the great spirit. I noticed that Dancer wasn’t at the meeting. I had been looking for her earlier to see if she would walk down with me. The meeting was off grounds about half a kilometre along the river. The route takes you along a zigzagging path and a long cement wall that is covered with graffiti. I’ve always liked graffiti for some reason.
I like to walk down this path with Dancer. She always has unique perspectives on the artwork. It felt strange that she wasn’t here today and, somehow, I could sense there was something wrong.
Earlier in the week she told me she loves to walk into a room where I am already present.
I asked her why. She explained, “Because I can feel your eyes on me from the minute I enter the room until the second I leave.”
I told her I didn’t even realize that and she laughed. She also told me that day that she felt better than she has since she was twelve years old. I was so happy for her.
Almost overnight her attitude seemed to change. She had been different through the later part of the week. I thought a lot of it was the anticipation of going home. She was going back to live in a bad situation. She could share a lot of her stories with her recovery group and also with me. I felt privileged to be her friend. She is so animated, so emotional, yet blunt. I have really felt her dodging me this week. She’s been hanging around with different crowd. People who were just admitted and were still very sick.
As I came back from the meeting, I saw Dancer. She was walking through the parking lot towards a vehicle that was parked just outside the grounds. I met up with her. She told me her boyfriend had dropped off the car this morning. He wasn’t even going to drive her home. She had to drive herself.
She told me she was leaving today, despite her discharge date being Tuesday. I tried to talk her into staying but I could tell she was determined to leave. I gave her a hug and she whispered in my ear, “I had to pull away from you.”
I asked her what she meant but she wouldn’t answer. She said, “I can give you a drive to the airport when you leave, if you want me to.” I told her I would like that very much. One more hug and she was gone.
I know what her leaving today means and it makes me extremely sad. I can see signs of relapse with the justification of leaving early, and the timing of it being on the weekend, quite possibly to hang out with some of the recently admitted people who would be out on pass.
I thought about her a lot today and into the evening. I talked to Bear about her. He always had a good sense of reason and said, “You know Dancer.” It was very simple but true. We have to detach with love when people are in those situations.
We ourselves can get very sick by trying to be caretakers, especially when we are early in recovery.
Dancer had achieved so much growth in the time she was here. I care about her so much, and I’m very sad to think that she may be going back out into that same life again.
This place seems a little emptier without, her but I have to focus on my own recovery. My heart broke a little today. But I could feel it, and I was able to talk about it with a friend.
I will never forget the impact she had on my recovery, and I will be forever grateful to her for getting me through some of my toughest days here.
Perhaps in some roundabout way she wasn’t here for herself but she was here to help me in my journey.
Goodnight, Dancer. Keep safe.
Day Twenty-Six.
Saturday, June 18, 2005.
Today I was concentrating on observing my friends. Enjoying their progress helps me to appreciate my own. Silicon was talking less about the guilt he felt towards his family and how he lost them by snorting cocaine. We’d taken his car several times for our little outings. It was nice having a vehicle at our disposal.
I see everyone growing and progressing now. It’s amazing how I have grown to love these people. I’ve never been in a place where so many people have suffered such trauma, most of it by their own hand, but some at the hands of others.
I guess, to make a normal person understand how desperate an addict becomes, would be to ask you, “What would you do if you were starving?”
That’s how an addict feels. As if they were going to die if they don’t do something about the situation right away.
It’s amazing to watch these people that I’ve grown to care for, progress from a state of reckless and impulsive thinking to a state where they consider others before themselves.
I’ve heard a term here many times: “Progress, not perfection.”
For me, it meant that if I’m trying to work my program to the best of my ability and then I falter, it’s okay. As well, we must be easy on each other but we have to point out when we see the disease taking back control. I witnessed that firsthand today from a young girl I didn’t know very well. She found out she couldn’t see her kids this weekend and she went into quite a state. Everything was negative. She wouldn’t talk to anyone. She isolated herself and started blaming everyone else for her situation. I know the staff tried to talk to her but she got on the phone with her friends and then basically walked out.
There’s nothing keeping us here. We’re all here because we put ourselves here.
People who leave rehab don’t do well. Anytime you put something before your recovery? You lose it in the end.
Another 24 down.
Day Twenty-Seven.
Sunday, June 19, 2005.
It’s hard not being able to go home on the weekends. It’s now the third Sunday in June. Father’s Day. Some kids came today to see their dads. Mine live too far away.
My time here is coming to an end, but today I felt glum. A few of us were down playing pool in the recreation area. They have these enormous antique pool tables here that date back to the 1800s. We were in the middle of a game when a father and his son of about fourteen years old came into the gym area. His son wanted to get on the treadmill but it was turned up way too fast. His father warned him he was increasing the speed, but the boy didn’t listen. Before any of us could react, the boy fell and was thrown from the treadmill against the wall. The treadmill track rubbed against his face as he was pinned between it and the wall. He had quite an abrasion on his cheek. His father picked up him up and carried him out. Oh my god. It was all we could do, to contain our laughter.
How many times have we all been in that situation, ignoring words of warning just to do the exact same thing that kid did, falling flat on our faces. The irony was apparent to all of us.
I got a call from the nurses’ station today that a package arrived for me. It was searched, as per standard protocol, but all it contained were some pictures and letters. Pictures of my children. My parents and my sister. I read through the letters in my room. The one that touched me most was the one from my twelve-year-old. At the end, she wrote, “I can sleep at night now, knowing that you are safe.”
Until then I didn’t realize how my illness had been affecting my family, especially my children. I had always been the golden boy. The perfect father, the perfect doctor. Now I had to build up that trust all over again.
I look around me at the walls of this room and I feel overwhelmed, but I am alive and healthy. I am not responsible for my addiction, but I am responsible for my recovery. Maybe someday my story will help someone else. May prevent them from going down this path, or to find help if they do
.
In AA, they say, “You can get off the garbage truck anytime. You don’t have to take it all the way to the dump.” What that means is that you don’t have to lose everything before you can seek help. AA meetings and NA meetings are everywhere. If someone came to me for help, I would tell them to find a meeting, even if you think you might have a problem. They’re always welcoming.
I think back to that kid on the treadmill. It was hilarious, mostly because he wasn’t badly hurt. One minute I’m laughing at someone else’s misfortune and the next I’m crying at my own. I’m going to focus on the things I still have and not on what I have lost. I still have my children and family. A woman who loves me. A driver’s license. A license to practice medicine. That’s conditional on me coming here, so I assume it’s still in place. It doesn’t matter anyway because I’m not going back to work anytime soon. I have a lot to be grateful for. And gratitude is the key to happiness. Try wanting just what you have and not what you don’t.
Good night, Daddy.
Day Twenty-Eight.
Monday, June 20, 2005.
It’s the day before I am set to complete rehab. It was a day of reflection for me. I spent most of it walking around the grounds. I thought about the different conversations I had in all the different locations here, with so many different people.
I had heard their stories and identified so much with their situations.
I had talked to the newcomers as they came in and said the same things that were said to me when I first arrived. That it gets better, that we have to live one day at a time. To take advantage of the nursing staff and talk to them when you need to. To talk in groups and ask for time to speak whenever you can. This is a place to heal. I felt everyone I met here had a part in my healing.
The horticultural projects I completed made me feel so satisfied. And the ceramic dog I made for Beth. They were important steps in my recovery.
I’m starting to feel afraid. I’m scared to go back to the real world. I’ve been safe here, protected from my temptations.
The Golden Boy Page 9