The guy who started bleeding internally never came back but he didn't die. He spent a few weeks in the hospital and then went into some kind of long term care facility.
Last week I got to drive some guy home to die. He came in too late. He was tall and movie star handsome. A charming fellow. He'd destroyed his guts, his liver and his heart. He came in and stayed for a couple of days but his vital signs got dangerous, so he was taken off to the hospital.
A week later, he came back with a manilla envelope of care instructions and a list of 10 or so medications he was supposed to take. We are not equipped to provide that level of care, so he was shipped back to his family. It was a four hour drive to a charming, isolated seaside town. He lived in a nice old house. His wife was beautiful. He just had enough strength to make it in the door on his own power. He's younger than me. That is, if he's still alive.
Wednesday, February 13, 2013
I was supposed to pick up this guy at a motel. His mom had put him up there on the condition that he went into treatment. He'd been living on the street. He didn't answer his phone. I went to the desk at the hotel. He didn't answer his room phone either. I went up to the room. He didn't answer when I knocked on the door.
We ended up calling his mom. She came down to the motel with a key to the room. She opened the door, but it was latched from the inside. She called her son's name but there was no response. Finally the motel manager cut the latch and let us in. Just before he came back, the mom looked at me and said, "I've been going to Alanon for three years now."
I told her, "You're going to need all of that today".
When we got into the room, there was a motionless body on the bed. The mom shook him and called his name. He sat up and began cursing her. "Bitch, let me fuckin' sleep. Why the fuck are you harassing me?", on and on. I opened the curtains and there were bits of burnt aluminum foil, beer cans pizza boxes and prescription bottles with someone else's name all over the room. The mom started cleaning the room while he son picked up the prescription bottles and stuffed them in his pocket. Then he pulled out a cigarette and walked out of the room.
The mom packed his stuff and said, "He's probably outside, smoking", because, see, he would be concerned about the no smoking rule in his room. Right?
We carried his stuff downstairs and discovered that he had left. He was nowhere to be seen. Then her phone rang. "Bring me my fuckin' shit at the Jack In The Box", was all he said.
Mom tried, she really did, "If you won't go into treatment I'm cutting you off. I won't give you any more money, or take calls from you or let you in the house anymore", but she agreed to take his stuff to the Jack In The Box.
She asked me to go with her. I told her I would follow her but only to remind her when it was time to leave. We got to the parking lot and she put his stuff on the ground and got back in her car. He blocked the car in and wouldn't let her leave. "How the fuck am I supposed to eat? You went through my shit and stole all my fuckin' money bitch." he yelled at her. She handed him fifteen dollars. I guess she couldn't help it. He told her he was going to kill her. She got in my car and asked me what she should do. I told her to call the cops. While she was on the phone to the cops he was kicking my car and promising to kill his mother. Then he walked over to my side and yelled, "You should be afraid, bitch. I'm gonna kill you too!". He was a big kid, but pale and sick. I did not look forward to having to defend myself but I figured he wouldn't last long.
Finally the cops came and the kid went and hid in the Jack In The Box. I left and drove home by myself. He ended up having his mom drive him in on Christmas eve. It was cold out and I guess he didn't like the idea of a cold Christmas on the street by himself.
Over the course of the next couple weeks he repeatedly demanded to leave. He backed off when he found out that he would only be getting a ride downtown to the bus station, 80 miles from home. He tried a little bit to get with the program. His mother came to visit often. She brought him extra food and cigarettes and left him with money every time. Finally he convinced someone to come pick him up and he left. I guess he figured living on the street, getting high and leaching off mom was a pretty good life.
We ended up calling his mom. She came down to the motel with a key to the room. She opened the door, but it was latched from the inside. She called her son's name but there was no response. Finally the motel manager cut the latch and let us in. Just before he came back, the mom looked at me and said, "I've been going to Alanon for three years now."
I told her, "You're going to need all of that today".
When we got into the room, there was a motionless body on the bed. The mom shook him and called his name. He sat up and began cursing her. "Bitch, let me fuckin' sleep. Why the fuck are you harassing me?", on and on. I opened the curtains and there were bits of burnt aluminum foil, beer cans pizza boxes and prescription bottles with someone else's name all over the room. The mom started cleaning the room while he son picked up the prescription bottles and stuffed them in his pocket. Then he pulled out a cigarette and walked out of the room.
The mom packed his stuff and said, "He's probably outside, smoking", because, see, he would be concerned about the no smoking rule in his room. Right?
We carried his stuff downstairs and discovered that he had left. He was nowhere to be seen. Then her phone rang. "Bring me my fuckin' shit at the Jack In The Box", was all he said.
Mom tried, she really did, "If you won't go into treatment I'm cutting you off. I won't give you any more money, or take calls from you or let you in the house anymore", but she agreed to take his stuff to the Jack In The Box.
She asked me to go with her. I told her I would follow her but only to remind her when it was time to leave. We got to the parking lot and she put his stuff on the ground and got back in her car. He blocked the car in and wouldn't let her leave. "How the fuck am I supposed to eat? You went through my shit and stole all my fuckin' money bitch." he yelled at her. She handed him fifteen dollars. I guess she couldn't help it. He told her he was going to kill her. She got in my car and asked me what she should do. I told her to call the cops. While she was on the phone to the cops he was kicking my car and promising to kill his mother. Then he walked over to my side and yelled, "You should be afraid, bitch. I'm gonna kill you too!". He was a big kid, but pale and sick. I did not look forward to having to defend myself but I figured he wouldn't last long.
Finally the cops came and the kid went and hid in the Jack In The Box. I left and drove home by myself. He ended up having his mom drive him in on Christmas eve. It was cold out and I guess he didn't like the idea of a cold Christmas on the street by himself.
Over the course of the next couple weeks he repeatedly demanded to leave. He backed off when he found out that he would only be getting a ride downtown to the bus station, 80 miles from home. He tried a little bit to get with the program. His mother came to visit often. She brought him extra food and cigarettes and left him with money every time. Finally he convinced someone to come pick him up and he left. I guess he figured living on the street, getting high and leaching off mom was a pretty good life.
Friday, December 21, 2012
Bad drugs
Just creepy yesterday. Exhausting too. I'll talk about it soon. All day today I've been telling people, "You're so very brave and I'm so very proud of you". Drugs and alcohol make shivering cowards of us. Weak, whiney, horrible little people. It really is a miracle when one of us takes a chance at recovery.
Sunday, December 2, 2012
Discouraging
Sometimes you kind of want to tell them to go fuck themselves. The clients that is. Some kid smuggled in a cell phone. He called his dealer and met him out at the edge of the property. He came back with a syringe and some heroin. He started sharing it around with some other kids.
Of course, they got caught. The case managers said, "Tell us what happened. We'll call it a relapse and let you stay and finish the program".
The kids got all hard. There was this one kid that I kind of liked. He went into a big routine about how he "wasn't raised to be a snitch". I'll give him credit. He was practically born in jail. His whole family is some kind of dope dealers. Still, he was being an asshole. I tried telling him, "This isn't a fuckin' prison you know. It's a fuckin' hospital. When they ask you what happened they want to know what went wrong, not who to punish".
He didn't get it. He wanted to go home, see his daughter and hang out with a bunch of old punks. That's what he said. When I dropped him at his grandparent's house he ran in the door to talk to his cousin, who sells heroin.
There was another kid who picked a fight over something. I can't even remember what. He was all tatted up and had piercings all over. He came on like a hard gangster. He wasn't scared of prison. You pay a cost for this lifestyle and he didn't mind paying. I had to take him home. Home turned out to be in a gated community on a golf course. You could fit two of my house into the garage. Fuck the police. Yo.
There was a very angry and obviously crazy young man. I had just come from driving almost 400 miles and dropping off Mr. Gated Community Gangster. On the way back I witnessed a terrible accident. I was told that I'd have to drive the angry young man to the bank so he could get money to buy cigarettes. It turns out he didn't have a bank account and he didn't have any ID. Somehow he managed to cash a check from his grandma but no one would sell him cigarettes. He got mad at me because I didn't want to buy his cigarettes for him. One of the case managers tried to tell me it was my job to "serve the clients". Fuck that. When I got sober I was told my job was to serve other people. I will not coddle a belligerent addict. That's not service and it's not teaching them about service.
I went to pick up some guy in a lovely, wealthy old mining town in the mountains. He had a sweet little house and a beautiful wife. He was a mumbling grey blur on the couch. He was smoking medical marijuana in a vaporizer. He was drunk as hell. He kept insisting that he couldn't leave until he had some more "medicine". All the way back in he kept telling me about his rights. He had a right to smoke marijuana in the center. He had a right to keep his cell phone so he could check in with his wife every ten minutes, which he did throughout the ride in. He had a bunch of other rights. When he got to the center they gave him valium to keep him from convulsing and dying while he was drying out. He slept for two days. On the third day he woke up and demanded his marijuana. He was told he couldn't have it. He called his wife and left.
I dropped a really sweet, likable guy off at home. He was excited about his new, sober life. Two weeks later he was drinking all day, every day. He wasn't eating either. He begged to be allow back in. I went back and got him. He was a little sheepish, pretty drunk and as sweet and likable as ever. Two days later he became incoherent and his already swollen stomach started swelling up alarmingly. He's in the hospital with all kinds of holes in his guts. He's probably going to die in the next day or two. What a fucking waste.
I could use a big success story. I know this is a J-O-B but I want to believe. Even though I know what the odds are, I want to see someone get what is being offered and go on to live. It happens from time to time. It doesn't seem to have happened lately.
Of course, they got caught. The case managers said, "Tell us what happened. We'll call it a relapse and let you stay and finish the program".
The kids got all hard. There was this one kid that I kind of liked. He went into a big routine about how he "wasn't raised to be a snitch". I'll give him credit. He was practically born in jail. His whole family is some kind of dope dealers. Still, he was being an asshole. I tried telling him, "This isn't a fuckin' prison you know. It's a fuckin' hospital. When they ask you what happened they want to know what went wrong, not who to punish".
He didn't get it. He wanted to go home, see his daughter and hang out with a bunch of old punks. That's what he said. When I dropped him at his grandparent's house he ran in the door to talk to his cousin, who sells heroin.
There was another kid who picked a fight over something. I can't even remember what. He was all tatted up and had piercings all over. He came on like a hard gangster. He wasn't scared of prison. You pay a cost for this lifestyle and he didn't mind paying. I had to take him home. Home turned out to be in a gated community on a golf course. You could fit two of my house into the garage. Fuck the police. Yo.
There was a very angry and obviously crazy young man. I had just come from driving almost 400 miles and dropping off Mr. Gated Community Gangster. On the way back I witnessed a terrible accident. I was told that I'd have to drive the angry young man to the bank so he could get money to buy cigarettes. It turns out he didn't have a bank account and he didn't have any ID. Somehow he managed to cash a check from his grandma but no one would sell him cigarettes. He got mad at me because I didn't want to buy his cigarettes for him. One of the case managers tried to tell me it was my job to "serve the clients". Fuck that. When I got sober I was told my job was to serve other people. I will not coddle a belligerent addict. That's not service and it's not teaching them about service.
I went to pick up some guy in a lovely, wealthy old mining town in the mountains. He had a sweet little house and a beautiful wife. He was a mumbling grey blur on the couch. He was smoking medical marijuana in a vaporizer. He was drunk as hell. He kept insisting that he couldn't leave until he had some more "medicine". All the way back in he kept telling me about his rights. He had a right to smoke marijuana in the center. He had a right to keep his cell phone so he could check in with his wife every ten minutes, which he did throughout the ride in. He had a bunch of other rights. When he got to the center they gave him valium to keep him from convulsing and dying while he was drying out. He slept for two days. On the third day he woke up and demanded his marijuana. He was told he couldn't have it. He called his wife and left.
I dropped a really sweet, likable guy off at home. He was excited about his new, sober life. Two weeks later he was drinking all day, every day. He wasn't eating either. He begged to be allow back in. I went back and got him. He was a little sheepish, pretty drunk and as sweet and likable as ever. Two days later he became incoherent and his already swollen stomach started swelling up alarmingly. He's in the hospital with all kinds of holes in his guts. He's probably going to die in the next day or two. What a fucking waste.
I could use a big success story. I know this is a J-O-B but I want to believe. Even though I know what the odds are, I want to see someone get what is being offered and go on to live. It happens from time to time. It doesn't seem to have happened lately.
Saturday, September 22, 2012
Secrets
People trust me with secrets. Sometimes they trust me with terrible secrets. I want to be a trustworthy person. It's exhausting though. Occasionally, I will have to drive for 10, 12, 14 hours. Those are round trips so half of that time I might have a genuinely suffering soul in the car with me. It is very hard to be open to them, focused on the road and care for myself. I hope I am worthy of the confidences I have received.
Friday, August 17, 2012
Respectability, Part II
The guy who was worried about respectability mentioned to me that a friend of his "got ahold of some bad stuff". It seems his friend killed his roommate, cut out his heart, cooked and ate it. I don't know anyone who ate anybody's heart. I think, once your friend has eaten his roommate's heart, that you need to aspire to something besides respectability. Fuck. Call me judgmental.
Mind you. I make no claims to respectability and I have no great respect for it either.
Mind you. I make no claims to respectability and I have no great respect for it either.
Friday, August 3, 2012
Respectability
I need to write about respectability. I've met a few hard core addicts who were terribly concerned to maintain the appearance of respectability. The stereotype of the junky who has slipped the bounds of mainstream society isn't always true. I just had a client who really didn't understand that he was a junky, a dope dealer, a thief and a player in the criminal world. He honestly believed that he was a deeply religious person, a devoted father and a respected member of his small town community. He did seem like he was trying his best to act like a good father. Drugs can make that difficult though. He was genuinely indignant that he was handcuffed when he was arrested. After all, he played football with the chief of police in high school and he, not the chief, was the starting quarterback. More on this later.
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