The Beginning.

I woke up facing a white brick wall, covered with a paper-thin gray blanket, shivering.  Well, I thought, there's more to this than I can figure out right now, and there didn't seem to be anyone around, so I decided to lay there.  I stared at the ceiling for a moment while I tried to remember how I ended up on this cot, but drew a blank.  It'll come back, I thought, just don't force it.  I pulled the blanket over my head, but my shoe-less feet were exposed.  Jail, I decided.  At least I had put on socks that night, or day.  Turning my head, I saw the stainless steel toilet an arm's length away. My face felt heavy with flesh.  I wondered how long I had been here?  I could see a time clock through the little window in the door.  Maybe when I heard the sounds of the shift change, I could put something together.  In the meantime, I curled up so the blanket would just about cover me, faced the wall, and closed my eyes.  Gotta wait these things out..

I sat up...didn't feel too bad, took an inventory of myself, no major injuries.  I still couldn't put a thought together - I stared at the wall and noticed some kind of stain.  Old blood?  Maybe someone had hacked up some phlegm, but it was the wrong color.  I moved down the cot a bit, and put my head in my hands, listening.  What the hell? I thought.  I haven't been inside a cell for a few years, and had only been drinking for a week or so.  The usual thoughts of self preservation ran through my head...about my job, relationship, etc., then I realized I didn't know what day or time it was, so why waste energy on that.  Shit.  I hit the floor and did about twenty-five push-ups, just to take some of the edge off, then crawled back onto the cot.  The brown stain was about six inches from my nose, so I curled the blanket over my head, feeling my heart beat.

What a feeling...

So, after I heard the clanging of a few doors and some yelling, I began to get pissed off.  I felt sober, really had no idea how much or when my last drink had been, but I was angry.  And stuff was coming back to me.  And I believe I had been PC'ed.  By my girlfriend.  Son of a bitch.  You know, it always amazed me whenever I was PC'ed because I knew that when I was drinking , I was a gentle soul.  Kind andfriendly.  Really a good time to be around. What could I have possibly done to be relegated to this dirty cell like a common bag man?  But I still wasn't sure, so I didn't want to jump to any hasty conclusions.  Not that I've ever done that before.  Perhaps there had merely been some misunderstanding, sure to be ironed out later.  Apologies would be forthcoming.

After a while, someone brought me a tray of food, one of those brown sectionals about 3/4 of an inch thick that weigh about 2 pounds.   Beans.  White bread (of course).  A couple of little plastic tubs of apple juice.  I backed away from the door as he came in, and he set the tray down on the floor in front of me.  We eyed each other for a second and I said, "Hey, thanks."  He glared at me, and walked out, slamming the door behind him.  Shit.  I stared at the beans, then sporked them up, trying to remember when the last time I ate was.   I thought to myself, I wonder what time it is now?

Life can really suck, especially in jail...

Well, after a few shift changes and a little eavesdropping on some cop chatter, I finally figured out that it was about 9AM.  Doing the math backward, I guess I must have arrived a few hours prior to the previous night's 11PM change, so my best guess was that I had been in that cell for about 13 or 14 hours.  Long enough.

I started banging on the door of the cell, yelling all kinds of crap, trying to get someone's attention.  You know, the worst thing to do when you are PC'ed is to become a little violent, because that is the first indication that you are not quite ready to be released.  Unfortunately, I forgot that cardinal rule just long enough to piss someone off, because I was staring at that brown stain and doing push-ups for another 4 hours before the cell door opened.  I tried to look as innocent as possible as I said 'hello' to the CO who entered.  He said, 'you ready to get out of here?'  Before I could say another word, he told me to grab my tray and follow him.  That I did.  Home free...or so I thought.

almost out.

The cop took me into booking and told me to stand next to this vertical, human-sized ruler where he snapped my picture.  At this point, I asked him if there were any charges against me and, much to my surprise, he said 'no'. I said 'I'm free to leave, then?' and he said 'you need to call someone to come and get you.'  OK, here's problem #1.  I'm 40 miles from my girlfriend's house and she's not coming, I could pretty much bet the farm on that.  I asked him to call me a cab, whereupon he asked me how much money I had on me.  Well, he was looking through my wallet as he asked, and he said 'it looks like you've got seven bucks here.   Where do you plan to go?'

Immediately, my addled brain went to work.  I asked him to call me a cab that could take me to an ATM, then I could withdraw the rest of the money needed to take me somewhere to get some medical help for my obvious problem.  He picked up the phone, and I could hear him saying "yes, he needs to get to Manchester.  $85?  Well, he's got $7 here and says he can get the rest if you take him to an ATM.  I don't know.  Well, then you can keep the $7 and leave him there.'  The cop hung up the phone and looked at me.  'You're lucky', he said. 'He's been burned too many times by guys like you, it's a good thing you have the $7 to get to the gas station.  After that, whatever happens, its up to you guys. Get back in the cell, and when the cab gets here, I'll sign you out."

What a relief, I thought.  I'm almost out of here, and sure could use a drink.  The only problem is, is that I'm pretty sure I only have about $40 in my checking account.  But I'll cross that bridge when I come to it.

A super nice cabbie...

I heared some muffled noises, and I looked up to see the CO beckoning to me, and I heard a loud CLICK and my cell unlocked.  I sat on a tattered red chair, signed a few things, then was handed what appeared to be an old-style vinyl bank deposit bag.  The cop said 'your wallet and the change that was in your pocket is there.  $7.75.'  I looked into the bag, removed the items, then looked back up at him.  'That's it?  Where's my coat and backpack?'  'That's all you came in with.  Sign here, your ride is outside.'  I scribbled a few lines on a sheet of paper, he gave me an official looking receipt which I crammed in my pocket, and stood up.  I turned and looked at him and briefly thought about commenting on the cleanliness of the place, but instead said 'which way out?'  He pointed down a hallway. 'Two doors then take a right, you'll see where to go.'  I did, and when I made it through that third door, it was pouring rain.  But there was a cab outside.

Normally I try to get in the front seat with a cab driver; I don't know, it makes me feel like a member of the cab brotherhood.  These guys have it rough.  I thought better of it this time, and slid into the back.  I looked at him via the rear-view, and he looked back at me for a second. 'You need money?' he asked. ' How much do you have?'  'Just take me to the nearest ATM and I can pull out as much as I need,' I said.  He stared me down for another second and said,'It's eighty bucks to Manchester.'  I guess my appearance had him a bit worried about the potential profit.  My mind was racing.  I knew I could take out $40, but that was it.  And, I needed a drink, bad.  I said 'Is there a gas station around with an ATM?  Like a mini-mart?'  'That's where we're going,' he said.  'Out by the highway.'  My heart rose a bit as I realized I could grab wine at the store, but still wouldn't have enough money for the cab ride.  Plus it was raining and I was miles from home.  I thought about it for a second.  "Sounds good, no problem.  Let's go.'  I had about 5 minutes to figure this out.

mini-mart

I'm trying to make small talk with the cabbie, and he's actually a pretty nice guy.  I guess I'm not the first fare he's picked up from the jail, because he's asking all the right questions, 'how long were you in there?' (17 hrs) 'did they feed you?' (Yes) sucked, right?' (you got it, boss).  He said, 'The store is just this side of the highway, we'll be there in a couple of minutes.  I'm not sure where the ATM is inside, but I've seen a sign out front that they have one.  If you give me $70 plus the $7 that you have, that'll cover it, tip and all.'  I'm still in a fog, but agree to these terms.  I tell him that I think I have enough in the account, and look at him in the rear-view, and notice he has a look of concern.

So, we pull in, and I get out.  It takes me about 2 full minutes to locate the ATM, one of those stand alone kiosks tucked away in a corner near a stack of Sprite cases.  I also notice that the coolers are filled with beer, and feel an immediate sense of relief.  I just hope there's something a bit stronger I can carry out of there.  Theft briefly crosses my mind, but jail is too fresh; I still reek of misdemeanors. So, I insert my ATM card and punch in my 4 digits, and hit the eighty button.  The 'we charge $2.75 for this transaction in addition to any fees your bank may charge' pops up, and now I'm sweating.  I agree to the terms, and wait while the machine connects to some relay and accesses my account.  Sure as shit, 'this transaction cannot be completed, would you like to try another transaction?'  I go for the $40, which I know is a sure thing, wondering why I tried $80 to begin with.  Maybe out of guilt.  The machine spits out 2 twenties, then I turn and look out at the cab.  The cabbie seems unoccupied, staring blankly out the window.  I quickly move toward the wine section of the store, hatching a plan.  Somehow, I gotta make it out of here with some booze and get a 40 minute cab ride, all for $47.  It's not looking too good.

Why is it never easy?

I make a snap decision.  I'm going to charge some booze an my AMEX card, but the problem is, is that I'm pretty sure that it's maxed out.  Yes, that's possible, because it's a secured card; my credit has been in the crapper for a while and this is one way I decided to try to improve it.  So I promptly maxed the card out, mostly with drinks and extravagant tips.  For some reason, my credit is simply not improving.

I think, 'How can I justify walking back to the cab with $47 cash and carrying a bag of beer and wine, then bargaining the fare down?'  It simply doesn't make sense.  But I decide to give it a try anyway.  I grab one of those nifty "4 little bottles of wine equals one full bottle of wine" 4-packs and a few pounders of high alcohol malt liquor and head to the register, keeping my head down, sneaking peeks at the cab.  Still no interest from his end.  For that I am grateful.  Well, there is a line, and a problem with the credit card reader.  Shit.

Time is moving slowly here.  The guy in front of me obviously knows the cashier, and they are making small talk while the manager unplugs then re-plugs the credit card reader.  Time stands still now, as everyone just stares at the machine waiting for something, I don't know what.  I feel a little sweat pooling at the lower part of my back.  Soon, the guy in front of me pays, leaves, and I am exposed for the reprobate that I am.  I put the wine and beer on the counter, and say 'credit, please'.  Of course, I am told that the system is rebooting, and will be a minute.  At this point, I'm pretty sure the cabbie is wondering where I am.  But I dare not look. 

'That will be $11.79, please' she says.  I hand her the card, and she slides it through the reader.  I'm really sweating now.  'Hmmmm', it doesn't seem to want to take it.'  I say, 'OK, try it without the beer'.  She slowly pulls the 3 cans out of the bag; all eyes in the store are on me. '$8.99', she says.  She runs the card again, and I can tell she is a bit embarrassed as she looks at the reader.  'I'm sorry, sir, but it still won't take it.'  I'm panicking now.  I tell her, 'OK, I'll just pay cash for the wine'.  'You don't want the beer too?' she asks.  'NO' I practically scream as I throw a $20 at her.  She rings me up, I grab the change and my bag, head out through the rain, and jump into the back of the cab.  The cabbie looks at me, 'Everything OK?'  I say, 'sure, let's go.'  Shit.

Negotiating...on the road.

'I got a problem,' I said to the cabbie.  'And I'm just going to flat out tell you.  I thought I had enough money in my account to cover the cab ride, but I didn't.  As a matter of fact, I only have about $37 dollars total.  Listen, I'm a veteran, struggling with alcohol, and I'm just trying to get some help.  I know you can't get me to Manchester, but how close can you get me to Derry?  I can try to hitch or something from there, and maybe my girlfriend will let me back in until I figure out what I need to do next.'  And the amazing part of this is, is that I truly believed everything I said.  It also didn't hurt that I don't think he saw me carry the bag of mini wine bottles into the cab.

He turned and looked at me.  'You a vet?' he said.  "How much money do you have?'  'Thirty seven and change, I think.'  He paused.  'Alright.  I'll take you to Derry for $37.  Thanks for serving, and I'm glad you are getting help.  As a matter of fact, I'll take you to Manchester for $37 if that's where you need to go.'  I couldn't believe it.  But then I started to panic again.  I knew one bottle of wine wasn't going to get me where I needed to be, and I was out of cash.  If I actually went to the Veteran's Hospital in Manchester, the run would be over.  I was losing it again.

'Hey, thanks buddy, but I don't want you to go out of your way and lose even more money.  I appreciate all you are doing, but if you just get me to Derry, I'm sure my girlfriend will take me to Manchester.  I really appreciate it, though.'  'OK, your call', he said as he backed that cab out of the parking lot.

All I could think of was, do I have enough change laying around her house to get something else to drink.  I grabbed one of the little bottles of wine from the bag, unscrewed the top, and looked in the rear-view.  The cabbie's eyes were firmly on the road.  I tilted it up and chugged it down, and as I finished, I looked back at the mirror, only to see him looking at me.  He didn't say a word, and I capped that little bottle and shoved it back into the bag.

And on it goes...

In about a minute, I unscrewed the cap of another one of those little bottles and sucked it down faster than the first one.  I'm not sure the cabbie saw, or even cared.  I guess he felt sorry, or maybe disgusted, with me, so he just drove on.  I decided I needed to strike up some kind of conversation, because isn't that what I was supposed to do?

'Hey, man, I just want to thank you again for cutting me some slack with the fare.  I've been going through some pretty rough times lately, and I'm trying to get some help.'  Then I stopped, and thought for a second.  "If you give me your name and an address, when I get some cash, I'll send it to you.'  And I meant it.  The alcoholic sincerity was kicking in.  'I've never been the same since I came back and I gotta get some help.  I'm just stuck real bad right now, I don't know.'  I leaned back in the seat, opened another mini bottle, drank it down, and waited.

After a minute, he said, 'Thanks, but don't worry about it.  I own this company.  I'm making plenty of money.  I'm just glad I can help you out.  Just do me a favor.  When you get back, get in touch with someone who can help you.  And, again, thanks for serving.  You probably don't hear that enough.'   At that point, I felt like I'd been hearing it too much.  But I knew that I would be home shortly, so I killed that last little bottle of wine and stared out the window, wondering what was next.

We pulled into the driveway, I said goodbye, and he said 'take care' and drove away.  I stood in the rain for a second, then opened the shared front door of the duplex I had been living in, only to find all of my stuff bagged and boxed, sitting there in the hallway.  Crap, I thought.  This just keeps getting better and better.

a walk in the rain.

I stood there for a moment, just taking stock of the situation.  I have to admit, I felt a bit stunned, but certainly not surprised.  My senses were acute; I could hear the rain, cars in the distance, a distant TV.  I took a deep breath, then began to rummage through the bags that were on the floor in front of me.  First, the backpack.  I always threw change into it instead of my pocket (carried the damn thing everywhere, that's what it's like when you have no license).  I was on a mission.  The local convenience store was six-tenths of a mile away (alcoholics know these kind of things) and the 24 oz. cans of malt were $1.49.  I figured I needed at least three to complement the bottle of wine I drank in the cab during the last 45 minutes.  First, the front pocket.  Bingo!  5 quarters, a few dimes, a few nickels.  I was on my way.  The main pouch delivered to me another dollar in change; I just about had enough for 2 cans at this point.  Then, suddenly, everything went dry.  Duffel bag - nothing.  Boxes - nothing, except for a few pennies.  I was screwed.  Two cans wouldn't do it.  I had $3.10 and needed another buck and a half or so.  I was getting worried.

Then, it hit me.  I still had about two dollars in my checking account!  And, I had my debit card with me!  It would be enough.  I put that black backpack on and headed into the rain, wearing the same dirty clothes I had had on for two days.  I would be there in less than ten minutes.  Life was good; I felt better already.

I speed-walked to the store, grabbed 3 cans of malt from the cooler, and walked to the counter.  I took a minute to smooth my soaked hair back, trying to put on an air of nonchalance, and placed the cans on the counter.  'I need to pay for two of these separately' I said importantly.  'No problem', said the clerk.  I paid for the first two with the loose change, then watched her put them in a plastic bag.  She rang up the second one, and I ran my card through the reader, hoping to god I was right about still having some assets in there.  I punched in my code, held my breath, and the clerk asked me, 'do you need a separate bag?' ' No', I said. ' I'll just put that bag in my backpack.' 'Receipt?' 'No thanks!'  I crammed that bag in my backpack and got out of there.

I made it about 20 steps away from the store when it hit me. I never used that toilet in the jail cell.  I had to take a shit, and I had to take one right now. The store I was just in had no bathroom. There was no way I was gonna make it back to the house. I felt like I might be headed for trouble.

Just when you think it's gonna be OK...

There is nothing worse than standing in the rain and having to take a shit with no reasonable place in sight, especially with half a load on.  I was panicking, thinking about running behind the convenience store near the dumpster, doing my business, then finding something back there to clean up with.  The first cramp passed, and I looked across the street and saw what appeared to be a 50's style diner, OPEN!  I couldn't believe my luck.  I carefully looked both ways then waddled across the street, clenching as hard as I could without trying to make it too obvious about what was going on.  I reached the front door, and unbelievably, the place was packed.  'Where do all these people come from?' I thought.  And, to make matters worse, there was a waiting line.  How could this be?  I didn't see any cars...then I realized the main entrance was at the rear, which is where the parking lot was.  I pushed through a couple of people and crossed through the restaurant, searching madly for some sign of a bathroom.  I figured I had about 30 seconds left.

I found a door near the kitchen with a picture of a girl with a poodle skirt.  Frantically, I looked for the door with some 50's greaser type on it.  Damn these hipster bathroom signs!! Whatever happened to 'Men' and 'Women'?   There it was!  On the other side of the rear entrance.  Salvation!  I barreled my way in, and found that the stall was open.  I ripped off my backpack, dropped my jeans, and before I even hit the seat, I unloaded. Not a second too soon. After a minute, I gathered my wits, settled in, and pulled a beer out of my bag.  As soon as I popped the top and took a long pull, there was a knock on the door of the stall. 'Buddy, how long are you gonna be?  My son really has to use the bathroom and I don't have any more diapers.'  'Are you kidding me?' I thought.  Shit. 'Give me a moment', I said, took another long pull off the beer, set it on the floor, and put my head in my hands.  This was unbelievable.

Then, I realized it was one of those times that no matter how much I wiped, I just couldn't get my self clean.  I was going to be here a while while an angry adult pressuring me to get the hell out.  And, you know, I just didn't care.

I'm going to take my time because I deserve something.

'Just give me a minute', I said.  'I'm not feeling so well.'  At that moment, I decided that I was going to finish my business at my own leisurely pace, everyone else be damned.  I had been in jail, a couple of convenience stores, a cab, and walking in the rain in the last few hours. Apparently I had been kicked out of my girlfriend's flat.  I was tired.  And I wasn't giving in.  I finished the first beer, pulled out another, and coughed loudly to try to cover the sound of the can opening.  I already felt better about myself and took a deep drink. 'Ahh'.

More rapping.  "Seriously, buddy, can you please hurry it up a bit?  My son..'

I interrupted him.  "Your son?  Listen, I'm in here, I gotta poop just as bad, I'm not going to rush it, and the way I see it, since I was here first, you gotta wait for me.  You're on my schedule.'  I was breathing heavy; angry, but still cautious.  I listened and heard some cursing, then clearly, 'Thanks a lot, asshole!'  I then heard the door open, then close, as the guy took off, looking for a more agreeable bathroom stall patron, I presume.  I took a deep breath and sat quietly, evaluating things.  I decided that by the time I finished the second beer, I would be done, I could clean up, and get out of there. (It just took a little longer than I thought). And that's exactly what I did, leaving 2 empty cans of malt liquor on the floor next to the scrubber.  And I left through the back door.

The gift of desperation.

So, I was back in the rain, down to one beer, and about a half a mile from what used to be my house.  No cash.  Certainly no credit.  Things weren't looking too good, but I had been in worse situations.  And at least I still had one beer.  I decided to head back, search my belongings one more time.  I had enough stuff piled in that hallway that there must be some hidden change I missed.  I was rushing, I told myself, the first time.  I would be more thorough.  I was sure that I could find at least a couple more dollars in change, and having disregarded the pennies the first time, all of a sudden I was brimming with confidence.  Five minutes to the house, a solid fifteen minute search, ten minutes back to the market.  In thirty minutes, I would be back in business.  Things were looking up!  I quickened my pace and rounded the home stretch.

The rain was letting up!  The last hundred yards or so, I walked between raindrops.  The sky was lightening up as well.  I felt better than I had in weeks.  I entered the breezeway, took stock of my belongings, got on my knees, and began to pull things apart.  Then I remembered the beer in my backpack, so I cracked that open and truly enjoyed myself as I searched my stuff for loose change.  And I began to have a little luck.  A few pennies, a nickle, soon I was up to fifty cents and I wasn't even half-way through!  I drained the beer and kept searching.  It was just a matter of time, I thought.  Diligence.  A quarter at the bottom of a box of papers!  What a day!  I kept searching, searching...

'Russ, what are you doing?'  I turned around to see my girlfriend's sister standing in the doorway.  I looked at the mess I had created, the empty beer can, stood up, faced her, and said , 'Nothing.  Why, what's up?'

busted

'You know, if you go in the house, the kids are going to call the cops, and you'll go right back to jail', she said.  I thought about that for a moment.  I certainly did not want to go back to jail, and I had no intention of going into the house.  I was confused as to how I should respond to this statement.  Luckily, she spoke first.  'You need help.  You look like shit, you've got nowhere to go, probably no money.  What are you gonna do?'  I thought about this for a moment.  I still was pretty sure that I could scrape up enough money for a couple more beers....but then what?  I panicked for a second.  This is the moment that creates both dread and relief in every alcoholic.  I knew the run was over, but there still had to be a way, a way to have at least a few more drinks before I dealt with the inevitable.

'You know, you're right', I said.  I've made a mess of things the last few days.  I really should get some help.'  Then I played my last card. 'But, you know, these days, if you go to a detox, and your blood alcohol isn't high enough, they won't take you.  They want to save the beds for those people that really need them'  'Like anyone needs one more than you', she said.  She did have a point there.  'Listen, you gotta trust me on this one.  If I can get a pint before I go in, they'll take me, no problem.'  She eyed me suspiciously.  'A pint?  That seems like an awful lot.  How about just another beer?'  I was not in the mood to bargain here.  'A beer won't put me over the limit.  I haven't been drinking at all, and they will just breathalyze me and cut me loose.'  She pointed at the empty can next to my foot on the floor, then shook her head in defeat.  'Don't go anywhere, and DO NOT go in the house. I'll be back in 15 minutes.'  I tried to look sullen, but inside I was jumping for joy at the prospect of one more.  But, I knew this thing was coming to a screeching halt.  Real soon.

the end is in sight...

She returned, as promised, about 15 minutes later.  'I didn't know what to get you,' she said.  She pulled a pint of Smirnoff out of her purse and handed it to me.  Believe me, I was OK with that.  'How are you going to drink this?' she asked.  'I didn't get any orange juice or anything.'  But I already had the cap off and put the thing to my lips, chugging three quarters of it down in about 4 large gulps.  I wiped my mouth, looked up at her, and saw the horror in her eyes.  'Oh my god, you are going to pass out, probably get sick' she said.  I thought for a moment. 'If I don't finish the rest of this, I'm not going to detox, so just hang on for a minute.'  I watched the color drain from her face as I drank the rest of the stuff down.  'OK, now we gotta figure out where to go.'  She was speechless. 

We got in her car, and it all started again, just like it always does.  I said, 'you know, I really don't need a detox.  I just need to taper off.  If I just get a fifth of something, I can drink it slowly over the next few days and be fine.  Really.'  I looked at her hopefully. 'I'm calling the police,' she said. ' I've had enough, my sister has had enough, and you are going to a detox or you are going back to jail.'  I sure didn't like the sound of that.  I was pretty much thinking that the plan of acquiring another fifth had gone awry.  I sat back, closed my eyes, and said, 'Well, let's think about this for as minute.'  The walls were closing in, and the pint hadn't kicked in yet.  I was ready to bolt.  But I sat there, waiting.  But only for a minute, because suddenly I opened the car door and got out.

giving in.

I stood next to the car for a moment, leaning against the closed door.  She got out, opened her mouth to say something, then closed it.  We eyed each other for a minute.  I didn't move.  'You have to get to detox,' she said, 'if not with me, then with the police or an ambulance or something.  This has to stop.'  I tried to digest what she had just said to me, but there seemed to be no logic in it.  Why would I want to go to detox in an ambulance or with the police or anything?  I was confused.  Then, the feeling came over me.  The alcohol was kicking in, I felt warm, pliable.  Relieved and relaxed.  I looked at her and said, 'will you let me make a phone call?  I think I can call someone I trust who can help me.'  All of a sudden, I felt exhausted.  'Yes, call whoever, but do it now.'  I pulled out my phone and managed to locate the number of a sober friend in my contacts, dialed him up, and lo and behold, he answered.

'Glenn, I need help.  I've been drinking non-stop for a few days, I'm broke, kicked out and broken down.  I don't want to go to jail, but I don't want to go to the hospital.  Ya gotta help me.'  'Where are you?' he asked.  I gave him the address of the house behind me.  'Don't go anywhere, I'm going to make a few calls, just stay there.'  I told him that my girlfriend's sister was there with me.  'Put her on the phone.'  I did, and they spoke for a few moments; I couldn't make out what they were saying. Soon, she handed the phone back to me and said, 'OK.  Your friend is making some calls.  He told me to tell you to stay here and he will make sure things get handled in the right way.  But, dammit, don't go anywhere!'  At that point in time, I didn't want to go anywhere, so I crawled into the back seat of the car and curled up on the seat. The jig was up.

Things are a bit hazy...

I felt warm, like I was wrapped in gauze.  It felt so good to just have stopped moving, to just lay there.  It was one of those rare, peaceful moments that every alcoholic seeks but rarely finds.  But, around me things were happening.  A phone was pushed at me.  'It's Glenn.  He wants to talk to you.'  I fumbled with the phone and put in up to my ear.  'What?'

'Listen to me, just don't talk.  The police are going to be coming over to the house.'  I immediately sat up.  'What are you talking about?  You said...' 'Just shut up and listen,' he said.  'I told them what's going on.  But you need to do your part or you will end up back in jail.  When the police get there, all I want you to say to them is that you need help.  Got that?  I. Need. Help.  If you would have done that yesterday, you wouldn't have been PC'ed.  Trust me.  Just tell them that you need help, and don't say anything else.  They will get you to a hospital.  If you give them a hard time or try to take off, I'm telling you, you will be right back in jail. Ya got it?'  I got it. I laid back down on that seat, thinking, 'I need help', shut my eyes and tried to melt into the fabric.

The next thing I remember, my girlfriend's sister was shaking me, saying, "OK, they're here.  Remember, tell them you need help.' I slowly sat up, just in time to see the door of a police cruiser open and a couple of cops step out.  They spoke briefly with her, then came up to the open back door of the car I was in.  'Mr. Jackson?' one asked.  I looked at him, saying, 'I need help.'  The one cop looked at the other, then looked back at me.  'You sure do.  And if you would have told us that last night instead of being such an asshole, we would have given it to you..' 

Off to the hospital.

One of the cops walked back to the cruiser.  The other stayed next to the door.  'Are you OK?  You don't look like you're on your game, buddy.'  'I need help,' I mumbled. 'Yeah, we know.  We're just trying to figure out if we should call an ambulance or just take you over in our ride.'  'I'm OK, I just need help.  I mean, I need help.'  This was tougher than I thought it would be, to get those words out.  'How much have you had to drink today, sir?'  'Three beers. I need help.'  The cop shook his head and walked back to talk to his partner.  They conversed for a second, then came back together.  We're gonna take you to Parkland.  It's only 5 minutes away, they will be waiting for you at the ER.  We're gonna do you a favor and not cuff you.  But, I swear to god, if you throw up in the back of that car, we're going to drag you through it and put you in jail for a couple of days.'  'I need help,' I said.  They helped me out of the car and into the back of the cruiser.  I started to lay down, but one of them said.  'Ya gotta sit up and put on the seat-belt.'  Safety first.  Always been my motto.

The next thing I remember, I was being placed into a wheelchair.  Questions were asked, I answered.  Blood was drawn.  The lights were way too bright and I was cold.  Eventually, I found myself on a gurney, alone, with a few warm blankets over me. Someone had turned out the lights.  No one was bothering me.  I was able to relax for a minute.  I was going to be OK, I thought.  I'm doing the right thing, not only for myself, but for my girlfriend and family.  For a moment I felt courageous.  I turned on my side and tried to get comfortable, to try to maybe get some sleep.  Then it hit me.  In about 4 hours I would be starting to detox, and the next 72 hours of my life were going to be hell.  Where was the nurse with the Librium?  Soon, I thought, soon.  How wrong I was.

the worst part.

So, I knew the drill.  As long as the doctors thought you were intoxicated, they wouldn't give out any medication.  But the way THEY measure intoxication is very different from the way I measure it. I measure it based on levels of excruciating, heart-pounding, horrible sweaty pain. THEY use a blood alcohol level, with the usual cut-off of intoxication at .08, which means nothing to me. That might be OK with your average soccer mom, drinking for a couple of months, maybe 4 glasses of wine a night, the kids have been getting to her.  Her husband is too late at the office, probably having an affair.  She goes in for help.  Only had three glasses of wine that night. Her best friend is by her side.  She's crying, mascara running.  THEY soothe her, take her blood alcohol, it comes back at .09.  They tell her, 'You're going to be OK. In about a half hour, your alcohol level will be low enough so that we can give you a little something to take the edge off. Something to make you feel better.'  Hell, they probably don't even say anything.  By the time the nurse asks the doctor's approval and gets it, the half hour will have gone by.  Mom's probably not expecting anything anyway, being new to this.  Then the nurse comes by with a little cup of water and a green and white capsule, 'Here, honey, take this.  It's called Librium, it will calm you down.  We're so happy you decided to get help.  You can do this!'

Now, sometimes you find a place where a doctor knows the deal and is sympathetic.  He might even come over to the bed, ask you about your drinking history. 'Hold out your hands, stick out your tongue.'  He knows.  So sometimes you might get a little something to help get through it when you are still over the limit.  That's what you have to hold out hope for.  But, the same doctor who gave mom her pill might take a very different view of a guy like me.  Brought in by the cops.  Disheveled.  Even though doc KNOWS the deal, he also knows medically that the chances of having a seizure with a blood alcohol over .08 are slim.  Really.  So, he follows the rules.  This is what you do not hold out hope for.  Because my .28 is like mom's .08, as far as pain goes, and that little .2 difference makes all the difference in the world.  It's a crap shoot, as far as protocol goes.  So, I decided that I would stick it out as long as I could before I rang the nurse.  Maybe time would be on my side?  I wasn't sure, but I was worried. How much had I been drinking?  I really couldn't remember.

The countdown.

So, I mentally prepared myself.  Unlike jail, the hospital lets you keep your watch.  I have a plastic Timex (like sunglasses, I go cheap, because I seem to misplace these items) which has a light and a stopwatch. I checked the time - it was 2 PM.  I figure I had been there about an hour and a half.  I felt OK, but the nervousness was amplified.  The fear of the known.  I reset the stopwatch and told myself that I could stick it out for an hour at a time.  I pressed the start button and watched the little numbers start to move.  This was not going to be fun, I was sure of that.

After what seemed like ten minutes, I peered at the watch.  Six minutes had gone by.  This was already starting off poorly; I was going to have to find a way to get my mind off things.  Push-ups!  Might as well start the health kick now.  So, I started doing sets of ten push-ups.  Every six minutes, I decided, I would do ten push-ups.  That would be 100 in a hour and would give me something to do.  So I started this regimen, but there was still too much time in between sets.  Plus, I was losing track of how many sets I had done.  For some strange reason, I wanted to know.  How many would I do?  How could I keep count?  There were some saltine crackers at my bedside.  I decided to break little pieces off of the crackers, and every time I did ten push-ups I would put a piece of cracker in a line.  That way I could keep track. 

The cracker line got longer.  I was hanging on by a thread, trying desperately not to call the nurse.  I decided that when the line got twenty-five cracker pieces long, I would press that button.  I was running out of crackers.  I was breaking the big pieces into little pieces just to keep up.  Twenty-three: 12 minutes to go.  Twenty-four: 6 minutes to go.  Then I waited a whole extra minute to do set number twenty-five, took a moment to catch my breath, and pressed the button.  I had been at Parkland for at least four hours, I figured.  It was almost 5 PM.  I hadn't had a drink in what seemed like forever.  I was in serious pain.  Which doctor was working today?  I was about to find out.

Troubles ahead...

The nurse came in about five minutes later.  'Yes?'  'Hi.  I've been here a while and I haven't had the chance to talk to anyone,' I said.  'I've really been drinking a lot lately, I've had some stuff going on. The point is, is that I haven't had a drink in a while and I feel pretty lousy.  Is there something you can give me to help me out?'  I tried to look sincere.  She looked curiously at the line of crackers on the table. 'I'll see what I can do,' she said, and turned and walked out.  I didn't know how to read that, so I just waited.

A few minutes later she returned.  "Mr. Jackson?'  'Yes?' I responded.  'When you came in you had a blood alcohol level of point three two three.  We can't give you any medication until that level comes down.  Uh oh, I thought.  'How far does it have to come down?'  'The doctor wants you to be at about a point one oh before he will prescribe anything. You will come down about point zero two per hour, so we need to wait a while.'  Shit, I thought, as I did the math.  Even under the influence, this kind of math I can do.  I'm like a homing pigeon in that way.  We were looking at about eleven or twelve hours from when they took the sample.  I was panicking.  'When did you draw the blood?' I asked.  She said, 'I'll have to check your chart, but I believe it was about five hours ago.  We will take another sample at about ten o'clock and see where you are.  Can I get you anything now?'  I was stunned.  'Some ibuprofen?'  Anything.  I needed to prepare.  'And another glass of water, please?'  I knew that I was in for it.  I was looking at at least five more hours, and I was already falling apart.  I wanted to scream and upend the table next to me.  This cannot be comprehended by the non-alcoholic.  This is what brings men to their knees; what keeps them drinking when they know it is killing them.  You can get so far, then you hit a wall, a tsunami which pushes you back into the bottle.  I was shaking, sweating, every cell in my body was squirming with agony.  And I had five hours to go.  I looked at those cracker bits.  And, for some reason, at that exact moment, I decided that I was going to make it through.  I had had enough.  And as if I had a choice, anyway.

Five hours to go, hopefully.

I was a mess and needed a plan.  Five hours was an eternity.  I decided to break it down into fifteen minute chunks.  Twenty fifteen minute chunks.  I would use my stopwatch.  I didn't want to know what time it really was, I just wanted to count down each little chunk.  Then, I realized that I had twenty-five pieces of cracker on the table.  Again, I did the math, and decided that every twelve minutes, I would eat a piece of cracker, then reset my watch.  When all the cracker bits were gone, five hours would have passed.  It was the best plan that I could come up with.  I looked at my watch.  Three minutes had gone by.  Nine more minutes until I could eat some cracker.  Hopefully I could hold it down.

One hour went by.  Then two.  Things were getting worse.  I was sticking to the plan - fifteen pieces of cracker were left, but it wasn't enough.  I had to move.  I decided to add push-ups back into the equation.  I would do ten push-ups every twelve minutes and eat a piece of cracker.  Three hours passed.  I started to pace; I was out of the bed now.  Then back in, then out.  I couldn't stop moving.  I tried to drink some water.  Ten push-ups and a cracker.  Four hours passed.  Then I remembered, weren't they going to draw more blood? That would take time, too, to get the results. The thought put me over the edge.  I scooped up all the cracker bits, threw them in the sink, and rang the nurse.  'Yes?'  'I need help,' I told her.  It had worked with the police. 'I'll be right there,' she said.  And she was.  'What's the matter?' she asked.  'Look,' I said, 'Can you draw my blood to see if my level is low enough for some medication?  I can't take it.  I'm falling apart.'  I wrapped my arms around myself for emphasis.  'Well, let's see what time the last sample was drawn,' she said.  'It's been nine hours,' I said, 'I'm sure, I timed it with crackers.  Please.'  I was clearly losing it.  'OK, let me see if I can get someone from the lab up here,' said the nurse.  I crawled back onto the cot with a low moan.

Hello, Librium!

I wrapped the blankets around me and curled up, trying to make myself as small as possible.  The smaller I am, the less there is to hurt.  To my surprise, after only five minutes, a technician came in to draw blood.  'Mr. Jackson?'  'Yes.'  'Can I have your date of birth?  Can you verify your social security number'  I provided the information and sat up. The needle went in, the blood went out.  I asked, 'How long before the results come back?'  'Probably about a half hour to forty-five minutes.  We're slow tonight.'  I had no response.  I laid back down, reset my stopwatch, and prepared myself for the wait.  Every five minutes, I decided, I would restart the stopwatch.

If you have ever been addicted to alcohol, you understand how excruciatingly painful this time is.  It's a combination of the physical withdrawal and the anxiety for anticipation of relief.  Unfortunately, these two interact exponentially.  I was out of crackers and drenched in sweat.  I had no way to know how much time had passed.  Suddenly, there was a knock at my door.  I pressed a button and took a quick look at the time.  Eleven.  Salvation was at hand.  Again, 'Mr. Jackson?'  'Hi, come in please,' I begged.  'My name is Nicole, and I'm a social worker.  I would like to ask you a few questions if you don't mind.'  I tried to process this, but the neurons were misfiring.  The synapses wouldn't bridge. I just looked at her dumbly, and she said, 'I was going to talk to you earlier, but I had to wait until your blood alcohol was below a certain level, to make sure you understood what we talk about.  Are you OK to answer a few questions?'  I opened my mouth to respond just as a nurse pushed into the room.  'Before you get started, do you mind if I give him some medication?  Mr. Jackson, I have some comfort meds for you.  I am giving you 50 milligrams of Librium, as well as some sub-lingual Ativan.  It should take the edge off and make you feel better able to talk to Nicole.'  She handed me two little green and white capsules and a small paper cup of water.  I drank those down, then she popped a small pill out of a foil package.  'Here, put this under your tongue to dissolve.  It will take just a couple of minutes, try not to swallow it.'  I put it under my tongue.  'Yank you,'  I said as she walked away, keeping that little pill firmly in place under my tongue.  I closed my eyes and laid my head down.  Yank you, I said to myself.

lines of addiction.

Nicole began to ask me some questions, questions I had been asked dozens of times before in similar circumstances.  'When did you start drinking?'  'When did it become a problem?' (Immediately, I answered). 'How many brothers and sisters do you have?'  'Any substance abuse or mental health issues with any other family members?'  And on it went.  I envisioned this giant family tree, compiled over the years, with some sinister family lines drawn in red, leading down to me.  I tried to remember which of my relatives were alcoholic so I could assist Nicole in her endeavors, so she and all of the other social workers and substance abuse counselors could chart the whole world, drawing these red lines down to people like me.  And for what reason?  Maybe it is make-work.  Maybe big pharma is working on a vaccine, one that will be given to the children that appear on the horizon from all of those people in red at the end of those lines.  I thought about this.  Stopping the red lines.  I wish it would have stopped before me. 

Slowly, the medication began to take effect.  It's never quite enough, but the first dose always feels warm and relaxing.  The anxiety melts away a bit; the racing thoughts slow down.  The attention span increases from seconds to a minute.  You look at your watch to mark the time, because you know that in three or four hours, you will be getting some more.  And, you already worry about tomorrow, because they will probably reduce the dose from 50 to 25 milligrams. All of this went through my head, but there was something else.  If I can make it 72 hours, I thought, I can get through this.  Three days.  That's how long it takes before you can even begin to feel quasi-normal, like you have a fighting chance.  How many times had I made it to one day?  Or two?  If you can make it to three, then you might be able to make it to five, which is the magic number.  Right now, I had to make it to three.  My thoughts were suddenly interrupted, Nicole was speaking to me again.  'We are trying to find a transport to get you to the VA hospital.  It might take a couple of hours, but we will have you there before morning.'  The good old VA, I thought.  Detox.  The smell of bleach.  Burgundy, brown, blue, yellow pajama sets.  Socks with rubber treads.  Board games and puzzles with missing pieces.  I was all for it.

transport and arrival.

A portable gurney was wheeled into the room.  The crew of two was typical:  male and female, slightly overweight, young, and pleasant enough.  The woman smelled of cigarettes.  'Are you able to move yourself onto the cart?' the man asked.  "No problem,' I replied, and began to get off the cart I had been on for the last 12 hours. Immediately, four hands reached out to steady me.  'Whoa, take it easy, go slow,' the woman said.  'I'm fine,' I replied, but slowed down enough to not worry them.  I laid down on the gurney.  'We have to buckle you in, but we won't make it too tight.'  Again, safety first.  They cinched up the straps and out of the room I went, feet first.  The ambulance was right outside.  'You're gonna feel a bump when we put you in, so be ready for it.'  I readied myself, and, as usual, felt no bump.  The man got in the front; the woman stayed in back with me.  She was nice.  'Would you like some warm blankets?  Sorry about the light, I'll turn it down once we get moving.  Are the straps too tight?'  I liked her.  'No, everything is fine,' I said.  Maybe I'll try to nap.  'Good idea', she replied. 'We have about an hour to go'.  The ambulance began to roll, and for the first time in three days, I fell asleep.

The next thing I knew, the back door was open and they were lifting me out.  'We're here,' I was told.  I was cold now, and feeling a little tense.  The meds were wearing off. I figured that the nurse on duty would hook me up right away with some more Librium, because that's what the VA does.  They wheeled me inside and lowered the gurney, and I got out and sat in a red plastic chair.  'Thanks, guys, see you later,' I said.  I hoped not.

My vitals were taken, I held out my hands, I stuck out my tongue.  When asked how I felt, I replied with the standard 'horrible.' Two more green and white capsules were handed to me, along with a glass of water.  I tossed those down quickly and handed the water back.  'Would you like something else to drink?  I have some diet ginger ale,' the nurse asked.  'No thanks,' I replied.  To me, diet ginger ale tastes like homelessness.  They gave me a set of burgundy pajamas to change into, along with those socks with the rubber soles.  I was glad to get burgundy - brown were for very thin people, then burgundy, then blue, then yellow, if you were large.  It was good to know that I was wearing the same color as last time, keeping the weight off.  It made me feel a little better about myself.

Feels like home.

The nurse finished with me and took me to my room.  The sun was starting to come up, and, fortunately, the other bed in the room was empty.  This is very unusual for the VA.  She said, 'Mr. Jackson, if you need anything, let us know,  You should try to get some sleep.  The treatment team will want to speak with you in the morning.  I guess you know where everything is?'  I should.  I had been in this particular facility 16 times over the last four years.

I stood there for a moment, asking myself the same questions I had asked myself the last time, and the time before that.  How could this happen, I thought.  What went wrong?  There has to be something I'm missing, something I just can't put my finger on.  For a moment, I felt completely hopeless.  I looked down at the bed, turned, and walked down the hall to the common area.  The TV was off; there was another patient sitting at a table trying to read.  I left the room and walked down the hall to the kitchen and opened the freezer.  There they were:  a couple of dozen chocolate and vanilla four ounce ice cream cups.  How many of these had I eaten over the years? I thought.  I grabbed one of each, found a plastic spoon, and walked back to the TV room.  I sat down , found the little paper tab, and pulled the top off the vanilla.  No sooner had I stuck my spoon into the ice cream when I heard a voice say, 'Is that you, Russ?'  I looked up; it was the guy reading the book.  'Don?'  It never fails.  I always run into someone I know at the VA.  Like moths to a flame.

settling in.

We sized each other up for a moment.  'You look pretty good,' I said.  'When did you get here?'  'Two days ago,' he said.  'You just came in, huh?  Hurting?'  'Yeah, you know,' I replied.  'I'll be alright.  So, what've you been up to since I last saw you?'  He had gone out west.  Was OK for a while, but met a girl, got back on the needle.  Made his way back east, taking his time, spending his money as he went, staying with friends.  He asked me the same questions, and I told him what I had been doing.  Not much, I realized.  The same old questions.  Where are you going after this?  Have you seen so and so?  We caught up with each other about who had died.  I was running out of energy, but was happy to be there with someone I knew.  It makes it easier; helps to pass the time.  After a while, we sat there in silence.  The dawn was breaking now, and it was time for me to get some sleep.  The second dose of medicine was working, as well as it could, and I knew I had a short window.  'Catch you later, buddy,' I said, and walked down the hallway as those rubber soled socks kept me upright.

There is a smell that you never forget at the Veterans Administration.  I could be on a beach in Spain, blindfolded, and I could pick out the smell of a VA bleached sheet. Over the years, it has become almost comforting.  I looked out the window; the leaves were brown and the trees half bare.  It occurred to me, I didn't even remember the leaves starting to change.  I crawled into bed and pulled those sheets and blankets up to my nose, inhaling deeply.  Well, I thought, here we go again.  I have a couple of rough days ahead, but at least I've started the process.  That, in itself, is always miraculous.  I have had more lives than a litter of kittens.   Something has to change.

Twenty-four hours in...

Later that morning, I was lying in bed in that semi-conscious limbo that alcoholics are usually in.  The myth is that alcoholics drink, then pass out for hours. The truth is that when I was drinking heavily, I rarely slept.  I perfected a way of lying in bed for hours, perfectly still, sweating, but not quite asleep.  It was horrible.  Once, when my ex-wife and I were separated, she came back to the house to retrieve some things. I was in bed, heard her enter, and decided to get up.  She came into the room to find me standing near the closet, shook her head in disgust, and walked over to the bed.  'Oh my god, Russ, can you please wash the sheets?  Better yet, burn them.'  I went over to see what the problem was.  There, on the fitted sheet, was a perfectly shaped green outline of my body formed from mildew or mold of some sort.  It was like the Shroud of Turin.  I hadn't even noticed. But I did notice that the other side of the bed looked clean.  I made a mental note.

There was a knock on the door, and someone entered. 'Mr. Jackson, the treatment team would like to see you.'  I looked at my watch.  11 AM. I hadn't had a drink in twenty-four hours.  I was also due for some more Librium.  'OK, I'm just going to stop by the nurses' station for my meds and I'll be right down.'  'No, the treatment team will see you first.  It will only take a few minutes, seeing that you just got here last night.'  I reluctantly agreed, got out of bed, splashed some water on my face, and headed down the hall, feeling a bit sick and woozy.  The treatment team consisted of a physician, a social worker, and a intern.  I entered the office and sat in the empty chair and looked at each one of them in turn.  The physician, a woman, addressed me first.  'Hello, Mr. Jackson.  Nice to see you again.  You did the right thing by coming back.'  For once, I had to agree with her.

Staying put.

Well, the treatment team had little to say to me.  'On Monday, we will begin work on a discharge plan for you.  Over the weekend, give some thought as to what your plan will be when you leave here.'  'OK', I mumbled.  They all looked at me and smiled.  I got up, looked at the intern, and said, 'Thank you.'  Then I walked down the hall and got my meds.

So, by the time I saw this group again, I would be four days sober, providing I didn't get squirrelly and leave.  Now, there is something called signing out AMA.  Against Medical Advice.  If your blood alcohol is below the legal limit of intoxication, and you don't appear to be a danger to yourself or others, they really can't hold you, especially if you entered the facility voluntarily.  There is a lot of gray area here, though, especially in these litigious days.  Even if you WANT to leave, you might be forced to stay up to an additional 72 hours.  The people here aren't stupid.  They know there is a liquor store a half mile down the road.  They also know that during the first three days of detox, the alcoholic is a canny individual.  The pain can become almost unbearable, so the thought of bouncing out of there is always on your mind.  The last time I tried to sign out AMA after one day, they wouldn't let me.  They put me on hold.  I expected this.  But, after 36 hours, they re-evaluated me, and I convinced them to let me go.  Within thirty minutes, I had a pint of whiskey in me.  I was back in that place four days later.  These things are recorded in your electronic medical file.  So, even if I wanted to, the chance of me getting out of here before Monday was nil.  Plus, this ward was better than the psych ward, which is where I would go if I was 'sectioned'.  I decided to simply stay put.

Friday morning.  The weekend ahead.  Nothing happens here over the weekend at all.  We all just sit around, make small talk, and work through our misery.  I had twenty-four hours sober.  The next two days would be rough, but I had ice cream and Librium to get me through it.

Day 2.

The second day is like the month of March.  It comes in like a lion and goes out like a lamb, relatively speaking.  I had taken three doses of Librium in the last 10 hours, so I was hanging on.  I needed privacy, though.  Down time.  In detox, you have the pros and the newbies.  The newbies, not having been that banged up to begin with, start feeling pretty good in a day or two.  They will come up to the new guy and say, 'Hey man, how are you doing?  My name's Mike.  Just hang in there it'll get better.  If I can do this, anybody can do this.  If you need anything let me know.'  And so on.  I want to strangle these people. The pros just sit by themselves, occasionally look at each other, a wry smile and a slow head shake.  We know the deal. 

I was up, couldn't sleep, so I went to the TV room.  Don was there.  We made eye contact, he gave me a little smile, then went back to his book.  He knew that I was too fresh to engage; that I would initiate conversation when I was ready.  There were four or five other patients in the room but I didn't recognize anyone else.  I found a chair in the corner, grabbed a crossword puzzle book (compliments of the DAV, the sticker said), opened it to the easy section and settled in.  Now the wait began.  For the next two days, it would be a routine of meds, ice cream, sleeplessness, and pain.  At least it was predictable.  I briefly thought about my life with all its failure and wasted opportunity.  They say that you have to get over regret in order to become sober.  I suppose that is true, but in detox, regret is right in your face.  I smiled wryly to myself, shook my head, and tried to think about something positive.  At that moment, the well was dry.

The weekend begins.

Detox is a lonely place.  There is too much time for introspection.  I tried not to evaluate myself too harshly.  I was chemically unbalanced, I told myself.  I needed to just focus on sobriety and nothing else and I could get better.  This is easier said than done.  I tried to let my mind drift; not to focus on any one thing, because if I did, I would get the butterflies. Dinner came but there was nothing I could eat.  I briefly thought about taking a shower, but it simply seemed like too much effort.  The hours went by, the meds and the ice cream went down.  Eventually I found myself alone in the TV room; everyone else had gone to sleep.  It was 2 AM and I was approaching the 48 hour mark.  I thought I felt a little better physically, but the anxiety created by the mess I was in was eating at me.  I went to the nurses' station.  'Hey John, can I get some more Librium?  I'm really struggling here.'  He looked at me.  'Russ, you've been getting 50 milligrams every three hours since you got here. (Really? I thought).  Let's try to stretch this out for another hour.'  I looked at him in silence, then turned and walked back into the TV room.  I put my head in my hands and waited.  Exactly one hour later, I received my meds and crawled into bed.

I was surprised that when I opened my eyes, it was morning.  I had actually slept for a few hours.  Encouraging, I thought.  Heading into day three, I had a short burst of energy.  I took a shower.  I even thought about shaving, but that seemed way to difficult.  I felt...better.  A bit.  But enough to give me some confidence.  I went to the nurses' station to get some medication, but this time there was only one green and white capsule in the cup.  I looked up.  'I think I get fifty,' I said.  The nurse on duty said, 'Your orders have you at twenty-five now.  Let's see how you do with that.'  I made it to three hours before I felt like shit.  I must be getting better, I thought.