Warrior Pose (41 page)

On the third morning, Sherry isn't there with my breakfast tray. I get myself a bowl of cereal. It's not so hard. I can handle this at least once or twice a day. As I'm finishing my meal on the couch, Judith comes over. She's the one with the Valium problem.

“We just heard about Sherry,” she says with a teary face. “Her boyfriend was bringing her Vicodin every time he came here. The staff caught him slipping it to her in the parking lot. Sherry got angry and drove off with the guy, shouting that she's never coming back.”

Now it makes sense. I remember how Vicodin gave me a false sense of optimism and joy. Sherry's upbeat demeanor was only the drugs talking. It's just like Don predicted. And now it's going to be even harder to argue my case. As I slog back into my room after the morning meeting, I feel like a hostage.

Every day I've been pressured by the staff to prepare for the residential program. Pamela remains adamant about it as well. She insists that a phone call with Morgan still isn't possible. It makes me furious. I'm starting to suspect there's more to all this than I understand, maybe a plan to keep me from returning home. But even though no one but me has legal power over my decisions, I lack the strength to argue and feel helpless. I'm weak. I'm humiliated. I'm stuck.

A knock at the door. Dr. Gasparo steps in and whispers with a grin, “I have good news.”

I want to jump up and scream with joy before I even know what it is.

“A few months ago, the hospital opened what it calls the Pain Center across the way, in the McDonald complex, right next to the residential facility. I wanted to be sure they would take you before I mentioned it. It's not related at all to the detox program and it's very experimental. They use a blend of ancient Eastern healing modalities and modern holistic Western medicine to help patients cope with pain without using narcotic painkillers. They can't help you with cancer, but they think you are a perfect candidate for help with back pain, and so do I. Are you interested in trying it?”

I'm not sure I understand a thing he's saying, but I'm in scorching pain and need to do something, anything. “Yes. Immediately. Today. When can I start?”

“Not quite yet,” he answers. “It might be a few more days. We still need to work some things out.”

Dr. Gasparo explains that when a patient is in recovery, the center always seeks to consult closely with the family in determining any course of action. He'll need to convince the detox staff and work with Pamela, let her know he feels it's in my best interest. I sense it will be a power struggle, but I haven't signed away total control over my destiny, and there's no law to prevent me from doing this. This is a lifeline being handed to me.
I've surrendered enough. It's time to take a stand.

“I've got to do this,” I say to Dr. Gasparo. “I've got to. Get me in that program. Please. It's my only hope.”

“I'll do everything I can,” he promises as he pats my shoulder. “Everything I can.”

I feel like a caged animal. I've packed all my belongings and no longer attend the mandatory meetings. I take my meals from the cafeteria to my room and eat on my bed in silence. I've removed my nameplate from the door and thrown it away. I read my novel and wait, wondering what the Pain Center might be like. Three days go by before I hear from Dr. Gasparo again. I almost bolt up in bed when he comes into my room. He tells me everyone has finally agreed,
albeit grudgingly so. I can check into the Pain Center on Monday morning after the coming weekend.

“I can't spend another night here,” I tell the doctor with desperation in my voice. “I'll go completely crazy. You'll have to put me in a straightjacket, admit me to a psycho ward, and give me a lobotomy.”

He laughs and says, “We don't want that. Just a few more days, okay? We have to make sure the transition is smooth. Don't worry. There's a long waiting list for people to get into detox. They'll be glad to move you along. There's no residential unit for the Pain Center, however, so you're going to need to find a place to stay.”

“Thank you for everything, doctor,” I say, knowing there are no words for how much gratitude I feel toward this man. “Can you stay with me for a minute longer?”

He agrees. We walk to the front desk and I ask for my box of medications. The same staffer who confiscated the drugs is at the desk. When I ask for the meds I brought in with me, he glances at Dr. Gasparo and gets a nod of permission. Then he walks to the vault and retrieves the box of drugs. Still wary of me. Surveying the hall for danger. Like a horde of crazed patients might launch an attack. As I carry the drugs to my room, he follows me like a security guard even though Dr. Gasparo is by my side. I go into the tiny bathroom, open all the bottles, and dump the pills into the toilet. It takes a dozen flushes before the last handful swirls down the pipe and disappears.

CHAPTER 25

The Pain Center

A
S I WALK OUT the entry doors of the detox ward, through the courtyard, and past the residential facility, I still look like a robot, hobbling along in my body brace and gripping my cane for support. Only, my gait is worse than ever. The pain in my back and legs is growing more intense as the residual effects of the drugs continue to wear off. I'm exhausted by the time I limp across the large foyer of the building housing the Pain Center and reach the elevator. My mind is as unsteady as my body. I'm nervous and unsure of myself. There are a few others waiting at the elevator bank. I realize I'm staring at the floor again. Hiding. Wondering if they're thinking
here's another addict who destroyed his life
. The ride to the third floor takes forever.

When I step out of the elevator into the entryway, it feels like a boutique university. The lobby is carpeted green with two long, padded sitting benches, upholstered with burgundy fabric, neatly secured against one wall. There's a wide reception counter with class schedules posted on a large corkboard. I'm filled with hope and scared to death at the same time. I don't know if I have the strength to do this. But I can't fail. I just can't. It's my only shot.

“Please have a seat,” the receptionist says politely, standing behind the counter and looking very busy. “Someone will be with you shortly.”

I lurch over stiffly and use my cane to support myself as I lie down on the padded bench.

“You cannot lie down in this area,” the receptionist says firmly. “Please sit up.”

“I'm sorry, I can't,” I answer. “I've had a failed back surgery and it hurts too much.” I've barely stepped in the door and I'm already breaking the rules. Not fitting in. Like the first day I entered the McDonald Center with my box of drugs.

“You still need to sit up, sir.” She's adamant, but there's no way I can do it and get through the day.

“I'm sorry,” I say again with a pleading tone this time. “I hurt too much, and if I sit up for a few minutes you might have to carry me out of here on a stretcher.” I give her my best smile, but my attempt to be witty and charming falls flat.

“Then you can lie there and fill out these forms,” she says with pique as she comes from behind the counter and hands me a clipboard. It's the typical paperwork. Medical history. An explanation of my current pain situation. Financial status. A release of my right to take legal action if I'm injured. There's also a form requiring me to promise not to touch any alcohol or drugs and consent to random blood and urine tests.
If you fail a test
, it warns,
you will be suspended from the program
.

It's not a suspension I'm worried about. I'm physically and emotionally weaker than I've ever been in my life. It's hard to pay attention or be enthusiastic with my nerve endings on fire. A bright light, harsh noise, or stern word continues to make my skin hurt. My emotions remain sensitive and easily wounded. It's still all too easy to get fed up or angry in an instant over trivial things. I have to contain myself or I'll say something sarcastic about the way the clipboard was delivered. I also feel confused and disoriented, which Dr. Gasparo warned me often happens after detox, especially with so many years of heavy medications. Their deranging effects tend to wear off in layers over weeks and months. Sometimes it takes years.

Pamela arrives in the lobby. This was part of the arrangement. She has to sign some of the papers and take care of the payments because I left her my checkbook and credit cards when I checked into detox. I can feel how much she still opposes this course of action, but we don't debate it. Once everything is arranged she wishes me
luck and departs. It's like she's a thousand miles away. Who could blame her?

I try to sit up for a while in hopes of making the receptionist happy, but after a few minutes my back flares up and I have to lie down again. I don't remember ever feeling this frail, vulnerable, or frightened in my entire life, not even in a war zone. Closing my eyes now. Trembling all over with this uncertainty and self-doubt.
Get up, Daddy.
My son is all I have. I miss him with every breath I take.
Get up, Daddy.

“Okay, Morgan,” I hear myself saying out loud. I open my eyes to see the receptionist glancing at me as if I might do better in a mental ward. I close my eyes again and wait while my case is being reviewed.

Finally, a staff person arrives to present me with my schedule. It's going to be a big day.

9:00
A
.
M
.

Clinic counselor Ms. Mason is short and thin, neatly dressed in a gray woolen business suit and burgundy silk blouse buttoned up to her neck. Her manner is formal. Distant. There's no couch in her office, so I slide into an overstuffed chair and spread my legs out, leaning back as far as I can to take the pressure off my back.

“Sit up, please,” is the first thing Ms. Mason says, tapping one of her perfectly polished, black high heels against the leg of her chair. As I start to explain why this is difficult, she cuts me off and lets me know that she's the case manager for each patient. It's her job to make sure everyone knows what is expected of them and that proper procedures are observed. This includes sitting up and paying attention. Ms. Mason personifies “tough love” even more than Nurse Ratched.