Wasted: An Alcoholic Therapist's Fight for Recovery in a Tragically Flawed Treatment System (21 page)

The times I drank and drove and put innocent people at risk.

The times I took money from the business and my family to buy booze.

The many breaches of trust and damaged relationships with family and friends.

The times I stole to support my addiction.

The thousands of times I lied to my wife and my sons about my drinking.

The times I made my mother cry.

The times I made the boys’ mother cry.

I survey the list. If I ever end up getting my life together, I’ll have to spend the rest of it making amends.

Others in the house notice my new focus and energy.

“What the hell’s got into you, Crazy Mike?”

“You on a mission impossible? Ha ha ha.”

“Crazy Mike’s turned into Professor
Pond?”

Clinical Notes—Mental Status Exam:

Appearance: Patient clean-shaven, well groomed, good eye contact.

Speech: Clear and articulate.

Mood and Affect: Positive, rates it 6.5 /10. Bright affect.

Concentration: Good.

Perceptions: No distortions in perceptions of reality.

Thought Content and Process: Mood-congruent, goal-focused. No evidence
of psychosis.

Insight and Judgment: good.

Global Assessment of Functioning (GAF) score: 65/100—Slight impairment, good functioning.

The Celexa is reaching therapeutic levels. Celexa is a selective serotonin reuptake inhibitor, or
SSRI
. It changes the balance of serotonin, which helps brain cells send and receive chemical messages more effectively. It elevates mood. It improves
concentration. It diminishes obsessive thinking. It reduces anxiety. It works.

The comments keep coming. “Who the fuck are you? You look ten years younger these days.”

“Hey, man, you’re looking good,” says Wayne. “You’re fun to be around now.”

Carey smiles. “Hey, Pond. I didn’t know you could laugh.”

As sanity returns, awareness of just how bad things are at Mission
Possible sinks in.

Jim, a young heroin addict, worries. “Ken is watering down my methadone,” he says. “I know he’s taking it. Why do you think he sleeps so much?”

“Yeah, man,” Colin pipes in. “My dosage seems weaker too. He’s dipping into it. Lazy fucker sleeps all day.”

“I found bags of potato chips, beef jerky and chocolate bars hidden in his room. The rest of us eat
rice and pancakes every day,” says Wayne.

“Randy drives around in that big Mercedes,” says Colin. “He hasn’t been around for days. I hear he’s in Vegas again.”

That things could actually get any worse at Mission Possible is a bit of a mind boggler. But the expectation that I can recover in a place where the inmates are in charge of the asylum makes me resolute: I must return to
work at a place where mental health treatment is credible and compassionate. I will get my job back.

• 21 •

EARLY MONDAY MORNING,
the sun streams in my bedroom window. Just recently graduated from my dungeon dorm to an upstairs bedroom with four beds, I’m not used to the brightness. On this beautiful June day, I will meet with the Fraser Health Authority. It’s been two months since I wandered the streets of Surrey and Langley.

Nervous and excited, I
rush downstairs to a makeshift barber’s shop set up in the kitchen. I sit up tall, propped on a stack of couch cushions on a kitchen chair. A warm towel nestles on my neck as Aaron, a young guy of about nineteen and a new resident of Mission Possible, gives me a standard jailhouse haircut. A buzz cut with electric clippers from Canadian Tire with a number-two attachment; then he lathers my neck with
Gillette blue gel. He finishes the job off with a Fusion 5 blade.

I gaze with satisfaction at my reflection in the mirror.

“There,” says Aaron. “You look like a cop for sure now. Or an old-time gangster. Or both. Ha ha ha.” He hands me a pair of brand-new black cords. He’s a small guy like me.

Wayne offers me one of his brand-name golf shirts. It’s a white lightweight Nike
with a Tiger Woods logo.

“That’s a hundred-and-fifty-dollar shirt, Mike.” Wayne grins.

Aaron says, “Here’s my dress shoes. Florsheims my uncle gave me. He’s a bigwig downtown lawyer.”

The men stand back and admire their handiwork.

“Man, you look great, Pond!” Wayne claps. The guys all nod in agreement.

For the first time in a long time, I feel proud of myself.
Then a wave of nostalgia washes over me. I miss the guy I used to be. I grieve his loss. That’s followed by a rush of gratitude, for the circle of support around me. In the midst of their own struggles, these guys who have not much have given it all to me.

“Hey, Mike, Ken won’t get up,” Rob says. “I knocked and knocked on his door. He took his usual shitload of everyone’s meds last night.
He’s out cold. How are you going to get to your meeting?”

Wayne pipes up. “I’ll drive you. I’ll go in there and grab the keys.”

“No, you better not. You’ll get kicked out,” says Rob.

“I don’t give a shit,” says Wayne. “I hate this fucking place.”

Wayne disappears into Ken’s room. Ken’s snores echo throughout the house.

Wayne emerges. “Let’s go,” he says.
“I’ve got the keys. There’s no way you’re missing this meeting, Mike.”

Rob, Wayne and I head to Langley Memorial Hospital, the hospital where just seven weeks ago, I had a psychotic break. This is where the occupational health nurse has her office. In a hospital environment, an occupational health nurse helps employees who’ve suffered health setbacks return to work. I’ve suffered quite
the setback.

This is my ticket out of Mission Possible. This is getting my life back. This meeting is vital to my recovery. I sweat.

It is 8:20. A woman waits for me at the reception desk. “Hello, Michael.” She shakes my hand. “My name’s Colleen Slater. I’m the
OHN
for Fraser Health Authority. I’m your case manager. I’m pleased to meet you.”

“Hello, Colleen. It’s nice to
meet you.”

In a warm but business-like manner, she explains the process.

“You’ll meet with your union representative first on your own. She’ll fill you in on your rights as an employee. That meeting is strictly confidential. At nine o’clock we’ll all meet as a group. That meeting is also confidential; however, the proceedings of that meeting will be documented and kept in your
employee file.”

Now Maureen Ashfield, the union rep, joins us. Her warm smile and the empathy in her eyes quell my rising anxiety. “Hello, Michael. Let’s go into this other office for a private meeting,” she says.

She immediately lays out the union strategy. “Fraser Health claims you didn’t meet your probationary period. We say you have. It’s June tenth. As of June second, you
have been an employee of Fraser Health for three months. They say you went off sick after your first week and have not worked since. We say they put you on a medical leave. They did not try to contact you. We say no. We think we will win that argument.”

I can’t believe what I’m hearing. The Health Sciences Association—of which I haven’t been a member for two decades, is fighting for me.
By turns, I’m shocked, surprised, skeptical and grateful.

“Michael,” says Maureen, “you have rights as an employee through the collective agreement. Furthermore, you have a medical illness. Dr. Acres diagnosed you with severe chronic alcoholism. You’re going to get help. It looks like Fraser Health will not pay for treatment. Nor will they pay for Dr. Acres’s assessment. However, they
will
pay for the ongoing monitoring. In any event, we will keep fighting for you.”

Colleen knocks on the door and peeks in. “We’re ready.”

I step into the meeting room with Maureen. Several people watch me. I recognize Kay, my manager. She doesn’t look up. She writes furiously in a notebook. Everyone holds a copy of Dr. Acres’s report. I sit down. The
HR
representative hands me
a copy and another one-page document on Fraser Health letterhead.

Everyone smiles. Finally, I breathe.

“Michael,” explains the
HR
rep. “This is the agreement the Review Committee has drawn up. It identifies all the terms and conditions. It is a gradual return to work, beginning with quarter-time, and over a one-month period you will be back to full-time. This agreement is for two
years. You must meet all the conditions. Breach of any of the conditions will result in disciplinary action and possible termination.”

Hands shaking, I scan the terms.

1. Remain abstinent from alcohol and all addictive substances.
   
2. Undergo medical monitoring by Dr. Acres on a biweekly basis.
   
3. Provide laboratory samples as ordered by Dr. Acres and/or the management of Fraser
   Health Authority for a period of two years from the date of this document.
   
4. Provide random chain-of-custody urine samples within twenty-four hours of notice from Dr. Acres’s office.
   
5. Attend at least three AA meetings per week.
   
6. Ongoing regular meetings with an AA sponsor.
   
7. Regular biweekly meetings with the Fraser Health Authority Occupational Health Nurse.
   

I read them all and read them all again. They’re very similar to what I proposed for myself not so long ago. I take a deep breath and read them all yet again. The trapezius muscles in my neck and back finally release. Tears flood my eyes. Very slowly, I look up. Everyone stares at me with expectation. A knot of emotion chokes me. I take another deep breath.

I nod and whisper, “Thank you.”

Kay says, “It’s good to have you back, Mike. You can start back on the unit next Monday.”

Six copies of the agreement circle the table, and each representative signs. My not-so-reliable left hand tremors a squiggly version of my signature on each copy. I brace my hands on the table, push my chair back, stand up straighter than I have in a long time and shake everyone’s hand—firmly.
Thank you. Thank you. Thank you.

I leave the office, my head high, body erect, and walk purposefully through the long halls of the hospital and out the main exit doors; the mid-morning sun shines warm and welcoming on my face.

Where’s the van? Where’s Rob? I scan the parking lot. Nowhere.

I survey the main waiting area. No Rob or Wayne. I find a pay phone and call the house.

Rob answers. “Ken called me back to the house soon after we got to the hospital. He was really pissed off, Mike. He made me bring the van back. Now he’s gone with it. He said you could find your own fucking way back.”

It’s over ten miles back to the house. I don’t care. I’m so elated that I’m getting another chance. I walk. I stick out my thumb, but no one picks me up. Buoyed by
the outcome of my meeting, I walk and walk. It takes just over three hours to make it back to Mission Possible.

As I walk up the wooded winding lane to the house, I spot Ken standing on the front porch smoking with Psycho Jordan. He wears his usual baggy black sweatpants. A crumpled wrapper from an Oh Henry, my favourite chocolate bar, rests by his foot.

“How was your morning stroll,
Pond?” he says with a smoky snort.

Beside him, Jordan snickers into his grimy, nicotine-stained fingers. His nails are filthy. My nasal membranes wince at the thought of the oozing infection on his leg.

“It was very nice, Ken,” I say. “It’s a beautiful day. I return to work on Monday.”

“Well, congratufuckinglations. And how are you going to get to work, Dr. Pond? I’m sure
as hell not going to get up at five a.m. to drive you,” he sneers.

“I’ll find a way.” I walk through the house and see most of the guys hanging out in the sun in the backyard, their shirts off, smoking and laughing. I smell fresh-cut grass.

Rob smiles. “You got it, didn’t you? I can tell by your face.”

A round of genuine congratulations erupts from the gathered men.

“I start Monday morning,” I tell them. “Getting there is the big challenge. The closest bus service is in White Rock. That’s a twenty-five-minute drive and then forty minutes on the bus to Surrey Memorial. I wish I had my bicycle.”

“Don’t worry, Mike,” says Rob. “We’ll get you there. Fuck Ken.”

The week passes like cold molasses in January. Ken ignores me most of the time.
Sunday night, the guys all pool their money and give me just over twenty dollars, money to bribe Ken to give us the van. The gesture makes me cry.

I can’t sleep from the anticipation of working back at the hospital. How will the staff react to me? How many know what happened? What will they say? How will they treat me? Can I do the job?

Thank God for the College of Psych Nurses.
Thank God for the union. Thank God for Dr. Acres. Thank God for the Fraser Health Authority.

I wake up in the dark. The numerals on Rob’s clock radio glow red from the far corner on his chest of drawers. If I squint just right and strain my neck far enough without falling out of the bunk, I can read the time. It’s 3:16. The minutes click forward. Time just doesn’t move fast enough sometimes.

Finally, 5:15. The Sony blasts Aerosmith’s “Janie’s Got a Gun.” It’s still dark outside. Rob quits Steven Tyler’s wailing to curses from the other men who share our room.

“Shut that fucking thing off.”

“Son of a bitch.”

“I hate fucking Aerosmith.”

“Let’s go, Mike,” Rob whispers. “It’s time for the old guy to go to work.”

I shower and shave. I wear
the same clothes that I wore to the meeting last Monday. Everything freshly laundered and ironed. I look good. I feel great.

The old
GMC
van fires up. The gaping rust hole in the muffler rattles and bangs in the silent night air. The tall cedars stand still and watch and listen. The pebble gravel grinds under my feet as I climb in and slam the door shut. A dog barks a warning from somewhere
down the hill.

Twenty-three minutes later we pull up to the White Rock Centre bus loop. As I grab the door handle, Rob says, “Hey, we got the van. I’m gonna drive you all the way.”

“Thanks, Rob. I guess it’s okay. I don’t know how I’m going to get there every day. I’ve got to get money for bus fare. I only have enough to get back to White Rock today.”