Wasted: An Alcoholic Therapist's Fight for Recovery in a Tragically Flawed Treatment System (28 page)

Gord comes over and I hand him the three twenties. He wheels me back to my room and disappears as I collapse yet again into a massive coughing fit.

“Mr. Pond, you look like you’re at death’s door. You look seventy years old.”

It’s Dana, drunk. Once again she curls like a cat at the bottom of my bed. She digs deep in her purse, pulls out a bottle of vodka and mixes it with
a Red Bull.

“Do you mind if I have drink?” she asks and slurps her concoction.

“No, Dana, you go ahead.” I watch her with an odd blend of sadness and resignation. I want to get better. I want her to get better. I know that will never happen as long as we are together.

I brace myself for the inevitable craving, the longing for just one sip that begins the downward spiral
all over again, one that deepens the chasm between me and all that gives my life meaning and grace and sustenance. I can’t play hockey anymore, because the team quit me. My niece doesn’t talk to me anymore because I got too drunk to
MC
her wedding. I destroyed too many Christmases at my in-laws, Armond and Doreen’s, bless their big hearts and ever-patient souls. And I can’t escape the image of
my son Taylor trying to save me from myself, and me failing him.

Wait for it—the urge to wrest that Red Bull from Dana’s hand and gulp it down.

Wait. Nothing yet, but wait. Maybe it’s just late because I’ve been ill.

I wait and watch and wait. And holy shit—I don’t want a drink. I mean, I really don’t want a drink.

Is this what Eli at We Surrender means about finally
surrendering? Is this the miracle my ex-in-laws and so many other others have been praying for? Or is this my mind and body simply saying we’re done? Has my brain chemistry for some unknown reason suddenly become like normal people’s?

Rhonda closing the door to Jonny’s room after she kicked me out of the house, me coming to in the hospital in a neck brace after totalling my brand-new truck,
the battering ram I used to break into Dana’s friend’s house, swiping the booze from the Boathouse, being fingerprinted, Belinda taking me back to Mission Possible, the putrid whiff of Psycho Jordan’s festering leg, crouching down in ditches to gather empties for bus fare—moment after moment from my years of drunken insanity fly past me now, fast-forwarding through five years of carnage.

I’ve known what it is to resist the cravings. I’ve known what it is to fold like a cheap tent and down a bottle as soon as it stands naked in front of me. But I’ve never experienced this before, no craving at all. Period.

Euphoria, elation, relief and maybe finally peace—feelings totally foreign tumble over me one after another, slam me into the boards, knock the wind out of me.

I struggle to compose myself as Dr. Holic strides in the room. He looks pointedly at Dana and says, “I hope your intentions are good. This is a good man.”

I feel tears well up in my eyes. Somewhere in me, I have to believe, there is a good man.

Dana slides off the bed, pecks me on the cheek and mutters that she’s got to get to work.

In the hospital, life takes on its
own tenuous rhythm to the soundtrack of the suction machine.
IV
antibiotics change on schedule. Doctors and interns huddle over
CT
scans and X-rays, perplexed as to why the infection seems so intractable. Each day they discuss whether to operate, which carries its own risks, or whether to wait for my body to fight back. The longer surgery is delayed, the greater the potential for long-term lung
damage.

Three weeks into intensive care, I sense a barely perceptible shift. I feel slightly more able to breathe. I return from my daily
CT
scan to find Dr. Ashton and his phalanx of interns.

“Looks like you’ve turned the corner, Mike,” he smiles. “This bug is finally backing off.”

By the time I’m released, over five litres of blood-tinged fluid have drained from my left
lung.

As I sign my release forms, I shake the thoracic surgeon’s hand. “Thank you, Dr. Ashton. You did a great job. You saved my life.”

“You’re welcome, Mr. Pond. A lot of people don’t make it from this. You are a very fortunate man. I pray you have had your last drink of alcohol.”

“Thanks. So do I.”

“Here’s a prescription for you.” He hands me the paper. “A final
regime of oral antibiotics and Tylenol 3 for pain.”

“Thanks, doctor.” I stuff it in my pocket. “I won’t take the
T3
s. They’re restricted.”

Max gave up the little white house while I was in hospital. His girlfriend dumped him. Big Jack, from
AA
, told me Max relapsed the day before his fourth sobriety birthday. I have $17.73 to my name. The hospital social worker cannot find me a
home in a shelter. I ask Don from
AA
to do the unthinkable: ask Rotten Randy to take me back at Mission Possible. I used to think I’d rather die than go back there. I never thought I’d actually have the opportunity to make that choice.

I choose Mission Possible. I choose life.

• 28 •

SEPTEMBER 26, 2009.
An
AA
guy drives me back to Mission Possible. I walk in and Rob, my unwavering supporter, my sidekick in bottle scavenging, my fellow tortured New Brunswicker, greets me and shakes my hand. His grip is firm like he doesn’t want to let go. “It’s good to see you’re okay, old man.” His voice breaks.

Several guys sit out back smoking.
Must be new clients, as I don’t know any of them.

As I shuffle past the little office by the front door, Ken looks out and laughs. “Escaped the Grim Reaper again, eh, Pond? You’re a lucky bastard.”

Rotten Randy sits at the desk in front of Ken, grins without looking up and begins to rail. “I told you. I told you you’d fuck up. You owe me a month’s back rent, Pond. Ken will take
you to Welfare tomorrow. You still have an open file. Just get a note from your doctor.”

“I have a letter here from the lung specialist at the hospital. He says I’m unable to work indefinitely until I have medical clearance. I’ll take it with me.”

And then, as per house protocol, I hand over my prescriptions. Every day, the pharmacist delivers the precise amount of meds needed
for each man. Sure is an expensive way to administer meds, as there will be the inevitable dispensing fee for each pill, but it kind of makes sense given that we are all addicts of some kind. Don’t want too many drugs lying around the house.

Randy dismisses me with a backhand wave.

“Here’s some mail for you.” Ken tosses an envelope at me. “Looks like a letter from your work. Or
what used to be your work. Ha ha.”

Fraser Health Authority, reads the envelope. I don’t even want to open it.

“They’ve called a few times,” Ken says. “We just said you were still in the hospital.”

I trudge down the stairs to the claustrophobic, dingy, stinky dorm. In the corner on a lower bunk, a rotund guy lies on his back with an open paperback perched on his face.

“Hello, Pond. Eli’s right, eh? Get a job, get a girl, get drunk.”

Dangerous Doug. I last saw him when he showed up on my ward at work a drunken, blubbering idiot, begging for my forgiveness for telling Dana I’d committed suicide.

“Doug. What are you doing here?”

“Sick. Detoxin’. I hate this fucking place already. Buncha rejects from We Surrender.”

Sleep is
fitful this first night back as I follow the bouncing ball of my fucked-up life around my brain. I’ll be fired. I’ll lose my licence to practise. Go to court and prison. My financial disaster. My divorce. My alienated sons. My estranged friends. But I’m buoyed by my secret: all of this shit is going on, but I don’t want a drink.

In the morning, Ken takes me to the welfare office. I get
a cheque to pay the rent for October. My new social worker hands me another cheque, held from August. I can pay off Randy and have an extra $120. I should feel relief. I should feel thankful. But I don’t.

I sit on my bunk alone in the dorm. With trepidation, I finally open the letter from the Fraser Health Authority.

Mr. Michael Pond,

The Review Committee has decided that
you must complete another independent medical assessment to assist in making a determination with respect to your employment status, as well as your competence to practise as a Registered Psychiatric Nurse and a Registered Social Worker. Please contact Dr. Richard Flannigan at 604-528-1881 as soon as possible to schedule this assessment. Upon receipt of Dr. Flannigan’s assessment report, the Review
Committee will meet with you to make its determination. The costs of this assessment will be covered by your employer—Fraser Health Authority. Please contact me with the appointment date.

Sincerely,

Colleen Slater, BSc
N
,
RN

Occupational Health Nurse

Fraser Health Authority

I hold my breath. The letter slides to the floor. Unbelievable. I get a third chance.

I dash to the client phone in the closet and dial the number.

“Dr. Flannigan’s office,” the receptionist says. “How can I help you?”

“Hello. My name’s Michael Pond. My employer has requested I contact you to schedule an assessment with Dr. Flannigan.”

“Yes.” I hear a keyboard clicking as the receptionist types. “Mr. Pond. We received the referral from Fraser Health
Authority. Dr. Flannigan has been waiting for your call.”

“I’m sorry, I’ve been in the hospital. I can come in any time. As soon as possible, please.”

October ninth is the first available date. I lunge for it.

“I’ll be there. Thank you, so much.”

Rob yells, “Hey, Pond! Come up here quick. Randy says you owe him more money.”

Fuck. I set the phone down and
jump up the stairs two at a time. By the time I hit the top, my chest constricts and the endless succession of coughs begins, almost drowning out the first bars of “Happy birthday to you. Happy birthday to you. Happy birthday, Crazy Mi-ike. Happy birthday to you.”

A chorus of guys crowd around the dining-room table, singing to a large rectangular chocolate cake with a 50 made of white
sprinkles circled by six little pink and white birthday candles.

“We couldn’t afford that many candles,” laughs Rob. “You’re too fucking old, Pond.”

“Rob baked you the cake, Mike,” says Wayne. “It’s from scratch. He scrounged everything. My wife donated the icing, sprinkles and candles from home. Stuff left over from my daughters’ birthday parties. Happy birthday, old man.”

I blink back tears as I scan the circle of men. Men who’ve become my only friends, men who went to such extraordinary measures to mark a day I’d prefer to forget. For a flicker, I see them all dressed like a horde of eight-year-old buccaneers, brigands and a few maidens.

Brennan’s eighth birthday party, featuring three Captain Hooks. The patio table’s transformed into a cardboard
schooner. Cooper, our miniature schnauzer, wears an eye patch. He eats the end of a hot dog hanging from the hand of Blackbeard. A Jolly Roger flaps atop the patio umbrella pole. A couple of old Captain Morgan rum bottles filled with root beer sit on the table. Plastic mugs clutch two-handed in midget pirate hands. I laugh as I raise a toast with my rum and Coke—to Rhonda, the best damn pirate birthday
party planner in town.

As is ceremony, I make a wish and make a show of blowing out the six pink and white candles. I wish for my old life back.

• 29 •

I GO TO MY
appointment with Dr. Flannigan, the addictions specialist the Fraser Health Authority requires me to see.

He’s a pleasant Irishman in his early fifties, in Canada twenty-three years but he sounds like he’s just off the boat. His accent charms and disarms. He’s been interviewing me for over an hour and it’s still
going strong.

“You have quite an incredible story, Mr. Pond. We must take a break. Complete these tests. I will check your provincial pharmacy record, and we will finish up the assessment at eleven thirty.”

After forty-five minutes, Dr. Flannigan returns with a report in his hand.

“We have a problem, Mr. Pond.” The lilt is diminished. He looks annoyed.

“What is
it, Dr. Flannigan?”

“You’ve been taking narcotics.”

“No.” I shake my head. “I haven’t taken anything. Just my prescribed meds: Celexa and trazodone.”

“Yes, I see that here. But you also filled a prescription for thirty Tylenol 3s on September twenty-eighth.”

“No, I didn’t.”

“Well, it says right here you did.” He taps the report in his hand.

“No,
I didn’t.” I’m adamant, trying to keep a lid on my mounting frustration. And then it dawns on me. That fucking Randy. He’s notorious for helping himself to meds prescribed for other clients at Mission Possible.
He
filled my prescription.

“Dr. Flannigan, clearly it has been filled, but not by me. I promise you. The guys who run the recovery house I’m in fill all the prescriptions. The medications
get delivered to the house every day.”

“Mr. Pond, I’ve worked with addicts for over thirty years. I find it very hard to believe your story. I will have to indicate in your report that you have been taking narcotics.”

“
NO
! Dr. Flannigan. I’m telling you the truth. I have not taken
one
of those pills.”

He looks me hard in the eye. Resolve and sympathy soften his face. “I’m
sorry, Mr. Pond. I will send the report to your employer by the end of next week. It is up to them to give you a copy if you so desire. Goodbye.”

“Can I ask please that you consult with Dr. Acres? He’s been working with me for months now.”

“Yes. I was planning on doing that anyway.”

“Thank you.” I trudge out of the office. Shock and fury and a surge of self-pity engulf
me as I stand in the rain and call Grant, an
AA
guy, to pick me up. Why can’t the universe cut me a break? Here I am toeing the line, trying to do the next right thing, as my son Brennan exhorts, not cheating, not drinking, and life still doesn’t get better or easier.