I think about Scarlett and how I will make it if she’s still using. I used to have to inject her myself sometimes. I won’t be able to do that anymore.
She says she’s quitting. That she’ll clean up when I get home. I want to believe her.
Couples that use together become very codependent. Using becomes so much a part of their lives that when the drugs are gone, the relationship usually ends.
I hope and pray this isn’t the case for us.
I think again about how much we all impact each other here. After being through this experience, I realize if I ever get into trouble again, I will come back to a place like this. A place that specializes in the help I need as a medical professional.
One more night on this plastic-covered mattress and pillow.
I think of Dancer again and hope she’s okay. I think of Scarlett and hope the same thing.
Good night, Girls.
Day Twenty-Nine.
Tuesday, June 21, 2005.
Today was supposed to be my last day at Homewood. (I asked to stay an extra day because tomorrow evening they’re having the annual Homewood reunion. Anyone who has attended Homewood can come back anytime, to this huge auditorium, and be there for the ceremony. I thought it would be good for me to see all these successful graduates of Homewood all in one place before I must go back into the real world.)
Our closing ceremony was held in front of the rest of the Homewood patients. There were fifteen of us leaving Homewood and receiving buttons or pins. Dancer was supposed to be among the group, but won’t be because of her early departure.
The group selected me as the person to give the address for the group.
As we all lined up on stage I looked at all the faces in the crowd. I’ve been trying for four weeks and could never locate the young guy with the garbage bag I met on admission day. I’m not sure if his funding didn’t come through or he just decided to leave, but I never laid eyes on him again.
It was like I imagined the whole interaction.
Everyone gave a quick talk and goodbyes and thank yous were spoken, especially to the staff and the doctors. Then it was my turn to address the group.
I hadn’t prepared anything to say, so I just closed my eyes for a second and then began to speak. I talked about the relationships that I had forged since I arrived here. The strange faces in the crowd became actual people. Drugs had robbed me of the ability to think of anything else except the task at hand and my drug of choice. I thus isolated myself and became paranoid.
My relationships then became very superficial. Here I learned that by opening up and really listening to others I could heal the part of me that needed to be cared for despite my flaws. I didn’t have to pretend I was the Golden Boy anymore. I was just Grant trying to do the best I could each day. And really for all of us in recovery that is all we should ask of ourselves. Take time to talk to one another and love each other well again.
Day Thirty.
Wednesday, June 22, 2005.
Most of the people from my admission week left yesterday, but Silicon and I both wanted to attend the annual meeting that happened to be scheduled for tonight. I spent most of the day visiting the people who’ve helped me on this journey. I spoke with my addiction counsellor, my doctor, the nurses, and other staff members. They basically saved my life and I’m very grateful. I wanted to make sure they knew that.
Anyone who’s ever been a patient at Homewood is welcome to attend the AGM. There were at least four hundred people in the room. Like with most meetings there was a speaker there with fifteen years of sobriety. He talked about coming to Homewood broken, and what life has been like since then.
One of the last items on the agenda was what they called a countdown. They asked the person with the most sobriety to stand up. It was a man with 40 years under his belt. They worked their way down through the years. “Anyone with 39 years, 38 years, etc. I stood up when they said 29 days. I felt such pride! I was sober almost 30 days! The countdown went on. They got to 24 hours. Then the people who were admitted yesterday and today stood up at that time.
I couldn’t help but think that that was me just a month ago. It’s good to see the program worked for so many people.
I finally feel free again. I was hoping the meeting would give me the strength I need to face realities of life back on PEI. As a patient of Homewood, I could truly focus on myself, but now I have to face life as an addicted physician in recovery.
I knew since I got here that things would never be the same, but I can’t let that occupy my mind. I just had to face life on life’s terms, and not linger in the past or the future, but to stay in the present.
Silicon and I took a drive around Guelph one last time. We were listening to music and both singing at the top of our lungs. I imagine surviving a narcotic addiction is like returning home from war. Not that I would dare compare myself to a brave veteran, but I do feel like we have pulled through a battle. Not an armored battle but another type of war. A war that took most of our most precious things from us and almost cost us our lives.
Silicon and I talked for hours in the car. He thanked me again for cleaning out his car when we first got here. I told him it helped me to help him and that’s the way most things are in recovery. He offered me a drive the following day to the airport and I told him I might have to take him up on that offer. Dancer was supposed to pick me up but I hadn’t heard from her since she left so I wasn’t counting on her.
Deep down inside, I hoped she would. If nothing else it would let me know that she was doing well. I packed my clothes before I went to bed. I looked again at that long-sleeved light-blue shirt that I first wore when I got here. I was baffled by the number of the speckles of bloodstains it had. How was I unable to see them before? I’d been walking around in such a fog.
I can hear my roommate breathing in his sleep. Tomorrow night I’ll be home in my own bed. I’ll have to find a whole new group of recovery friends. I hope I am as successful at forming alliances with people in recovery at home as I have been here.
I have this uncomfortable feeling in my stomach tonight. Something I haven’t felt in a long while. I think it’s fear. Fear of the unknown.
May Angels watch me through the night.
Day Thirty-one.
Thursday, June 23, 2005.
This will be my last rehab journal entry.
I’m writing this from the window seat of an airplane. I didn’t want to be in the aisle because I can’t handle the drink cart. I pulled out my journal to keep my mind busy. The guy beside me ordered a double scotch and it’s taking all my strength not to reach over and drink it. And I know I wouldn’t be able to stop at one drink.
Dancer was supposed to pick me up at 1:30 today but she didn’t show up. I had to ask Silicon for a ride to the airport. I hate to jump to conclusions, but I’m pretty sure Dancer’s back at it again. A part of me is very sad because she told me a week ago that she feels better than she has since she was twelve years old.
My seatmate is in the bathroom and the scotch is still there. There are so many things that are magnified when you’re fresh out of rehab. I haven’t been sober on a plane in many years. Related: I don’t really like flying.
Homewood prepared me for this. A lot of people relapse on their way home. “Try to sit away from the drink cart.” Check. “Have something to read.” Check. “Listen to music so you don’t hear glasses tinkling.” Check.
I just reached into my bag and pulled out my AA and NA books. I’d asked my friends to sign them. Many wrote verses along with their signatures.
Lonzo wrote: “To my friend, Grant. Godspeed, brother. I hope your days are clean and sober. Thanks so much for your friendship. I know you’ll do fine. Ha ha. Thanks for the privilege of getting me to give you your pin. Good luck and take care because I care.”
I read through Bear and Silicon’s messages. Dancer di
dn’t sign it, which made me sad. It was because she left early and abruptly.
I find their words comforting.
I’m going to just sit back now and listen to the sounds of the engines.
I hear a child crying at the back of the plane.
I feel like I’m part of society again, and although starting over is difficult, it’s much better than the slow, miserable death I was headed for.
My seatmate is back now, sipping on his scotch. I take a deep breath and close my eyes.
From “Dancer”
The first thing I did when I got to Homewood was check myself right back out again. Eleven minutes after I got there, I was gone. I ended up somehow talking myself into turning back around, but I was a reluctant patient.
I met Grant when I was outside having a cigarette. I had a pretty awful attitude around recovery and I did not want to be there. I recall saying something like, “Well, I know I’m not a doctor, but…,” and he said, “Well, I am.”
That kind of woke me up a bit, that there was a doctor there at rehab right alongside me.
We were both in such bad shape that we weren’t allowed to leave the grounds, so we got to know each other pretty well, right off the hop.
Grant quickly became my person. I could relate to him because there were no other IV drug users there at the time. And for some reason, I trusted him. I had a real problem with authority. My IV drug use started after I was raped by a police officer. I had no trust for any sort of authority figure, including the staff at Homewood. But I trusted Grant.
He was the only person I would open up to.
I’m not sure what it was about him. He was a genuine person. He cared about people. He listened. I was used to people preaching at me. But Grant listened. He made me feel like a whole person. Not a junkie or a body part. He made me feel like I was a whole person and not just the things I had done. He used to make sure I would eat. He would take me out for coffee. He held the door open. He made me feel like I could be part of society again.
Grant helped me to remember the person I was before I got in trouble with drugs. He helped me to feel normal for the first time in a very long time. Before I met Grant, I forgot that there were good people in the world.
That being said, I didn’t have a clear head at the time. And I was so used to men wanting something from me that I almost didn’t trust his kindness. I was waiting to find out what he was going to want in return for being a friend to me. That never happened, but I was waiting for it.
I knew Grant was going to beat his addiction and I hated him for it. To be honest, he just seemed to want to get clean more than anyone else in the place. He was willing to put in the work and I wasn’t.
I left the program early. I was asked to leave, and I agreed it wasn’t the right time for me to be there. Grant almost helped me to see that. He’d said that you can’t change until you’re ready to change. He always believed in me, and that I would get well when the timing was right.
AFTER
My sister picked me up at the airport.
She commented on how good I looked. Like I’d been on a spa holiday. My colour was back, and I’d been more physically active over those four weeks than I had been in years. I looked like I was five years younger and felt on top of the world physically. I was very nervous about returning to the realities of PEI. There were a multitude of challenges in front of me and I knew from others’ experience that there were even more than I anticipated.
On the drive home, she was telling me all these stories about my crazy behaviour leading up to my trip to rehab, and how it finally all made sense. Like the time Scarlett and I were going out and we dropped the girls off to stay with my parents. I’d left a VHS tape with them, so they could watch a Disney movie. Apparently, though, when they put the tape in the VCR, it was a homemade video from our bedroom. I had no idea it existed, and nobody told me about this before.
Everyone knew something was going on, but they were all pussyfooting around me, afraid to say anything because of how defensive I was. I went to my own doctor but was cagey with him and tried to hide the truth of what was really wrong. For example, when he checked my blood pressure I made sure to never give him the arm I was using to inject myself so he wouldn’t see the fresh injection sites. He referred me to neurologists, psychiatrists, and I even had an MRI on my brain. I’m sure everyone had their suspicions about what was wrong. But I obviously was defensive so the repercussion of the accusation would be that I would retreat and not return. In truth, I think no one wanted to be the one to potentially end my career. They were all just hoping I would somehow smarten up. I, on the other hand, would lie about what was truly going on in my life. To be truthful, I was wishing they would just find a tumor or something else that would allow them some concrete reason to give me narcotics. Those were the crazy feelings I was having back then, but my time in Homewood changed that.
I was so happy to be sober, but still I was feeling lost. I didn’t have a job. I wasn’t a doctor anymore. My identity was completely gone.
My sister first took me to see my oldest girls. My twelve-year-old daughter ran out of her mom’s house and hugged and wrapped her arms around me for at least a minute. When I saw my youngest daughter, who was two, she locked me around the neck and wouldn’t let go. I was proud of what I had accomplished and the support of the people who truly loved me cemented that feeling, in a good way, inside of me. I knew I had a long road ahead of me and it was going to have to begin at home.
When I got back to my house Scarlett gave me a nod and casual embrace. Her addiction had only gotten worse while I was away. She was injecting herself right in front of me and it made me very uncomfortable. On one occasion, she broke a needle off inside her arm. After using the same syringe repeatedly, the base of the needle had undergone metal fatigue and just snapped off in her triceps muscle. This happened when we were in the car. I was forced to finish injecting her with another needle as we sat by the side of the road. This metal fatigue is much like the phenomenon that occurs with older aircraft, except in this instance the failure only leaves one with a sliver of metal in the arm and not the plunging of countless lives into the sea. Let’s face it, a rocker arm breakage in the steering section of a commercial jet is a much bigger catastrophe than I was facing. But still, with my urges and demons calling at me, I felt like I was in my own hell.
I knew that it was just a matter of time.
That summer I was walking back and forth to AA meetings. It was extremely awkward to attend meetings in the beginning. I live in a small city of fewer than 50,000 people. Because I had been a doctor the local news had really started speculating on my departure. I tried not to follow the stories. I did not comment on them, under the direction of my lawyer. There was also no comment from the College of Physicians.
All that just fuelled the rumors. I was just trying to do what I was told, just like in rehab. I knew that a lot of people in AA would recognize who I was, but I also knew my disease would love for me to be uncomfortable here. At my very first meeting they asked me to read something aloud. Here I was, a physician who had read hundreds of books over my lifetime, but I stammered nervously through the reading. I almost felt like the words were getting smaller and my heart was beating so loud I couldn’t hear myself speak. But I got through it, and I felt much better, almost euphoric, on my walk back home. Life was better; I was spending time with my girls, and making sure Scarlett stayed out of trouble.
I was trying to keep the house clean and trying to keep myself clean.
We were broke because my disability insurance didn’t kick in for the first sixty days I was back. I had been smart enough to take out a disability plan when I graduated from medical school. To be honest I thought I might need it some day for accident or injury. But never for this. There was no money coming in. I couldn’t pay Revenue Canada. I had no money left, and I had nothing to show for the mone
y I’d spent. It had all gone to drugs or mindless extravagances I had purchased while high.
I went from having a $50,000 line of credit to having no credit. I remember breaking open all the kids’ change collections and taking them into the bank. It was very humbling, but I knew I needed to do it to keep the wolves away.
Every day became about survival. The “one day at a time” philosophy I learned at Homewood was so important. I had to live each day and just live to the next one without using. I pictured my friends at Homewood and their everyday struggles. I gained strength from the fact that I was trying to be a good example for them all. I was desperately missing my team friends from rehab. The only problem with doing rehab in the middle of Canada is that I no longer had their support. I selfishly hoped they were missing me, too.
Scarlett cleaned herself up that summer. Thank God, because I was absolutely ready to walk out. I had done exactly what my AA sponsor suggested: be a good example and don’t preach or lecture.
It happened in mid-August right before Hurricane Katrina struck. We were glued to our television when that happened, because we’d visited New Orleans together. The hotel we’d stayed at had burnt to the ground. It was like a metaphor. The flood. The devastation. And here we were. Both clean. Both after our own storms. But right then, I felt almost as helpless as those people on their roofs with signs saying, “help me.” Just like them I was still alive, but everything I had worked for was damaged. I honestly just wanted someone to rescue me. But, unfortunately, there would be no rope ladder to pull me to safety. Getting sober was one thing, but living sober together was drastically challenging. Scarlett and I were at different stages. I was all ready to start Us over again.
But she wasn’t ready. She was going in a different direction than I was.
I found out in December that she had developed an interest in someone else. I confronted her and she said she wanted to work on things. But then she left the next day. I, too, slowly figured out the things didn’t include me. I didn’t blame her at all. I had been a less-than-perfect partner.
The Golden Boy Page 10