Wasted: An Alcoholic Therapist's Fight for Recovery in a Tragically Flawed Treatment System (23 page)

Sam smiles in silent bemusement.

“Do you remember young Max, the welder?” He sips his black coffee. “He sobered up at We Surrender
a few years ago. He rents a small house on Russell Avenue just behind Peace Arch Hospital. I’m his sponsor. He’s looking for a roommate. Somebody in the program. You’d be perfect.”

My heart leaps out of my chest. A chunk of chicken falls out of my gaping mouth. I can’t believe it. Freedom.

“I think you could move in right away,” Sam continues. “The guy who shares with him is getting
married. He just moved in with his fiancée.”

“How will I cover the rent? I have thirty-eight cents to my name. There’s one week left in June, and I don’t get paid until next Friday.” My mind races. I do the math. About $480, before tax and deductions—that’s about three hundred bucks. My heart plummets. But wait, I have one more welfare cheque coming to me this Wednesday! I have to get
that cheque before they forward it to Mission Possible, and I have to get a cellphone because Dr. Acres’s office will phone any day for my first piss test. I can’t rely on Ken to take any messages if I’m not around or at work. Shit!

“Take it easy, Mike,” Sam says. “I’ll call Max right now. I’m sure he’ll figure something out for you.” Sam dials a number on his cellphone and fills Max in.

A pause.

“Yeah, I think he’s good for it... Yeah, he’s right here. I’ll let you talk to him.”

I take the phone.

“Sam says you’re doing great,” says Max. “Keep working the program. I’m twenty-four and I’ll be four years sober in September. One day at a time. So I’m looking for a roommate. I’m away on the pipeline here in Northern Alberta one to two months, then back
home for a week or two. You’ll have the place to yourself most of the time. Sam can take you over to have a look. It works out to about thirteen hundred a month including utilities and cable. That’s six-fifty each.”

“That’s great, Max. I can give you three hundred next Friday and the rest in the middle of July.”

“Don’t worry about it, Mike. I don’t get back till about then. The
rent is paid up till the end of July. You’re a professional with a great job, and I know you’re good for it. This is awesome.”

“Thank you so much, Max. You don’t know how much this means to me. I’ll talk to you later.” I press End on the phone, look at Sam and grin.

“I’ll take you up to have a look at it.” Sam gets up, jangling his car keys. “Max told me where the key is hidden.”

We drive to a tiny two-bedroom bungalow built in the fifties. Peeling paint and an overgrown lawn greet us. Like me, she’s past her prime. Inside, the hardwood floor is scratched and well worn, the furniture old and sparse.

“It’s perfect, Sam.” My eyes sweep around the house as I imagine living here. “And just a ten-minute walk to the bus stop directly to work.” My brain calculates
rapid-fire now.

All recovery houses have an agreement with Social Services and Housing to have the monthly cheques signed over to the director of the facility. I have to intercept next month’s welfare cheque before Randy picks it up on Wednesday. No one can know I’m leaving. Rob is the only one I trust.

When I get back to Mission Possible, Rob and I sit out back behind the shed
while he enjoys a smoke.

“I found a place in White Rock. I can move in right away,” I say.

“Holy shit, Mike. That’s great. Who with?”

“Young Max the welder. He’s about your age, Rob.”

“Yeah, I know him. He’s a good guy. He’s been sober quite a while. He’s never around, though. Works up north all the time. You’ll be there by yourself.”

“I know. It’s great.”

Rob’s brow furrows. “I don’t know, Mike. You think you’re ready to be living alone? You’re only sober a few months. How about Two-Finger Ted’s sober house? They’re looking for a fourth roommate.”

“Nah, I’m sick of living with a bunch of maniacs. Especially you. I’m ready to be on my own. I’m beyond ready. My only concern is getting out of here
ASAP
and snagging my welfare cheque
before Randy gets his hands on it.”

“Good point. Good luck. He’s gonna be pissed off.”

“I don’t give a shit.”

That night I borrow Wayne’s cellphone and call Brennan. “I’ve got a dilemma, Bren. I have the choice of moving into a house with this young guy named Max. Except, he’ll be away working up north seventy-five per cent of the time. So mostly I’ll be by myself. Or I
can move into a sober house with three other guys who attend
AA
and are active in the program.”

Brennan—my middle child. Always contrary. My biggest challenge in parenting. Ironically, now he’s the only one in the family who still communicates with me. In my downward spiral, many who loved me blocked my tortured calls, but never Brennan.

“I don’t think you’re ready to live on your
own yet, Dad.” Brennan sounds hesitant. “Maybe at some point down the road, but not yet.”

I know he’s right. But I crave peace.

“Okay, son,” I say, “I’ll think about it. Either way, I have to get out of this place.”

“I get that, Dad. But I don’t think you should live alone yet. You don’t do well when you’re alone. You’re a people person.”

I hear the worry and concern
in his voice. I hear the fear.

Live with Max? Move into the sober house? The autonomy. The independence. The freedom. The risk. I don’t trust my own mind. Rob and Brennan are right. I should move into the sober house.

I’m moving in with Max.

• 22 •

I MAY HAVE A
full paycheque and a new home in two weeks, but today I don’t have two nickels to rub together. No bus fare to return to work tomorrow. And I have to pay off Ken for use of the van.

“Rob. Let’s spend the day collecting bottles and cans.”

All morning and most of the afternoon, Rob and I walk the ditches of rural South Langley hauling
large, heavy plastic garbage bags. We wade into ankle-deep mud to retrieve half-buried Bud and Coors Light and Kokanee cans and the odd pop can from the culverts. Our treasure is mostly beer cans, obviously thrown from moving vehicles. The irony is not lost on me.

While we’re at it, we pick up all manner of filth and litter. People on bikes and cars slow down to see what we’re doing.

“Hey, that’s awesome. I drive by every day and the garbage is getting disgusting.”

“I’ve got a box of bottles and cans in my garage. You guys can have them.”

“Thanks for doing this, man. A lot more people should be out here doing this.”

By noon, both our bags are jammed and we have to go back to the house to get new ones. Far from the humiliating experience I assumed
this would be, it’s exhilarating.

By four o’clock we have four bags full of every can and bottle imaginable.

The grand total: $84.40. Twenty dollars protection money goes to Ken.

Rob and I split the remaining $64.40. That’s $32.20 each—bus fare to get to work for a week and a half till I get paid.

Sleep comes more easily tonight but doesn’t last. Wayne’s clock radio
reads 3:47 a.m. I tiptoe to retrieve a one-pound bag of Starbucks coffee hidden in a gym bag under Wayne’s bed. It’s our secret. I brew a small pot and savour every hot sip.

“Hey, is there any more of that Starbucks left, old-timer?” A sleepy Rob goes to the pot and pours himself a mug. He drinks. “Damn. I wish we had cream and sugar. Fucking Randy. I know Ken has some stashed in his room.
Fucking lazy prick.”

I shower, shave and slip into Wayne’s freshly laundered golf shirt. Rob’s got Ken’s car keys, this time with his consent because we paid him off. We climb into the van and drive in companionable silence. The yellow-orange sun climbs behind us, lighting the trees and hills ahead. Finally, Rob speaks.

“I was thinking about it all last night, Mike. I don’t think
you’re ready yet to live on your own.”

“Rob. I’ve made up my mind. I’m moving into Max’s house.”

The silence continues all the way into White Rock, where Rob drops me off at the bus stop. “Have a good day, buddy,” he says. “See ya at the Fiver.”

I walk onto the unit three minutes before the seven-o’clock shift starts. In unison, Jim, Janice and Mark say “good morning” then
return to the business at hand, morning reports. No warmth, just politeness.

Janice says, “Mike, we put you on meds. You might as well get started. You’re partnered up with Mark again today.”

The med room. I gulp. If I screw up here, something really bad could happen.

Each time I encounter a medication I’m not familiar with, I pull out the
Compendium of Pharmaceuticals
and read the dosages, action and adverse effects. Most are new-generation antidepressants, mood stabilizers and antipsychotics: Zyprexa, Seroquel, Risperdal. My hands shake as I portion the pills and liquids into tiny paper and plastic containers.

Mark peeks in. “How’s it going? Do you need anything?”

“No, I think I’m okay. I’ll call you if I need to.”

Putting pills into
their appropriate paper cups isn’t the problem. That hasn’t changed in twenty years. Logging the meds in the computer and ordering more—I don’t know what the hell I’m doing.

Bloodwork orders, X-ray requisitions, admissions, all done on computer. Mark, Kate and Sarb see me struggle and offer to help, but they go so fast I can’t follow. So much of this stuff is now second nature to them.
Over the afternoon, I see their frustration levels rise. They can’t get their own work done because they have to teach grade nine word-processing to a fifty-five-year-old man.

On the bus ride back to White Rock, I get off at the Newton Exchange and stride into the social services office. It’s Welfare Wednesday. I bypass the long lineup of people waiting for their cheques and go directly
to the counter. “Hi, my name is Michael Pond. I have an appointment with Susan.” Susan is the young woman who worked her supervisors to get my six months of hardship welfare.

“Hello, Michael. You’re looking well,” Susan says when we sit down in her office.

“Thank you. I’ve started work again at Surrey Memorial. I don’t get my first paycheque till next Friday. I’m moving out of
the recovery house as soon as possible, but I need my social assistance cheque to make a deposit on my new place.”

“Congratulations.” Susan smiles. “It’s good to see you’re getting back on your feet. So this will be your last cheque from us. Good luck.”

“Thanks, Susan. I don’t mean this in a bad way, but I’m glad to see the last of you.”

When I arrive in White Rock, I go
to the bank and cash my cheque. Six hundred and ten precious dollars. Today I keep it all. It’s been a long time since I’ve had that amount of cash in my hands. I finger through the twenties, making sure Queen Elizabeth looks the same on each one, and then marvel at the Bill Reid Aboriginal creation memorialized on the back.

At the Fiver, Sam introduces me to Keith, Max’s soon-to-be-departing
roommate.

“Hi, Mike.” He shakes my hand. “I hear you’re moving into the place. It’s a nice little house. You’ll like it.” He hands me the keys.

“I can give you six hundred bucks, Keith,” I say. “That’s all I have. I can settle the rest next Friday when I get paid.”

“That’s fine. Sam says you’re a good guy.”

I count out each bill for Keith, until I only have a lonely
ten left. Dour Sir John A. Macdonald perpetually frowns. He thinks I’m making a mistake, too.

With what’s left of the bottle and can money, I now have $38.45 to get me through the next nine days. After the Fiver, Ken drives us all back to Mission Possible. The entire ride I stare out the window, ignoring everyone. I’m out of that damn place tomorrow. I can hardly believe it.

I
pack my belongings. Again. I cannot even count the moves I’ve made in the last four years.

After five hours of solid sleep, I awake refreshed and raring to go at 4:11 a.m.

“Let’s go, old man. You’re movin’ on up,” laughs Rob.

“Shut up,” I scold. “The last thing I need is to have Randy find out I’m ditching this place.”

I get Rob to drive by the little rundown house
on Russell Avenue on the way to the bus stop. In the break of dawn’s light, behold: a mansion. After work I’ll stop at the Safeway and buy a few things. Maybe make a couple of barbecued burgers with melted cheddar cheese and sit on the back deck. Enjoy a quiet meal in the sun.

Work is unusually quiet. It’s Friday, and many of the kids will go home on a weekend pass. That seems to have
a sedating effect on everyone, staff included.

“Is Mike Pond here?” I hear a familiar male voice down the hall. “I need to see Mike Pond.”

I know that voice, but it shouldn’t be here. It belongs to Dangerous Doug, my old roommate from We Surrender. I step out of the meeting room and there he is, his thick bulk hanging over the desk at the empty nursing station. How the hell did
he get into a secured unit? He must have followed the food cart or the janitor in. What the hell is he doing here? My head swivels to see if anyone is watching.

Doug looks at me—excited at first to have found me, then ashamed. “Mike, Mike, I had to come. I have something to tell you.”

As I near him, I can see and smell he is dead drunk.

“I need to make amends, man. I told
your girlfriend that you were dead. I told her you offed yourself. I’m so sorry, man. Please forgive me, man. I was drunk when I did that. I’m so sorry, man.” He was drunk then, and he’s drunk now. As quickly as I can, I absolve him. I’ve got to get him off the unit before anyone sees us.

“That’s okay, Doug, I’m not dead. I’m fine. It’s okay, but you need to leave.” I shuffle him out the
door, as he chants over and over, “I’m so sorry, man. I need to make amends.”

I return to the nursing station, where Janice sits, looking down the hall at Doug. “Who was that?”

“Just some guy from the streets I ran into. Must have followed me in to work,” I shrug.

On the bus ride home, I fidget and squirm and plan. I’ll do a couple of loads of laundry. I’ll make my dinner
on the barbecue. I’ll watch what I want on the forty-seven-inch flat-screen
TV
. I’ll sleep in that beautiful king-size bed in Max’s room. There won’t be a snore to be heard, except mine. Perfect peace.