Wasted: An Alcoholic Therapist's Fight for Recovery in a Tragically Flawed Treatment System (25 page)

Mark, Sharon and
I escort several of the kids on an outing to the inlet at Moody Park. The mood is light; the kids tease one another, and for just a little while on this hot summer day, they’re just regular kids.

Amar abruptly breaks the spell. He stops walking and stares at a man who appears to also be of Middle Eastern descent. Amar goes berserk. He screams, “Go away go away go away!” and bolts across
the park, looking back and shrieking at the man, who is thankfully oblivious. Amar is delusional. He flees toward the water, to the pier. He stops at the end, turns and screams, “Leave me alone leave me alone leave me alone! I’m going to jump.”

He watches me, his fear palpable. He thinks I’ll hurt him.

Agitated and excited, the other kids run toward the pier too. They’re so tightly
wound that if one comes undone, they all do.

“Mark,” I shout. “Gather up the other kids and keep them at the picnic table. Too many of us on the pier and he’ll jump.”

I advance up the pier. Calmly. Quietly. Slowly.

“Amar, I am going to help you. I won’t touch you. The man is gone. You are safe. I am going to walk with you. I won’t touch you, and we’ll talk about what’s
going on. That man is gone, you are okay, you are safe. You are safe. You are safe.”

Slowly I edge ever closer to him, talking in a soft, soothing tone. As I get closer, I see his body begin to relax. We walk back to the van. I sit with him and engage him in conversation. He is floridly psychotic.

The afternoon hijacked, we gather up all the kids and return to the unit. Amar rests
in the quiet room. I suggest we debrief with the kids and staff. One by one, each kid reveals what it was like to watch Amar go berserk and how it made them feel. Tension drains from the room.

“Mike, it’s really great to work with someone who knows what he’s doing,” Mark says.

“Why aren’t you working full-time?” asks Kate. “You’re needed here.”

I work intensely with each
kid, every day. It’s my job to make them laugh, support them, give them hope. Get them to buy into their recovery, to believe that they can get better.

When I’m in the Adolescent Psychiatric Unit, I rarely think of myself.

The rest of the week passes uneventfully. Each small task or chore, the day-in, day-out ordinary stuff of life, brings enormous satisfaction. Folding my laundry.
Cooking a steak. Taking a hot, steamy shower and staying in there until I emerge like a shrunken prune.

In an odd way, I miss the guys at Mission Possible, especially Rob and Wayne. I see them at the Fiver, and we go out for coffee sometimes after the meeting.

Friday, payday. I have a penny and a quarter in my shorts pocket. As I walk onto the unit, Stephanie, the unit clerk, hands
out envelopes to the staff.

“Here you go, Mr. Michael James Pond. That is your full name, is it not? May I see a valid driver’s licence please?” She laughs. She doesn’t realize just how funny that is.

“Thank you, Steph.” I rip open the envelope and inadvertently tear a small corner off the cheque inside. Damn. Relax, Mike, relax.

I read it. And read it again. Then read
it once more.

Fraser Health Authority.

Payable to: Michael James Pond.

One thousand two hundred and thirteen dollars and seventy-two cents.

I inhale with an airy whistle. Holy shit. I stuff the cheque into my backpack. Zip it up tight.

Come back a minute later, unzip it and make sure the cheque is still in there. Then take it out. Read it again. Make sure
the numbers and letters haven’t magically disappeared.

Fraser Health Authority. Payable to: Michael James Pond. One thousand two hundred and thirteen dollars and seventy-two cents.

I fold it in half and slip it into my back pocket. Throughout the day, I duck into the bathroom and pull it out of my back pocket. Read and reread. I pat my pocket all day to ensure it’s still there.

Clinical Notes—Mental Status Exam:

Appearance and Behaviour: The patient is dressed appropriately in a neat and clean casual attire. His personal hygiene is excellent and he presents as well nourished and physically fit and healthy. He walks erect with a self-assured and purposeful gait. He maintains good eye contact and smiles spontaneously. He expresses a good sense of humour.

Speech: Clear and articulate.

Mood and Affect: Positive, happy and congruent. Bright affect.

Thought Content and Process: No suicidal thoughts nor intent. Goal oriented and hopeful. Positive attitude and outlook. Short memory and concentration good.

Sleep: Slight improvement.

Appetite: Improved.

Orientation: Oriented to person, place and time.

Insight and Judgment: Good.

Global Assessment of Functioning (GAF) score: 75/100— Good.

All day, I fantasize about what to do with that pay cheque. Pay next month’s rent and the rest of the damage deposit. Buy groceries, real fruits and vegetables. Shop for new clothes and runners. Get a cellphone.

When I emerge from the bathroom for probably the eleventh time, Mark
says, “What’s the matter, Pond? Do you have the shits or something? You’ve been in the can all day.”

“Yeah, I’m not feeling well. I’ve got a bug or something.”

“A woman named Dana called you,” he says. “She wants you to call her back. Sexy voice, man.”

At my lunch break, I slip into the spare office by the staff washroom and, with equal parts unease and anticipation, dial
Dana’s number. She answers after three rings.

“Mike. I need to see you. I’ll pick you up at work and we’ll go out for dinner in White Rock, at the Boathouse. Then we’ll go for a long walk on the beach and watch the sunset.”

I hesitate. The longer I’m sober, the harder it is to hang around still-drinking Dana. But I’m lonely. “Okay. Pick me up at the hospital back entrance on 94th
Avenue at three o’clock. Right in front of Creekside.”

At the end of the shift, I sit in the sun on the curb. I feel my back pocket for my cheque. Still there. I hear
AC
/
DC
pounding “Highway to Hell” as the little
MX
-5 pulls up with its top down.

“Well, hello, Mr. Pond. I see you’re sitting outside one of our old haunts.” Dana gestures to Creekside Withdrawal Management Centre.

I climb into the car and we cruise down King George Highway, straight into White Rock. Dana’s eyes are glassy red; her breath smells of Smirnoff. I scan side roads where police might wait, ready to pounce on drunk drivers.

“Can you stop at the Scotiabank?” I ask. “I have to cash my cheque.”

“Well, well, well,” Dana grins. “Guess who’s buying dinner tonight? It’s about time
you treated a pretty lady to a night out.”

We pull up to the bank. I still have accounts with Scotiabank, where Rhonda and I hold a joint account for our lines of credit... which are maxed out. My personal account sits empty. I make a mental note to make arrangements with my creditors. But not tonight. Tonight, after months of living on sixty dollars a month—all that remained from my welfare
cheque after Rotten Randy deducted room and board—tonight, I celebrate.

I cash the entire amount. I count along as the smiling teller stacks my bills: twenty fifties, ten twenties, one ten, a toonie, a loonie, two quarters, two dimes and two pennies. All there. I didn’t need to cash the entire thing, but I did need to feel money again, to feel rich and substantial.

We walk into
the Boathouse Restaurant, the first time I’ve been back since I stole the bottle of Glenfiddich last winter. As the hostess escorts us to our table, I drop my head and feel the hot flush of shame flash up the sides of my face. What if someone recognizes me? I should go up to the bar right now, admit my guilt and pay them back for the bottle of booze.

But do I have that kind of money right
now? Shouldn’t I save the bulk of my cash to begin repaying my monstrous debt? Morality and practicality tussle. I stay put, rooted at the table by embarrassment.

Our fish and chips arrive. I survey the food mounded on my plate, two giant portions of halibut lightly battered and fried to perfection, with fresh-cut fries, sea salt sticking to their glistening sides. Using my best Mission
Possible manners, I shovel in bite after bite, plunging fry after fry deep into the ketchup. I slurp the salt off my fingers and mop up the grease running down my chin with my napkin. I wash it all down with gulps of cranberry juice and soda.

Dana orders one double Caesar after another.

I’m getting anxious.

“Let’s go for a walk,” I suggest.

“In a minute. I want
another drink,” Dana says.

“I think you’ve had enough, Dana. You’re driving.”

“Now that’s funny, Mr. Back-to-Back Impaireds,” Dana scoffs. “I think you’re the last guy to be lecturing about drinking and driving.” She polishes off yet another double Caesar.

As I watch her drink, I want one too. Badly now. But I’m also aware of a new sensation, a new feeling, almost a kind
of yearning or longing for something else. Something normal.

Dana sucks back the last dregs of her drink and I wish I could wave a magic wand and be back with Rhonda and the boys. But that life’s gone forever. I don’t know that I’ll ever stop missing it.

“Okay, Mr. Pond,” Dana chirps. “I’m ready for our romantic walk along the beach.”

I pull out my wad of money and pay
the bill, $81.36. I count out four twenties and a ten and leave it on the table. It’s positively painful to hand over that much money for one meal. Dana intertwines my arm with hers and I steady her out the door. We weave west along the teeming boardwalk toward the setting sun.

We wobble only a short distance toward the pier before Dana stops.

“Let’s go to your house. I need to
lie down for a while,” Dana mutters.

Drunk, she slips behind the wheel. I look at her skeptically.

“That’s my new car. No one drives it but me,” she slurs.

My mind leaps back to that awful night almost a year ago when Dana pulled the knife on Sean, the night of my second impaired charge. The night the Mike-and-Dana train wreck began. When will it end?

Dana drops
in behind the wheel and we make a quick and erratic dash back to the house. Dana collapses diagonally on the king-size bed, belly down, spread-eagled, one leg dangling over the edge. A pretty flip-flop slips off her pretty foot.

Passed out. Thank God.

I slump on the old couch in the living room. The gouged old hardwood floors have felt many hard boots, generations of sofas and
coffee tables. I wait in the dark, quiet except for the snores soft and even in the bedroom, as random vehicles glide by on Russell Avenue.

Why, with Dana asleep mere feet away, do I feel lonelier than ever?

Just past midnight, Dana comes to, groggy.

“I’ve got to go,” she mumbles. “Thank you for dinner, Mr. Pond. Remember to meet me at Burrard Station next Sunday morning
at eleven. We’ll watch the Gay Pride Parade then go to the beach. Don’t forget to bring your bathing suit. I’m going to wear the coral bikini I bought when we went to Whistler last summer. Bye bye.”

I sit silently and watch as she waves and blows me a thoughtless kiss.

I have to break up with her. Which is a joke, because we’re not even together. She’s with Stu. Every time I ask
about him, she’s evasive. Watching her drink while not drinking myself gets more and more difficult. I’m torn between talking her into treatment and swiping her drink and polishing it off myself. We can’t keep doing this to each other. In my shaky mental state, I’m not capable of truly being there for her, and while she’s drinking, she’s oblivious to anyone’s needs but her own. I will go to the
Gay Pride Parade, and that will be the end of it.

• 25 •

I WAKE UP SUNDAY
with the familiar ache of loneliness. It’s a classic sunny summer beach day in White Rock. Tide’s out. The smell of the sea wafts up on a light breeze and settles around my little house. I can smell the barnacles and seaweed. Me alone with my thoughts can be a dangerous thing, so I head to the 9 a.m.
AA
meeting on the beach. I quietly take
my seat on a log, settling in amidst some twenty people, mostly men, lounging in lawn chairs. The chair asks me to speak, and reluctantly, I share.

“I’m three months sober now,” I say with a hint of pride. “But with the sobriety, comes the regret, the realization of how much my drinking has hurt those I love.” I feel the tears prick and I try my damndest to put a stop to them, but they
trickle down my cheeks. Ashamed, I quickly sit down. Next up, a new guy who has taken over the cooking duties at We Surrender. He reflects on how grateful he now feels, then sits.

Then the man who founded We Surrender pulls his considerable heft off his chair. Normally, he spends the meeting reclined, arms crossed across his chest, observing others with an air of superiority. But now he
looks directly at me and erupts.

“You’re so full of fucking self-pity. Why can’t you be like him? He points to We Surrender’s new cook. “He was homeless. He lost everything but he got out of his head and started to do service. That’s what’s wrong with you. You need to be doing service. You need to be giving back to this program that’s saving your life. I’m so sick of guys like you. You’re
never going to get sober if you don’t get it. You’re pathetic.” He glares at me and sits down.

After his tirade, despite the warmth of the morning sun, I begin to shiver. Maybe he’s right. I should do more service. Tears well again. I sit, stunned, wondering why he feels he has the right to speak to me like that and how he thinks that kind of talk will be helpful. Deep inside, I know this
kind of shaming is not part of the
AA
program. After the meeting, others talk to me. “It’s okay Mike, the main thing is you’re sober. He means well.”

Does he really?

Guys invite me out for breakfast and in gratitude for their companionship, I go.

The rest of the week is uneventful. How I relish saying that.
The week is uneventful.