TRYING TO GET TO REHAB

As a child, I’d always imagined the day would come when, like Anne Welles in Valley of the Dolls, I’d pull my dying drugged self out of the ocean and return to New England. When I came to the end of my road it was far less glamorous than I’d romanticized. It was easier to remain curled in a blanket on the floor and fantasize about changing my life than it was to pack my few belongings and get to Port Authority.  

I was on the floor of my room at the dismal Belleclaire Hotel facing the open closet estimating packing time for what remained of my worldly possessions: a few hanging garments, a pair of red and black stiletto heels, and old combat-style boots. Weeks ago a hole the size of a quarter appeared on the sole of my boot. I’d been limping from an infection ever since.  My ankles were so swollen from another illness that a cab driver carried me up the flight of stairs to my room the night before. I'd lost  sensation in two fingers, couldn’t hear out of one ear, and watched mysterious liver spots appear and disappear on my skin.  For a year I’d been writing down these various symptoms in the event that, should my body be discovered, someone would find this paper and autopsy me to find out the real cause of death  rather than assume it was a drug overdose. I kept the list on me at all times.

My reflection filled the security mirror as I boarded a Greyhound bus bound for Toronto, eyes the color of egg yolks. Fourteen hours later, I woke up in Toronto with no recollection of passing through customs.  At Women’s College Hospital my various illnesses were treated with several painful shots of penicillin. It was past midnight when the taxi pulled into my parents’ driveway.

My mom’s eyes filled with terror as she unlocked the door. I was supposed to be living in California not standing in the Canadian night. Three months earlier, I announced I’d started going to Narcotics Anonymous meetings, not realizing how the news would affect my family. She didn’t ask why I was there; simply told me to sleep in my old room and went back to bed.

But I didn’t sleep. I didn’t sleep for the next ten days. Every night until dawn, I creepy-crawled around the dark house carrying plates of food.  The food combos were random – ice cream followed by kosher dills, peanut butter sandwiches, cucumbers in a bowl of vinegar, canned corn, cereal, an apple. I hoped I’d hit a food level that would put me to sleep. Instead, sounds of a battle being waged inside my stomach snapped me to a heightened alertness.

Guilt-ridden and fearful my late night mania would be misconstrued as drug use, I spent my days on the phone trying to find a rehab. There was one problem – in 1988, Canada seemed unaware that there was a drug epidemic going on. In the early 80s I didn’t know anyone using heroin in Toronto but by the late 80s it was everywhere. I explained this to every professional I managed to get on the phone. True, I was the only one in my crowd who had a desire to get clean but I knew there must be others. I’d attended a Narcotics Anonymous World Convention with thousands of recovering addicts in California.  Words like therapeutic community, rehab, sober living, and detox were common in the United States. In Toronto, one or two facilities existed to treat alcoholism but drug addicts were on their own.  I called the Narcotics Anonymous hotline. There were 5 meetings a week, each night in a different corner of the far reaches of the suburbs.

Hepatitis, compounded with other illnesses, helped my narcotic withdrawal pass without much notice.  I was amazed that bad health could trump the melodrama of kicking a dope habit. On the fifth day I drove to a meeting. The building was dark and the doors were closed. I guess that meant there were four NA meetings a week in Toronto. I was getting scared. I knew that if I couldn’t find help soon, the minute my health came back every cell in my body would pull me back to heroin. If I was feeling good enough to drive, it meant time was running out.

An old friend called to say that a huge shipment of dope had just come in and that I should drop by. I told him I was done.  If I really wanted off this ride, there couldn’t be one last time. I’d spared my family the reality of my life by moving to a different country. I’d deceived them with cheerful long distance phone calls. The morning after I’d arrived home, my mom said that I wouldn’t be welcome if I showed up like this again.  It broke my heart to see how much she was suffering. I would have gone anywhere to spare her this pain but the truth was - I was dying and had never needed her more.

The next day I struck gold. Someone I’d talked to found a way to get Canadian health insurance accepted by a treatment center in Louisiana. The guy sounded shifty on the phone and I’m sure was scamming the government in some way but with no other options available, I was grateful for his ingenuity.  He said I had to pay my airfare down and if I finished the forty-two day program, they’d provide my ticket home and $100.  I copied down the name of the treatment center, Bowling Green in Mandeville Louisiana, and my contact’s name and number on a piece of paper. They’d meet me at the New Orleans airport in two days. 

This news brought my parents back to life.  Being in Toronto in ‘88 and getting into rehab was as close as it came to winning the lottery. The house was buzzing with excitement. My mother took me to the mall to buy pajamas and jeans since the clothes I’d arrived in were rags. She held up various garments “Patty, there might be doctor addicts and lawyer addicts there. You should look nice.” She never gave up the dream.

The night before my flight I dyed my hair magenta. The purplish color did not complement my jaundice complexion and no amount of washing could remove this “temporary” dye. By the time I arrived at the airport, the best I’d managed was a dull shade of pink similar to flesh tone. I kissed my family good-bye and headed through the gates. Customs and Immigration greeted me on the other side. I’d forgotten in Toronto you pass through US customs before boarding the plane. Boney at hundred and five pounds, with yellow skin and flesh colored hair, I was far from inconspicuous. The first round of questions began. 
“Where are you going?”
“New Orleans”
He looked at my ticket.
“How long will you be gone?”
“Forty-two days.”
“Purpose of trip”
“I’m going to an alcoholism treatment center.”
Silence.
“Can I see the return ticket please?”
I pulled out the piece of paper with the treatment information on it and explained that they give me a return ticket when I finish the program. I was escorted to an interrogation room. An official looked at my hand written note with the rehab information.

“I can’t let you into the country with no money and no return ticket. You must have something official faxed to you from this Bowling Green place. Did you know there is a law stating that known alcoholics are prohibited from entering the United States?”


I began to cry uncontrollably. It was a miracle I’d found a treatment center that would take me. I hadn’t expected to not be able to go. Surely he could see that I was dying. How could he deny me the right to save my life? He pretended to be absorbed in his paperwork while motioning for someone to escort me out. That’s when I lost it. I grabbed onto his desk and screamed “Take a good look at this face so when you open the paper tomorrow and read that a woman has slit her throat you will remember me. Think about that when you go to bed tonight.” Filled with indignation, I stormed out.

Sitting on the curb outside of the terminal waiting for my parents to pick me up, I realized that even with the proper documents I wouldn’t get through customs again tomorrow. After the scene I just caused, they’d surely remember me.  I devised Plan B.


When my parents arrived I told them I had to be smuggled over the border. My father began complaining about the money, the tickets, and the trips to the airport. Now that he knew I’d been on heroin, he was remembering the times he’d gone to airports for flights I’d forgotten to take, money for emergencies that didn’t exist, gifts that were never bought. He was thinking of all the lies and all the money I’d cost him wondering if this time was any different.

“Please dad, I’m going to die if I don’t go to this rehab.”

At the Peace Bridge, my dad explained how we’d spent the day in Niagara Falls and wanted to go to the states side for good New York pizza before driving back to Toronto. I sat in the far back corner, deep in conversation with my fifteen-year-old brother about Ninja Turtles. As long as they didn’t open the trunk, it would go as planned.

I said good-bye to my family for a second time at the Buffalo airport. I had fourteen hours to kill and twenty dollars. Since I hadn’t slept for ten days, I was prepared for a night of pacing. By nine-thirty,  I caught a shuttle to a nearby hotel with a restaurant/bar to help kill a few hours.

It was a typical hotel bar, a cross between a dimly lit TGIF and a local tavern. A dozen people were spread throughout the room, some sitting alone, couples, the rowdier guys at the bar. I took a table by the window and stared out at the mountains of snow rising up at the far end of the parking lot. It was the first snow I’d seen, reminding me that it was December. I had no recollection of the previous Christmas in LA other than I was living in a hotel above a punk rock bar on Hollywood Boulevard. I’m sure I’d spent it alone.

A waitress materialized at my table and I asked for a glass of red wine. I’d meant to order coffee but the soft jazz, the snow, the desolation, and the feeling that I was inside an Edward Hopper painting seemed to call for red wine. The first sip went straight to my inflamed liver followed by a bile sensation moving toward my throat. I pushed the glass to the far side of the table beyond reach. I was overcome by intense and unanticipated fatigue. I looked around for a clock, hoping it was later than it seemed. Of the four men at the bar, one smiled. A moment later he asked if he could join me. I agreed, not because I wanted company as much as I needed someone to help me stay awake.

David offered a cigarette as the waitress brought over a second round. My liver throbbed at the site of it. For the next few hours, while I sipped wine, we traded stories. He described himself as a night club impresario from Hamilton Ontario (a working class steel town with no night life to speak of) and said he was on his way to New York to invest in a new hotspot. I said little about myself other than I was waiting for a 10AM flight to New Orleans. As time passed and our guard went down, we bonded on wild adventures involving drugs.

When they announced last call, I asked him to walk me back to the airport. “Patty, don’t be ridiculous. I have a room in the hotel. You are more than welcome to crash there until your flight or I can get you a room of your own.” There was definitely chemistry between us but I couldn’t have had sex with him even if I’d wanted to and said as much. I was too sick. He flashed a thick wad of hundreds inside his jacket pocket.  "It's not a big deal. I can afford a room for you.”

We checked in at the front desk adjacent to the bar and started our trek down the long hallway in search of my room. I carried my half filled glass of wine and David carried my suitcase – which contained new jeans, pajamas, and several dozen stripper costumes I’d been traveling with. I was grateful to have a bed and was figuring out how I could get rid of him at the door when, suddenly, we were surrounded by a swat team and I was shoved up against the wall. I couldn’t believe this was happening.

Apparently whatever David was really doing in America with his wad of cash, the border patrol and Swat team had been watching him. They believed I was his contact. I was too defeated to cry so I handed my little paper with my contact info and treatment center scribbled on it. Holding my wine glass, I looked into the detective’s eyes and said “If I don’t get to this treatment center, I am going to die.” He put his handcuffs away. Twelve cops escorted David out of the building while I unlocked the door to my room.

The next day, I landed at the New Orleans airport. It was my first day clean. December 10, 1988.

Death Defying Summer Vacation

A few years ago I became friends with a twenty-six year old alcoholic. With every whiskey, he’d reach a new level of maudlin and melodrama, pointing to the scar on his chest professing, “I can never love again because I have no heart.” Although it was wearing a bit thin on my patience, I’ll give anyone an audience to see where they will go if left uncensored. It wasn’t until he came to the “I won’t live to see 30” part of this semi-rehearsed monologue that I started to laugh. 

When we were young, my best friend Rick and I had a motto: Live fast, die young, leave a pretty corpse. This philosophy gave us license to take a lot of risks. Not to mention it sounded cool. When we reunited in 91, we were both over 30. Considering what we’d lived through, it was amazing we’d made it. I’m now 21 years older than I ever thought I’d live to be. 

Since the days of “live fast die young”, death’s been a recurring theme in my life. In ’88 I hit a heroin bottom that forced me to choose between life and death.  I've lost count of my friends who’ve died. Even in my fiction I’ve entertained suicide. And there was 9/11. Basically, since getting clean I've had many opportunities to contemplate death and come to terms with it. But you never know where you really stand until you face it. Recently, I had the most bizarre life and death experience to date.

 After forty years in the same house, my parents left Toronto and moved 90 miles east on Lake Ontario to a town consisting of four or five residential streets surrounded by farmland and forests. There’s a community center, hockey rink, and a general store.  Once I arrive, I’m basically stuck there.  Whereas before, I used to join friends after dinner, I now ride a bicycle for entertainment.

On my mom’s heavy ten-speed bicycle, I climb the never-ending hills up Community Center Road. My destination is always the same – one lonely horse in a corral several miles away. This is where I catch my breath and turn around.  Every summer I visit for two weeks. This year I arrived late July.

They were having the same heat wave I’d left in New York so I waited until evening before getting on the bike. The combo of natural beauty and endorphins put me in a state of tranquility and euphoria. I stopped at the top of the hill for the panoramic view before coasting past cornfields and another stretch of forest. Finally the land cleared to reveal a house, a small barn and corral. It had been a year since my last visit and I was anxious to see my favorite horse.

 As the property came into sight,  the corral  appeared empty.  A black animal came into view crossing from the corral toward the woods. At first I thought it was a bear cub, which was exciting and shocking enough, but then I realized it had a long tail.  My brain did a quick run-down of all animals native to Ontario that fit the description but came up empty. The animal moved unmistakably like a housecat.  My brain started reconfiguring the way a GPS freaks out when you do a U-turn.  “ I knew it was a black panther but this was illogical. Something was wrong. When the cat disappeared into the high grass I walked my bike to get a better look at the corral expecting to find a bloody carcass. Thankfully it was empty. Maybe the house was sold and the new owners owned an exotic pet. That could happen, right?  Dusk was setting in so it was difficult to make out any sort of cat cage or fence from thirty feet. As I contemplated this, the panther walked back into view and we made eye contact. He immediately crouched in the grass. 

My brain screamed, “Look away. Don’t make eye contact!” and my eyes darted to the road without as much as a heartbeat moving my body.  I felt like Mia Farrow when she wakes up in Rosemary’s baby having sex with Satan. “This is really happening.”

I ‘ve had guns pulled on me and two attempted rapes, but nothing had ever prepared me for anything like this. It was like being on an African Wildlife Safari without a vehicle. At the same time, there was a level of disbelief. There are no wild panthers in Ontario Canada. I know this beyond a doubt. Yet, as darkness was blanketing the land, a panther was watching me from a short distance with nothing between us except a cheap short wire fence. There was a good chance that within seconds of getting on my bike, I would feel the teeth and claws of this animal. I could be mauled, or dragged into the woods, eaten or discarded. This could really happen.

I took a deep breath. “Take a good look around because this may be the last time you see it.” So I took in the cloudless deep blue sky and swept my eyes over the wheat field and the forest now dark with night and thought of how beautiful it all was and how lucky I’ve been to experience it.  I got on the bike and began to pedal, knowing I didn’t want to die and at the same time, not afraid of it. I knew I was powerless and had to just ride this moment out.

I  ran directly to my computer and Googled “wildcat sightings southern Ontario”. Nothing came up. My mom followed me in. “Patty, did something happen. You are white as a sheet.” I hadn’t planned to tell her but knew it would be suspicious if I sped off in her car. “Mom drive me so I can get an address. There’s a panther out there and I have to call animal protective services before it kills any of the horses”.   The field was almost covered by darkness but the panther hadn’t moved. Its profile matched every panther ceramic coffee table ornament I’d ever seen. My mom saw it too.

After describing my experience, the cop on the phone said “Well, you’re in the country>” as though I was some city asshole who’d never seen a deer before. “What country exactly am I in? I grew up here and to my knowledge panthers are not indigenous to Canada. Moose, deer, bears, beavers, raccoons, skunks yes. Panthers no” He grumbled before filing an official report.

The next day I stuck a detailed account in every mailbox on Community Center Road.  My favorite horse was back in the corral and a woman was in the driveway. She listened while I told my story.  When I was done, she was quiet. I felt like a psychiatric escapee. “This morning when I let him out of the barn instead of going to his feed his nostrils began to flare and he started running in circles. I’ve never seen him like that before.”

There is no way to describe the emotional aspect of this experience.  What lingered in my thoughts were the cloudless dark blue sky and the various shades of green at the edge of the forest. When I believed my life was about to end, my only thought was “It is so beautiful here.” and the overwhelming yet peaceful feeling of being lucky to have experienced life. I was not afraid to die.

This experience showed me that despite my occasional angst and life stresses, I’m at peace with myself, and that this has not come attached to any concept of afterlife or reincarnation or God.  I’m thrilled that my youthful ambition to leave a pretty corpse was never realized. Peace, for me, has come through living.

I once wrote a story where the main character has to find a reason not to commit suicide. In the end, she decides that it’s worth hanging on because you never know what crazy adventure is around the corner, who the next new person will be to make you laugh at something new.  I still stand by this.

In September my mother dropped in on the woman with the horse. The vet said there have been seven sighting of the panther. It killed a horse 35 miles away. A farmer on Community Center road said his horses were tangled in the fence as if they were running from something and he mentioned my letter. Every house in the area with small children is now for sale.

Health Food and Heroin - Acquiring Culinary Skills Part One

WARNING TO PEOPLE IN RECOVERY: This post is about acquiring skills I use as a sober coach - in this case diet/nutrition/holistic practices. I always include recovery topics with my real life story blogs but because part one heavily drug using-centric, it may not be suitable for newcomers until part 2 is posted later this week.




Unconventional training. Acquiring skills I use as a sober coach - Culinary Skills : PART ONE of TWO



Alphabet City 1979. Operation Pressure Point was in full force in New York's East Village. For heroin addicts this meant waiting in dark buildings to get frisked for a wire tap and showing satisfactory track marks in order to get served. It also meant endlessly circling the block trying to look inconspicuous while local news camera rolled down the street and police were everywhere. Of course, in a neighborhood consisting of dilapidated vacant buildings, it was obvious why anyone was there.

You couldn't get a cab to take you in and you definitely couldn't find one to take you out of Alphabet City. Although Debbie and I lived at 14th and 3rd, anything could happen on the way back from Avenue D. Taxi Driver had been filmed outside of our building a few years earlier and pimps and underage hookers still prowled 3rd Avenue from the parking lots at 9th Street to the Peep Show at 15th. In our punk rock attire of spandex pants and 5" stiletto heels, who knows what the cabbies thought we were when we flagged them down but we never had trouble getting them to take us deep into the heart of the action day or night. To sweeten the deal, I'd leave Debbie in the car as eye candy. A six foot tall blond beauty, she could have been as successful a model as Jerry Hall or Patti Hansen had she the ambition. Instead, Debbie was satisfied with the simple life: shopping, TV, heroin and a fiance in the Clash. We'd pull onto the dope block and I'd jump out of the car spewing my well-rehearsed "She's going to wait in the car while I run up and borrow some records. be right back." We thought we were so slick - until a driver turned around and handed me forty bucks "Get some records for me too." This is how I met Marty.






One afternoon, I was waiting in the front seat of Marty's taxi while he scored for us on Eldridge Street. Suddenly, all the parked panel vans surrounding me burst open and dozens of armed men wearing Swat Team vests ran around the cab, heading in Marty's direction. The next month, that bust appeared in Life Magazine complete with glossy photos. Soon after, I moved back to Canada, enrolled at the University of Toronto and started driving a cab.

I drove before crack. Had I waited a few more years, I probably wouldn't have done it. With crack came a new level of violence. As it was, in 1980, I was the only woman of any age driving a taxi in Toronto. I truly believed my street smarts from two years in the lower east side drug culture made me invincible. Really, I was just lucky that the shock factor of seeing a cute 20 year old in the driver's seat unnerved everyone - including would-be bad guys. No one could sit down without engaging me in conversation.

People love tipping cab drivers with drugs. Mostly weed. And every joint was prefaced with "Don't smoke this until you get home cuz it will fuck you up." but we're talking Toronto Home-Grown (before hydroponics) so I'd usually light up as soon as they got out. One slow Sunday afternoon, I pulled the car onto a deserted street and smoked a joint someone had just given me. My skin immediately felt like it was covered in a thin coating of rubber cement or cold smooth wax. I became afraid to look in the mirror and started to hyperventilate. The radio dispatcher started calling out car numbers and locations. It was getting busy. I practiced saying my number out loud but my voice sounded distorted and monotone. I didn't even know if I could hold the microphone. I shut off the radio and sat in eerie silence.

At that very moment, the rear door opened and an elderly man stuck his head in.

"Are you available?"

Speaking was out of the question so I nodded and started the engine. It took a few minutes for them to get seated. I began driving. This couple didn't speak and didn't move. I was sure they could smell the weed and were memorizing my name and license to report me. When I finally pulled myself together, I didn't know where I was. Nothing looked familiar. My head started up, "Where am I? Fuck - what street is this? Those people know I'm high and lost! They think I'm running the meter up on them. That's why they're so fucking quiet. They're probably terrified." I glanced in the rear-view mirror. Hand in hand, heads bobbing, they were hard to read. I was in nervous breakdown mode until I saw a street sign at an intersection in the distance.

"Excuse me - what's the address again?" My voice reverberated in a sort of made-for-TV drug scene distortion. I hoped they didn't notice but at this point I didn't care. I just wanted them out of my car. When I finally got to their destination, I almost wept. After that, I saved all my tips until I got home.



After work, I'd unwind with a joint and television. At 4am my choices were limited to religious programming or anti-drug public service announcements. Some times they were ironic and other times all they did was fuel existential despair. Stoned with the munchies and no food at home, I became engrossed in a Better Homes and Gardens cook book offer. "Order now and receive your first book for free and we will send you a new book every month. If you're not completely satisfied, cancel your subscription and keep the book." It was a win-win book deal so I made the call. A few days later when my first cookbook arrived, I'd forgotten I'd ordered it. A month later a large box arrived with the other 49 books and a bill for close to two hundred dollars. I'd meant to cancel the subscription. The box remained unopened for another year.