You Could Go To Detox.
When I finally realized I was not able to quit drinking without professional help, I wanted the plush comforts of rehab to help me get away from alcohol. But after Gateway told me about the 14-day restriction and the waiting list that would take nearly a month to get in, I felt desperate.
And unlike during my prior rehab, I didn’t have insurance.
“I don’t know what to do,” I said at an AA meeting. “I really want to stop! I was so much happier when I wasn’t drinking but now I can’t get through even one day without alcohol. I need rehab!”
“You could go to detox,” someone said. “Hospitals have to take you if you’re drinking and you ask for help. And they’ll give you insurance when you walk in so it’s free.”
Free detox? This sounded too good to be true. “What do I have to do?” I asked after the meeting.
“They won’t take you if you’re not drunk.”
That’s my kind of restriction, I thought.
I went home and asked Louise for help. I didn’t want them to take my car again.
“Can you drive me to Braddock Hospital?” I asked. “I need to be drunk before I go.”
Louise sighed, frustrated by me and the chaos of our living arrangement since I’d started drinking.
Finally she said she would drive me to detox. “This is a one-time deal,” Louise said. “I won’t do this twice. So you better do what you need to do this time.”
“I will!” I said. Then I proceeded to drink an entire six-pack in order to be drunk enough to go to detox.
Louise dropped me off outside of Braddock Hospital. “Don’t forget to tell them you need insurance,” she said – then she drove away, both dismayed and hopeful.
I had to fill out a bunch of paperwork for my “free insurance.” The state of Pennsylvania provided it to people like me who had no job, no money, no way to pay for care. (I have no idea if this still exists.) Then they took me upstairs to the detox wing, where they took away my cigarettes, my lighter, my driver’s license – basically everything I had – and dumped me in a dark room alone.
The bed had no sheets. The chair was stained. Even after six beers, this felt gross.
Someone entered wordlessly and put one stiff plastic sheet and a thin, torn hospital blanket on the bed. I sat on the windowsill and stared into the gray day. Braddock was crime-ridden, rat-ridden, addict-ridden. The whole city looked dingy, bleak, dying.
This didn’t feel like the rehab with the bluebirds and goldfinches.
A nurse came in and said, by way of introduction: “Drop your pants.”
“What? Why?”
“I’m giving you a shot.”
“What shot?”
“Librium.” I had never heard of librium. They hadn’t even asked me about my drug of choice yet.
“I would rather have the shot in my arm, okay?”
“This one goes in your butt. Drop your pants or I’ll drop them for you.”
I pulled down my pants. Fear clenched every muscle in my body.
I’ve since learned that clenching doesn’t help with the extreme pain of a shot in the butt. “OW!” I screamed, butt muscles excruciatingly throbbing.
“Take a nap,” she said and walked out of the room, closing the door behind her.
It hurt so badly, I thought I would never recover. I was rubbing the sore spot and whimpering to myself when, with barely a second of warning, I flopped onto the bed and lost consciousness.
I slept for many hours.