So You’re Safe?
In spite of only drinking for two months, I walked into rehab with the worst DTs I’d ever had. My teeth were chattering and my hands were shaking like it was -18° so I hunkered down into Marvin’s sweatshirt – a black Harley Davidson crewneck that smelled like oil and dust.
“I’m here for rehab,” I said at the front desk of the Erie hospital. They sent me to the fourth floor where I showed up not only without my purple duffel, but without even a toothbrush.
They quickly put me in an empty room. They were not nearly as thorough as my first rehab, nor did they shoot me in the butt with librium. Instead, they told me I could rest.
I slept for two days.
Then I called my parents for the first time in many weeks.
They’d moved to Washington, D.C. months earlier. My dad wasn’t home; my mom answered.
“I drank again,” I told my mom. “I’m in rehab.”
My mom did not reply for a long time. After an eternity of silence my mom breathed.
“So you’re safe?”
“I’m safe,” I said. “I’m at a hospital in Erie.”
She didn’t ask why I was hours from home. I asked her to mail me some clothes if she could, and to please make sure Louise was still feeding my abandoned cat.
My mom said she would do what she could.
I was put into the general population on the third day. Like my prior rehab, I enjoyed this immensely. As soon as I started to feel better, I started making friends: Big John, who was terrifically funny; Marianne, a skinny junkie who talked about slitting her wrists to try to get off crack; David, a short guy with a ridiculous mustache and a speaking voice like a country music superstar. (I fell in love with David instantly.)
When Big John graduated from rehab, he offered to deliver our cigarettes. We gathered up our pennies; he wrote down our brands. I gave him my last $5 bill, which I’d been carrying “in case” for weeks.
Big John – who was smarter than we’d guessed – never came back with any cigarettes.
Completely broke and hours from home, I decided to figure out why my credit card had been randomly declined. I didn’t have a quarter for the payphone, but Chase Bank had a toll-free number.
“I need to find out what’s wrong with my credit card.”
“You reached your maximum limit,” said the Chase Bank representative.
“I need you to raise my maximum limit,” I said. “I need money.”
“That won’t be possible at this time,” she said politely. “We have already raised your limit to $12,400 and it looks like you’ve been having some trouble paying your bill. Would you like to speak with a Chase credit repair consultant?”
“No,” I said shrilly. “I just need money. Can’t you just raise it just a little bit? I don’t need much.”
“I’m sorry,” she said.
I started to panic. I tried complete and total honesty, playing on her emotions, hoping for sympathy.
“But I’m in rehab!” I shrieked. “And I can’t get home without any money!”
Looking back, this might not have been the best card to play.
“I’m sorry,” she said again. Then, brightly: “Is there anything else I can do for you today?”
“You haven’t done anything for me!” I screamed. Then, as though it would accomplish anything, I slammed down the payphone receiver.
Nearby nurses frowned.
With no idea how I would ever get home, I immersed myself in rehabilitation activities.
This time, I wanted help.