Wasted: An Alcoholic Therapist's Fight for Recovery in a Tragically Flawed Treatment System (11 page)

I put down the Jack of spades. Dana will be here in less than two hours.

Brad snaps down a five and barks “Fifteen for two” and stabs his red peg two holes forward.

I lay down my five of hearts and mutter “Twenty for two” and slide my blue peg beside Brad’s on the board. 9:21.

I can’t wait for Dana to show up. And neither can Harold. When Dana first started calling on the house phone, it was Harold that picked up. He fell in love with the sound of her voice.

“She sounds hot, man,” he said. “When you weren’t here she talked to me for
twenty minutes.” Did he exaggerate, or did Dana play him? Both are distinct possibilities.

Now he’s hanging around, hoping to catch a glimpse of the object of his desire.

Harold entered the program here about a week before I did. He is one of those guys everybody loves to hate. Men avoid him. He always takes more than others at meal times—not exactly an endearing quality when everyone
fights for his share. It’s hard to be anyone in this house, but it must be especially hard to be Harold.

“Mike, I’ve got your woman on the phone.” Harold bounces into the room. He is almost as excited as I am. I jump up, bound through the day room and kitchen to the coffee area, and pounce on the house phone.

“Hello, Mr. Pond,” Dana purrs. “I’m just down 16th Avenue waiting for
you. Hurry up.”

I dash out into the cold, off the property and down the back lane and spy the little Miata, out of impound at last. I sprint to the car and fling open the passenger door. For just one moment, my life is perfect. Dana wears jeans and a red puff parka, her lips painted the exact same shade of red.

“Hello, Mr. Pond.” Dana leans over to kiss me. Yes, that’s vodka on
her breath. “I can’t stay long. I just needed to see you. I’m heading home for Christmas. I miss my kids so badly. I have to see them.”

A can of Rockstar Mocha energy drink perches in the cup holder.

My hopes sink. “I thought you came to get me out of this place. You’re drunk.”

“Mr. Pond,” Dana chuckles. “I’m always drunk. I’ve lost my home, my kids, my job. Who wouldn’t
be drunk?”

I love drunks. Someone else is always responsible for our drinking.

I try to negotiate with Dana. “I’ll get my stuff. We’ll go together. I have to get out of this place.”

Dana tucks a loose strand of red hair behind her ear as her head pivots my way. Her other hand grips the gear shift. Her eyes show that she’s already made her decision.

“No.” Her voice
is cold. “I will come and get you when I get back on New Year’s Day. I have to go. Get out of the car now. I have to see my kids.”

I move toward her. If I get close, she will listen. If she feels my touch, she will understand. She will care. Ashamed, I hear my voice plead.

“Dana, you’re drunk. It’s a five-hour drive over terrible roads. You’re putting yourself in danger. Your kids
don’t want to see you like this anyway. It’s not a good idea.”

“Fuck you!” Dana shoves me back. “Get out! I’m out of here.” Splatters of spit strafe my cheeks. She grabs her drink, takes a long gulp and then another one.

My body slumps as I slide out of the car. I’m barely out the door when the Miata spins out and fishtails down the icy back alley to disappear around the snow-banked
corner.

Disappointment and despair drag me back to We Surrender. I fall on my bed. I have to get out of here. I have to get work. I have to get a place to live. I have to get out of debt.

“Hey, Mike. How’d it go with your old lady? Did you get lucky? Ha ha.” Dangerous Doug plops down onto his bed.

“No, I didn’t,” I say to the ceiling. “She’s an out-of-control drunk like
me.”

Christmas Day 2008 dawns quietly. Only a handful of us are still here. Most are home with loved ones. As the few remaining men sit around the dining table, kind strangers dole out a few small gifts in a little Christmas bag made up by a local church. A pair of socks. A toothbrush. Toothpaste. A candy cane. A comb. A little bottle of mouthwash—the kind with no alcohol. A couple of
single-wrapped Turtles. Both are gone in an instant. I love Turtles.

On this day, the pain of separation from my family is unbearable. They are gathered not far from here, at my in-laws’ in Maple Ridge.

No one calls. I phone Rhonda. No answer.

The phone is in a tiny alcove in one of the dorm wings, just off the kitchen. As I sit and ponder whom to call next, I hear the
forced merrymaking in the kitchen, where
AA
volunteers are cooking our turkey. I make myself smaller than I already am, huddle close to the phone, hoping no one will see me if I break down.

I phone my mother. Her voice catches when she recognizes mine. She sounds careworn. With one son in a down-and-out recovery home, and my brother, Roger, drunk on the streets of Saskatoon, it’s almost
cruel to wish her a happy Christmas.

“I’m just glad you’re safe, Michael,” she says. “Everything will work out. I believe you had to get out of Penticton to get sober. There are lots of resources in Vancouver. Just get all the help you can.”

“I will, Mom. Love you.” We cry, swallowing our sobs to stay quiet.

Over the next few days I try to reach Dana. I don’t even know
if she made it to the Okanagan. No response.

New Year 2009 arrives with yet another snowstorm and still no word from Dana. I call her number every day on Tom’s cellphone and get only her voice mail. Is she dead or just dead drunk?

After two weeks, my brain feels clear enough for a conversation with my Penticton lawyer, Matt Jones. As if to stress the futility of my case, he recites
my charges again.

“Mike, you have numerous twenty-four-hour suspensions. Two
DUI
s. Driving with undue care and attention causing an accident and driving while suspended.” I hear the mounting frustration in his voice. “Mike, you must return to Penticton to attend court. The defense I would need to muster up will cost you minimum ten thousand dollars. Even then it depends on the judge. Best
that you plead guilty.”

“If I go to prison now, how can I start a new job? I need to get work.”

“Listen, Mike. The court doesn’t care about any of that. If the judge says prison, it’s prison. If you don’t come to Penticton, they’ll send a warrant out for your arrest. I can’t keep delaying this.”

“Can you postpone it for another month until I see what I can do for work?
I may be able to settle for something from my wife to pay you a retainer.”

“Okay,” Matt sighs. “I’ll tell the judge you need another month of rehab. Keep me updated.”

Like Rhonda should give me any money. In fact, Eli insists I turn over to Rhonda whatever remains of our joint assets.

“Listen, guy,” Eli calls everyone “guy.” “It’s the least you can do. The damage you’ve
done to your family—you owe them everything. Sign it all over to your ex-wife. The Big Book says you must make amends. So do it.”

In the Big Book, Step Nine suggests we make “direct amends to such people wherever possible, except when to do so would injure them or others.” The premise being, after we have admitted our wrongs and the people we have harmed, we go directly to those people
and make our amends. Make it right.

I agonize over this decision for weeks. The therapist part of me knows I’m in no condition to make such a life-altering choice. I know I need some money to pay off the debt and start over. Yet guilt, shame and regret insist I hand everything over to Rhonda.

There is also a practical reality. Over the last few years, I’ve spent any money I could
get on booze. If I have access to our joint assets, there’s a very real chance I will drink everything away. Based upon the complaints to my professional bodies, my licences to practise have been suspended. I am told I have no choice but to claim bankruptcy. I’m recovered enough now to know I’ve made a colossal mess of my life.

A letter arrives from the College of Registered Psychiatric
Nurses. I gaze at the envelope, then open it, convinced it’s more bad news. I read the main paragraph once. Then again, to make sure I’ve read it right.

The College agrees to maintain my active licence, with conditions: to see a medical addictions expert and undergo random chain-of-custody urine testing over the next two years. I can be a psychiatric nurse again, work I haven’t done in
twenty years. But it’s work.

Just when I think I’m truly lost and will only be able to work at Tim Hortons, as Rhonda once suggested in a moment of bitterness, this lifeline arrives. I will get a job as a nurse. I’ll submit to medical monitoring, if that’s what it takes.

Throughout January, I trudge through deep snow to the public library every day. I spend hours applying for every
nursing job in the Lower Mainland. Then I join a group of guys shovelling the neighbours’ snow, to give back to the community, as
AA
suggests. Often we’d get invited in for coffee or hot chocolate—into real homes, where real families lived.

As January draws to a close, I’m desperate. But luckily for me, when it comes to filling nursing positions, British Columbia is more desperate. Within
several days I receive several requests for interviews. February is one interview after another, punctuated by
AA
meetings. I’m offered positions, but many require a valid driver’s licence. That counts me out.

Finally, I interview for a front-line nursing position on an adolescent psychiatric unit (
APU
) at a large local hospital. The interview panel is impressed with my resumé.

They don’t know I am a hopeless drunk living in a rundown recovery house. They hire me on the spot. “Can you start in two weeks?” they ask.

“I can start Monday,” I blurt with relief.

I return to We Surrender triumphantly. I have a job. I have a way out of this godforsaken place. Spring is just around the corner, and so is my new life.

• 11 •

DANGEROUS DOUG, WITH
a hint of envy, says, “Hey, Mike. Your drunken girlfriend has been calling here all day. Eli and Josh are pissed off. You better go talk to them.”

Eli does not look up. Josh rifles through the filing cabinet beside him. He shoots me a quick glance, turns away and shakes his head.

“Doug says you want to talk to me,” I say to
them.

“Listen, guy,” Eli says. “A job won’t sober you up. And a drunken alcoholic whore will kill you.”

“You gotta surrender,” Josh adds. “Sobriety comes before everything. I don’t know how many guys I’ve seen relapse after they get a job and a woman.”

“Hey, guy, you may have to leave here. You’re doing your own program anyway.” Eli concludes with a nod of his head.

“I have to work,” I stammer. “My financial situation is a disaster. Dana is my girlfriend.” Although I’m not sure anymore. We haven’t talked since she did her disappearing act at Christmas.

“Your priorities are all fucked up,” says Josh. “She’s a cumbucket. Your head has a contract out on your ass.”

“If you don’t follow the program, you’re outta here, guy.” Eli waves me away.

I storm to my room, incensed. I hate the way Josh talks about women. I prepare to go back and confront him but then Tom walks in, rolls his eyes, shakes his head and hands me his cellphone.

“Hello, Mr. Pond,” Dana’s voice floods my ear.

“Dana. Where are you? I haven’t heard from you in weeks.” I’m relieved she’s okay, but I’m still angry that she dumped me on Christmas Eve.

Here comes Harold down the hall. I turn away. I don’t want him to bug me while I’m on the phone with Dana. Before my back is completely turned, his eyes meet mine. I catch an odd mix of despair and resolution. It’s disquieting, that look. He doesn’t pester me to speak to Dana as he usually does. He just keeps going.

I focus on Dana and where the hell she went.

“I’m in a
bad way, Mr. Pond,” she says. “Christmas didn’t go well.”

“Where are you? I’ve talked to your sister and she wouldn’t tell me.”

Long pause.

“I’m at Blaine’s,” she blurts. Blaine is a cocaine-addicted alcoholic we met in detox at Creekside. I remember his gaze and how he drank her in. I remember how much she reveled in it. “His girlfriend scratched the shit out of my car.
She keyed it to bits. Fucking bitch.”

“What! Dana, he’s a crackhead. What the hell are you doing?”

“I couldn’t wait for you, Mr. Pond. I’m lonely. He makes me feel good.”

The cellphone falls out of my hand. I’m so pissed at her I want to scream. I want to hurl the phone against the wall and never speak to her again. I hang up.

WE SURRENDER IS
quiet. Most of the
guys have gone to the “nooner”
AA
meeting in town. Dangerous Doug prods and pokes at the wood in the fireplace. It’s so cold here guys keep piling in log upon log upon log. I sit mute at the dining-room table, head in hands. How could she do this to me? What happened to my Dana? Is it because she’s a drunk? Of course it is. I know I’ve done things drunk that sober Mike Pond wouldn’t dream of.
I feel warmth radiate out from the fire. I look up to watch the flames flicker. Sparks scoot up the chimney. Maybe life close to this hearth is not so bad after all. Maybe this is all I can handle right now. I’m warm and dry and sober and just a few days away from getting back to work.

The back door slams. Panicked feet pound, frantic and fast, across the floor. Someone yells. Crying.
Monk leans his girth out the little office door, irritated at the interruption. Lenny runs by me, wails and collapses in front of Monk.

“Harold killed himself. Harold killed himself.”

The professional in me moves. I fly out the back door just as Gary starts to cut Harold down. Harold’s body slumps, his arms dangle. He hangs by a thin yellow plastic rope secured to the top bar of
the rusted swing set. The bar bows in the middle. As we guide Harold down and lie him on his back, I yell, “Call 911!”

Gary and I perform
CPR
. Hands clasped, I push down aggressively on Harold’s chest. Gary blows into Harold’s mouth in tandem with my chest compressions. Gary’s face is ashen. Sweat pours from his head. I recognize that Gary is in shock, ready to pass out. His head shakes
no.