It dawned on me that there's a distinct possibility no one has any interest in my story. Alas, I continue to blog because I prefer it over journal-ing.
My previous blog left off at .............detox............ If it weren't for a single memory of doors closing behind me as I boarded the crazy train or ambulance (still don't know which), I would swear God carried me on his back to the nearest hospital. In retrospect, I realize I could no longer help myself so he had to intervene to save my life. I was so intoxicated that the floor looked no different to me than the walls or the ceiling. All of my equilibrium was left at the bottom of the bottle I'd emptied. So for me to locate my insurance card and cell phone (which I can't even find sober) then to see well enough to dial that number, is nothing short of a freakin' miracle. Truly.
At some point I either snapped out of my black out or regained consciousness in the E.R. and found myself on suicide watch. I was coherent enough to ask for the phone to call my husband. I knew he'd be freaking out. The nurse wouldn't let me call him at first because she didn't want to upset me. Um, hello? How much more upset do you get than "suicidal"? Anyhow, she finally let me use the phone and that is when I left him the message(s).
At about 4 or 4:30 a.m. the Sunday after Thanksgiving, he came to my room. He had to sneak around Atilla the Nurse, but he found me. He was devastated thinking he lost me. That moment we were back together, we knew we had hit a new bottom.
Somewhere around noon or so, I got a ride, courtesy of the ambulance company, over to a renowned behavioral health facility. When I arrived, the paramedics and I entered through a secure back entrance. I was sat upon a funky little pleather bench in a short little hallway. As we waited for someone to come through yet another secure door to greet us, I looked down at the hospital band on my wrist thinking "Do I really belong here?". I wondered if I'd blown things out of proportion. This kind of thing happened to people who were scraped up off the sidewalk or found unconscious on the bathroom floor, but I had called them myself (apparently). Then I got real. I was suicidal, I was out of answers, I was severely depressed, I was (and still am) an alcoholic. Yes, I belonged there regardless of how I got there.
They took my clothes and examined my naked body for scrapes, bruises and abnormalities of the like. Then I was handed scrubs to wear during my brief time in an observation room. This room had weird recliners only a hospital could want. They were actually numbered and lined up in front of a television. The "observing" staff was behind a wall of windows in a secure office. I know, everything was secure; even the bathrooms had a keypad entry. Anyway, talk about feeling like a lab rat. It was a trip.
I must have passed, because I graduated to a bed in a room and a roommate! I had arrived to the detox unit!
No comments:
Post a Comment