Lost In London (eBook)

Chapter 2

Rehab

I surveyed the room from the edge of the bed, the sour scent of vomit assaulting my senses. With a grimace, I pushed the crusted pillow clinging to my face to the floor. Outside, voices murmured, and an unexpected moan escaped me, louder than I intended. A brief knock at the door preceded the entrance of a heavyset woman.

“Good morning, Mike. Is there anything you need?”

I pulled up the sheets, hiding my exposed body, and said nothing. She moved closer, leaning over and picking up the bucket of puke as she smiled uneasily.

“Can I get you anything?”

I remained silent, fixating on her dangling glasses against the backdrop of her pink scrub uniform.

“Mike, do you need anything?”

I tried to speak, but no words emerged.

“Excuse me?” She leaned in closer, turning her ear toward the bed, regarding me with a childlike stare.

A mere whisper escaped me, “Where am I?”

“You were admitted to a detox unit.”

“What?”

“A detox unit. We’re here to get you better. Now, do you need anything?”

“Vodka or a gun please.”

Her expression contorted into a disapproving frown. “I’ll be back in a few minutes to check on you. You’re going to be OK.”

“Don’t forget the gun.” I stared at her departing figure, my mind drifting to a lobster joke a friend had shared years ago. Whenever a woman had a substantial backside, he’d call her a lobster because, as he claimed, all the meat was in the tail.

My body quivered in a pool of perspiration, my throat searing with each labored breath. Clutching my stomach, I sank to the floor and crawled toward the bathroom. With my cheeks resting on the toilet, I retched into the small trash can below, each violent heave sending vomit spilling out repeatedly. The sickness showed no signs of relenting, and my left eye twitched while blood vessels burst. I collapsed onto the cold bathroom floor, trembling uncontrollably, drenched in vomit, and silently praying.

The towel hung just a few feet away, but my fetal position prevented me from reaching it as I begged for relief. Time seemed to stand still as I mustered the strength to push myself off the floor, grab the towel, and crawl back into my sweat-soaked bed.

I was repulsed by my condition, as my body yearned for solace. I knew only one thing could grant me that relief: vodka. Yes, I craved a drink—just a tiny sip to steady myself, but in reality, I longed for a never-ending gulp.

A knock on the door jolted me from my daze. “Just a second,” I mumbled, my voice tinged with weariness. “Come in.”

A man entered the room. “Good morning, Mike, I’m Stan. How are you feeling?” His gentle inquiry contrasted with the mess I found myself in.

I managed a weak attempt at humor, replying, “Fantastic, Stan. As you can see, the day is going just great. I have been throwing up all morning, and nobody knows where the hell I am.”

Stan, seemingly unflustered, replied, “Easy, big guy. I know you’re not feeling well, and we’ve been monitoring you throughout the evening. Your vitals are OK, but you had a lot to drink over the past few days. Your friend dropped you off last night, and I think it’s time to discuss getting you healthy.”

I was bewildered. “What friend?”

“John.”

“Oh, that dickhead,” I muttered, frustrations bubbling up. I couldn’t help but throw in a request, half serious, half venting. “Hey Stan, can you do me a favor?”

Stan, curious, replied, “That depends.”

“Remind me later that I need to kick John’s teeth down his throat.”

Stan smiled uneasily. “Ouch. That’s not very Christian, Mike.”

I sighed, realizing I might have just stepped into a sensitive topic. “Oh, shit, you’re one those Christian guys, huh?”

“Not necessarily, but there is a spiritual connection I follow.”

I cockily nodded. “Ah, good for you, Stan. Now could you tell me what hospital this is?”

With calm patience, Stan provided the revelation. “You’re at a rehabilitation center that is the best addiction treatment center in the Northeast.”

“Huh?”

“I know you have a lot of questions. And we’re going to get to them in a few minutes. Can you do me a favor and have an open mind? First, I think you might want to take a shower and get cleaned up a bit. I’ll be back in thirty minutes to discuss the next steps.”

“Can I go home today?”

Stan’s reply was gentle but firm: “Just take the shower, and we’ll discuss it in a few minutes. Your friend John packed you some clothes.”

The soap and warm water washed over my body, amplifying the pain that seemed to seep through every pore. As I scrubbed away the dirt and grime, but couldn’t escape the gnawing question that kept repeating: What had I done? I was supposed to be at home, in my familiar surroundings; I was supposed to be at work, following my routine; I was supposed to be anywhere but here. Had I lost everything?

I reached for my duffle bag, realizing John had packed the most hideous items from my closet in his supposed act of kindness. Bright orange running shoes (relics I hadn’t worn in decades), ratty old T-shirts (adorned with faded Coors Light advertisements), and ripped or stonewashed jeans long past their prime.

“What the fuck, John?” I knew he was getting back at me for that “stop hugging me” comment I made in my kitchen the day before, and a slight smile crept across my face. After three decades of busting each other’s balls, this was definitely up in the top ten.

Stan entered the room and broke the silence with a simple request: “Could you take a short walk?”

I responded with a hint of irony, trying to keep things light despite the gravity of the situation. “Sure, my dance card is wide open today, Stan.”

As we meandered through the facility, I couldn’t help but scrutinize everything from my unfamiliar surroundings to the man walking beside me. Stan, in his early forties, was of shorter stature with a hint of a comb-over that added to his unassuming appearance. His attire screamed “Walmart designer,” and I wouldn’t have been surprised if he’d been known to dress up in a Star Wars costume at Comic-Con.

But beneath this unpretentious exterior, I sensed a man of remarkable qualities. Stan possessed an unshakable calmness, and I found myself drawn to him, appreciating his presence. I started my sales pitch, resorting to lies and half-truths to rationalize my recent behavior, saying things like, “I have a lot of pressure in my life,” and “If you knew what I have to deal with, you would drink too.” It was the same old bullshit, and I knew it.

Stan remained quiet; his sympathy evident as he listened intently. Then came the pivotal question. “Do you think you may have a problem with alcohol?”

“Do I think?” I scoffed inwardly, my mind racing through the chaos of the past days. “Well, Stan, I’m in a fucking detox center, I’ve probably lost my job, my wife has threatened to lock me out of my house, and have you seen this damn eye?” I gestured to the grotesque bruise, a painful reminder of my recent actions. “So maybe just a little but staying in rehab is only going to make things worse. I can stop, and I’ve done it before.”

“Looks like you’ve been pretty successful,” he said crookedly.

“Good one, Stan.”

Stan’s words revealed a personal battle with drugs and alcohol, a struggle that had consumed a significant portion of his own life. “Mike, there was a time when I was homeless and nobody wanted to be near me,” he continued. “This place will help you start living again. There are a lot of people in your life that still care about you, but I promise that will change if you choose to leave.” Stan acknowledged my frustration, understanding that these words were no magic solution. “A gift,” he said, describing the rehab program.

“Sorry, Stan, this is not a gift but a fucking nightmare.”

“I get it,” he said softly. “But we all have crossroads in our lives, and you have an important one right now. We can’t force you to stay here unless you want it.”

As we walked back to my room, the weight of his words hung in the air.

“Think about what has transpired over the last few years with your drinking. I spoke to your wife this morning, and she shared a few concerns. Normal people don’t drink like you, and I know, deep inside, you know it as well. It’s your choice. It’s your life.”

I stood by the room as Stan shook my hand. “Take your time and think about it,” he suggested. “You are going to be in detox for a few days to get you functioning again, and I’ll be here to talk anytime.”

“OK, thanks.”

“Oh, by the way, I like...