Warrior Pose (39 page)

I fumble through the dark, click on my bedside lamp, and try to read a new book by Scott Turow that's topping the bestseller list. A legal thriller about the shady spaces between ethics and the law. It's a diversion I would usually enjoy, but I can't stay with it.
The vicarious adventure no longer provides the escape I need. I slam the book shut, drop it on the floor, and close my eyes.

I was thirty-six years old—just entering the prime of my life—when I fell from a ledge in the Bahamas during a tropical storm. Now I'm fifty and feel like I'm eighty. I've gone from the life of my dreams, living freely and traveling the world, to the life of a drug junkie in a detox ward, imprisoned by choice within these four cinderblock walls. I've missed what should have been my best years and I'm ashamed to be alive. As I glance over to the wall and reread the “Serenity Prayer,” I can't imagine accepting the things I can't change, much less finding serenity. All my strength and courage have drained away over the years. Whatever insight or wisdom I once might have possessed vanished long ago.

It's pitch black in my room once I turn off the reading lamp. As I stare toward the ceiling, little patterns of electric light dance in the darkness. I can hear my labored breath and feel the tightness in my throat. My heart continues to pound hard. My whole body aches. I'm not sure I can do this. I'm not sure at all.

“Time to get up!” The harsh overhead lights go on and the glare blinds me. I can't remember where I am.

“Please come into the hallway right now!”

Suddenly I remember, and it makes me shudder. The McDonald Center. Scripps Hospital. Cinderblock room. Detox.

What time is it? Who's dragging me out of bed? I don't know who's rushing me into the hall, or why. I'm less than half awake and barely manage to grab my cane.

Onto a chair now, almost falling as I plop down. Someone barking orders at me. I gaze bleary-eyed at the floor. I see the feet of other people in the hallway. I can feel their stares, but I'm ashamed to be here and don't look up. Something wrapped around my arm. Pumping. Something else stuck into my mouth. I'm ordered to say
Ahhh
. The lights, the prodding, the crisp commands all assaulting my senses. I'm finally coming to. It's very early in the morning and
I'm being integrated into the routine. Vital signs taken. Another cup of pills thrust into my face. Then suddenly being dismissed to make space for the next patient.

I limp back into my room like a sullen ogre, making eye contact with no one, still pretending not to be here. I turn on the shower. Get the water almost scalding. Curl up on the shower floor in a very stiff and partial fetal position, my feet pressed against the base of the toilet as the steamy water runs all over me. I can hear myself moaning out loud like a crazed beast.

Breakfast arrives shortly after I crawl back onto my bed. Just as I finish the last bite, there's a gentle knock on the door and my rehab doctor slips in to introduce himself. He looks like a young Sigmund Freud, with jet-black hair, a neatly trimmed goatee, and dark-rimmed glasses.

“Good morning, I'm Doctor Gasparo. Are you doing all right?” I'm surprised he isn't wearing the typical white scrubs with a stethoscope around his neck. Instead, he has on neatly pressed black slacks and a well-starched white dress shirt with no tie. He's the first person whose presence has made me feel comfortable since I checked in, and something about his manner makes me like him immediately.

“I'm doing as well as I can,” I answer with a heavy sigh.

We go through my whole story, which I've condensed and explained so many times to countless medical specialists that it could be a sixty-second report on
NBC Nightly News
. Dr. Gasparo tells me he's the head psychiatrist for the detox ward and explains that every patient here is struggling with addiction. Most are alcoholics. Some are addicted to street drugs or pharmaceutical medications. Many are struggling with all three. My case is highly unusual, Dr. Gasparo says, given the complexities of cancer and a broken back.

“You've been on heavy medications for almost fourteen years,” he says. “Getting off them won't be easy and, given your condition, you have a right to keep taking them and we can taper you off slowly over several months. This is a decision you need to make for yourself.”

“I want off them now. They've deranged my mind and stolen my Soul. I don't care what happens. I'm done.” I say this with conviction. Ask for his support.

“Are you sure you don't want to go slowly,” he says, “reduce the dosages gradually, at least over a few weeks' time?”

“I want to stop now,” I answer firmly.

“It's going to be tough,” he gently replies. “Cold-turkey withdrawal is a nightmare and it can be dangerous. Are you sure you want to go this way?”

“I'm sure.”

Dr. Gasparo agrees to support my decision, but warns that I'll be monitored closely, and if I have serious reactions I'll have to switch to tapering off. Then he writes a note in my file to have the medications stopped immediately. I expected to be scared to death to give up my pills, but it comes as a huge relief. “I'll be checking in on you every day I possibly can,” he says, wrapping up our first meeting. “Otherwise, please let the nurses know if you have any problems.”

He has a good bedside manner, but as he walks away, I hope it's something more than that. I feel like I might have an ally. That the doctor might really understand me. Be a source of support. I need it.

Detox—Day One:
Groggy. Weak. Fingers trembling. More unsteady on my feet than usual. The ward routine takes over. Early morning vitals (I continue to stare at the floor). Meals into the room like clockwork. Dr. Gasparo checks in. Lights out. For the first time since I can remember, heavy sleep.

Detox—Day Two:
Morning vitals. Back to bed. Sleep until lunch arrives. Cafeteria staffer takes my untouched breakfast tray. Comes and leaves without saying a word. I fidget. Reorganize the closet. Try to shave. Too much trouble. Can't read. Feel hollow inside. Shaky. Asleep long before dinner.

Detox—Day Three:
I feel like I have the flu. Nauseous. Feverish. Aching all over. All lights are piercing and painful. It sounds like the nurses outside my door are yelling. It kills my ears. I refuse to go out
for vital signs. Lie in bed with a pillow over my head. Nurse Ratched comes in. Takes my temperature and checks my blood pressure. Lets me know what an inconvenience I am. I reciprocate, and then some. Meals arrive, their smells nauseating me. I leave them untouched.

Detox—Day Four:
My mind and body feel disconnected. The back pain is scorching. My throat is on fire. Everything is hazy. I think Doctor Gasparo has been in the room. Can't be sure. Something about cold turkey and seven days. A warning that withdrawal might be tough. Sweating profusely. Too dizzy to walk. I tear off my pajamas. Crawl into the bathroom. Vomit uncontrollably for an eternity. Turn on a cold shower and curl up on the tile floor again. Like I'm a homeless drunk lying in the gutter of an empty street during a rainstorm.

Detox—Day Five:
Stomach cramps. Diarrhea. Vomiting. Hot flashes. Cold flashes. My head is throbbing. Every noise in the hall sounds like a bomb exploding. I hate it when Ratched comes in to take my vitals. Stop bringing these foul-smelling meals. Turn out the damn lights. Go away. Let me sleep. God, grant me serenity. Some courage. The pain is completely consuming. Get out of my room!

Detox—Day Six:
Deeper nausea. Cramps. Sweats. Chills. Anger. Fear. Delusion. I've lost all sense of time. And I've lost hope. I crawl on the floor in the darkness. Need to get to the bathroom to be sick again. I can't take this anymore. I bump up against my suitcase. Then I remember. I turn the suitcase on its side. Unzip it. Fumbling in the dark now for the full bottle of morphine pills I stashed in a side pocket. My backup plan.

I stagger to the sink. Click on the nightlight. It sears into my eyes. I fill a glass of water. Pour the entire jar into my palm. Fifty tiny
morphine pills. Enough to kill a horse. I glance at the mirror. There's the madman staring back at me again.
To hell with my life.
I lift my hand to stuff the pills into my mouth. Then stop as I hear a different voice in my head:
Get up, Daddy
.

I can't get up.
To hell with my life…What about Morgan?
…
Get up, Daddy
.

My hand shakes uncontrollably as I clutch the pills. The debate rages in my head. I stare at the monster in the mirror again. Suddenly my deepest inner voice stops me in my tracks:
What will life be like for Morgan, knowing his father was so weak and pathetic that he committed suicide?

Staggering to the toilet now. Tossing all the pills in and flushing them down. Throwing up again. Turning on the shower. Curling up on the bathroom floor in convulsions.

Detox—Day Seven:
No food for days. More diarrhea and dry heaves. Flashes of pain everywhere. My skin, my organs, my bones ache like hell. I'm sweating buckets. Cramps. More dry heaves. Uncontrollable. I start to crawl to the bathroom but collapse naked on the floor at the foot of my bed.

It's pitch black. Something moves in the corner of the ceiling. A swirl of electric energy. More swirls in the other ceiling corners. One morphs into a demon. Like a gargoyle. It flies at me. Claws at my throat. Other demons surge in from nowhere and join the attack. Screeching. Eyes blazing red. Teeth bared. Ripping at my flesh. Like Dante's
Inferno
.

My chest is pounding. A heart attack? Hot and cold flashes together again. Intense muscles spasms. Arms and legs writhing. I try to fight back. I want to scream for help but can't find my voice. I get sick. Vomit and diarrhea all over myself. The demons pierce my flesh. Rip at my organs. I try to fight back. Fend them off. It lasts for hours. I'm either dying or going completely mad.

Suddenly, just when I can't take it any longer, the demons dissolve. Everything goes black. I collapse into a coma-sleep on the cold linoleum floor in the middle of my cinderblock room.

CHAPTER 24

Lifeline

W
ARM COVERS. Soft sheets. A pillow under my head. It feels luxurious. I can see the morning light behind the lids of my closed eyes. I can hear someone breathing next to my bed. There's a hand gently touching mine. “Hello,” I say to whoever is by my side.

“Hello, my friend.” I recognize Father David's voice in an instant. “They tell me you've been sleeping for almost two days. I'm sure it was a rough time.”

“You wouldn't believe it,” I whisper as I crack my eyes open. “Demons tearing at my flesh.”

“Well, you got through it,” he says with a glowing smile. “I'm proud of you.”

I can barely move. It takes all my energy to sit up in bed. Father David lets me know I'm going to be okay. I recount as much of the detox experience as I can recall. Even the moment I wanted to swallow the morphine stash and end it all.