Waiting for Rehab

Count All This — Chapter 20: maybe if you made a donation?

Just when Jo Kasten’s son encounters schizophrenia, she discovers she has breast cancer. Meanwhile, her marriage faces a test. Count All This is a story about love and loyalty, addiction and madness. This is the twentieth chapter. Find the first chapter here.

Once we were all back home in Santa Inez, we developed one focus: get Eddy into a drug treatment program as quickly as possible. This was as important for me as it was for Eddy. My mastectomy was scheduled in one week. I wanted to have Eddy taken care of before I went into the hospital. I wanted my mind clear for the surgery.

Project 60 had no openings. If Eddy wanted a slot in their program, he would have to show up in three days for an interview. The man who answered the phone also recommended a 72-hour stay at Palm Avenue Detox Center, which would provide proof that he was clean and sober. No one is admitted to Project 60 unless they have at least three days clean and sober, he told us. Unfortunately, Palm Avenue was also full.

We were told to continue calling frequently, to see if a bed opened up at Palm Avenue. “People are free to go whenever they want here. It’s not a locked facility, so you never know when someone will decide to just get up and quit, which opens up a bed for a newcomer.” I called every six hours.

We wanted Eddy to go to that particular program for many reasons. It was the male counterpoint of the Women’s Recovery Center, the place my sister had gone years earlier and emerged a well woman. It was also close to home, a non-profit, and reasonably priced.

Once we’d heard his confession in Santa Cruz, Eddy’s addiction to drugs seemed obvious. How could we have missed it before? “Of course he’s been on drugs! That’s why he lost so much weight,” Larry said.

“That explains the glassy eyes.” I added.

“That’s why his behavior is so erratic.”

“A crying jag is listed on this Internet site as one of the symptoms of coming down from crystal meth.”

Reassured by our newfound knowledge, we waited for a rehab slot to open up for our son. But none did.

Two days later, Eddy went to the interview. Afterwards, a man called to tell me he was on the waiting list. Mostly, the program paid for itself by enrolling its members on General Assistance and then taking their checks, he told me. Since Eddy was 18 and unemployed, this plan would work for him. But if we could also make a donation, he might be bumped up on the waiting list and be able to enter the program sooner.

“What kind of donation? How much?”

“Three thousand dollars would probably do it.”

I didn’t like it, but I was desperate. “I think we can afford that… We can agree to that. We’ll find it somewhere.”

“Let me talk to my supervisor. I’ll call you back.”

Meanwhile, I looked on the Internet for other options. Thunder Road in the East Bay was a good program for teenagers, but it turned out they didn’t want an 18-year-old on crystal meth. He might be a bad influence on the younger kids.

“The Farm” was a possibility in the Santa Cruz mountains. The man on the phone said we could bring him in that night. They had a 24-hour admission policy. But the description on the web site sounded more like a country club than a rehab center — pool, hot tubs, tennis courts — and so did the price tag: $8,000 a month.

Another place in Napa had a similar feel and price tag, as did multiple options in southern California. A few outpatient programs — which required attendance eight hours a day, five days a week — could be had for $5,500-$7,000 a month. But I wasn’t sure that an outpatient program would be effective. How would he behave when he came home at night? I wasn’t sure of much.

I called our insurance company to ask about an inpatient program I’d seen advertised at the hospital, but they said that residential drug treatment wasn’t covered on our plan. They would pay for one, perhaps two, one-hour counseling sessions a week.

“You’re kidding.”

She wasn’t.

It seemed like Project 60 was our only real option. Larry and I talked quietly together about how we would pay for it. Larry had finally found a job, but he’d landed it, in part, by agreeing to start at a low rate of pay for a three-month probation period. And though Sisters of Infinite Beneficence Hospital paid me good money to write for their in-house newsletter, we didn’t have $3,000 extra in our checking account.

We did, though, have college funds for our three children, money that Larry had inherited and we’d put aside. We agreed that we would pay for it out of Eddy’s college money.

“If he doesn’t kick this habit, he won’t be able to go to college,” we reasoned. That seemed fair to us. But we knew it wouldn’t seem fair to Ed, and we were anxious about the confrontation that would inevitably ensue when some day we told him where the money had come from. One more thing to worry about.

Meanwhile, as we waited, Ed got more and more agitated. He began making the phone calls to Project 60 and Palm Avenue himself, which seemed a good sign. He pressured the people to let him in, but they were unresponsive. Even our offer of the requested three-thousand-dollar donation didn’t gain him an opening. And as another day passed, he lost enthusiasm for the plan. The atmosphere in the house was tense. I thought he shouldn’t ever go out alone. “Right now, we’re acting like Palm Avenue — watching you. How will we be able to prove you’ve been clean and sober for three days otherwise?”

Then on Wednesday, Eddy walked out the front door when I wasn’t looking. Larry sat passively on the couch and shook his head in disgust when I rushed after Ed. I got on the bike and cruised up and down the streets around the house, finally spotting him walking quickly away from me, his light blue U.S. Postal Service shirt open and blowing in the wind.

“Eddy,” I called out to him, pedaling quickly to catch up.

“What do you want?” he scowled. “Go away.”

“I’m just worried about you. Where are you going?”

“I’m going for a walk. I can’t stay cooped up in the house all the time!” he yelled without slowing his pace.

“Are you going out to do drugs?”

“No, I’m not going out to do drugs, Mother.”

“But how do we know for sure? What will we tell Project 60?”

“I don’t give a damn what we tell Project 60! They aren’t letting me in anyway!” Eddy cut quickly to the left and began running to get away from me.

I stopped my bike and watched him recede down the street, shirttails flying, before turning around and pedaling dejectedly home.

When I sat on the couch next to Larry, I got no sympathy. “What are you doing, chasing after him?” he said angrily.

“I don’t know what I’m doing! I don’t know what I’m supposed to do! Project 60 says we have to prove he’s been clean and sober for three days before they’ll let him in. I guess I’m just trying to watch him so I can say he hasn’t been doing drugs.”

“Well, you know what? Even if he was here in the house, you couldn’t watch him 24 hours a day anyway. You can’t watch him when you’re sleeping. You can’t watch him when he’s sitting in the back room with the door closed. It’s just crazy and neurotic to go chasing him down in the street.”

“I guess you’re right.”

Larry shook his head.

When Eddy came back much later, he got immediately on the telephone and called Palm Avenue. This time, miraculously, they had an available bed. Eddy looked stunned, and not sure he wanted to fulfill this commitment, but he told them he’d be over as soon as he gathered his stuff.

Once he hung up the phone, the household started bustling. Rose, went into the bedroom with Eddy to pick out a few items to bring. Larry and I got up off the couch and started pacing around. Michael came out of his bedroom and said that he wanted to come along.

The five of us fit, just barely, in the little black Nissan — Larry and I in the two front bucket seats, the three “children” in back. Eddy seemed slack, pulled back, like he didn’t want to be going; the rest of us were energized and surging ahead.

We found Palm Avenue where they told us it would be, on a side street off of El Camino, near Twenty-fifth Avenue. Once we piled out of the car, Eddy asked his father for a cigarette. Larry, ostensibly, was quitting, and I had never seen Ed smoke in front of me before, but Larry had a pack in his pocket and gave Ed what he asked for. We milled around on the sidewalk while he slowly sucked the smoke in and blew it back out.

Once he was done, we walked across the street to the center. The glass entry door was locked, so we buzzed, and a man came out to ask us what we wanted.

“This is Edward Thibedeaux,” I said, pointing at Eddy. “He called a half hour ago and was told he could come in and have a bed.”

“Oh, okay. And you’re all with him?”

“Yes.”

“Well, come inside.”

Once in the door, we saw a dark and barren facility. There was a woman behind a counter who handed us a clipboard. A hall we weren’t allowed down led to a number of bedrooms. A large room in the center held a ping-pong table and some old couches. Out the back I could see light streaming through a doorway that led to a courtyard. In the lobby were three chairs. Eddy sat in one. I took another. Rose, Larry and Michael stood.

“You have to fill these forms out before you can be admitted,” the man said.

Eddy sat in his chair with the clipboard on his lap, but didn’t look at the forms. His head drooped. He seemed almost comatose, like he might begin drooling. Rose began coaxing him.

“Come on, Eddy. This is what you wanted, remember? Once you’ve been here for three days, they’ll let you into Project 60 like you planned.” She handed him a pen, but he wouldn’t wrap his fingers around it. The male attendant stood with us for a while, watching Edward sit hunched over the clipboard, doing nothing. I wondered if this behavior was very different from what he usually saw.

“That one just says you won’t sue us. You don’t have to read it. Just sign there,” he said, tapping his finger on the clipboard.

“I’m not signing anything I don’t read,” Eddy lifted his head to proclaim before hunching over the clipboard again. I couldn’t tell if he was making an attempt to read the first form. There were three more underneath it.

“You want me to read it to you?” I asked.

He shook his head.

I couldn’t tell if he was high, or hungover, or performing, or insane. Other members of the family took turns coaxing him gently, but I turned away in frustration and read the brochures on a cheap plastic rack in the lobby. It was another half hour before he tired of resisting and signed the forms.

“Okay, Eddy,” Rose hugged him before we left the facility, “good luck here. We’ll see you soon.” Then each of us lined up to have our turn at a hug.

“You can call us,” I told him. “It says on the rules that you can use the telephone.”

He nodded. “You got another cigarette?” he asked Larry, who handed him what remained of his pack.

As we walked across the street and piled into the car, Eddy stood at the glass door and watched us forlornly. That made me angry. Was he trying to make us feel guilty? Were we supposed to feel sorry for him? HE was the one who was bringing all this trouble upon us. HE was the one who was doing dangerous drugs. Now he implies we’re forcing him to do something he doesn’t want to do? Has he forgotten that he was the one who made the call?

Once back home, I felt a huge surge of relief. Eddy was safe. He was cared for. He was on the road to recovery. And he’d be out of my hair when I went in for the surgery. Soon these ordeals would come to an end. But it was only a few hours before I got a call.

“Mom, I don’t like it here.”

“Well that’s understandable, Eddy. I’m sure it’s going to be hard.”

“That isn’t what I mean. This isn’t good for me. There’s nothing here making me better.”

“Well, this isn’t the therapeutic part, Eddy. Remember? You just have to stay there for three days, so they can verify you aren’t doing drugs, and then they’ll let you into Project 60. Once you get there, there will be an actual program. It will be much better. But are you sure they do anything where you are? Aren’t there Twelve-Step meetings, or something?”

“No. There’s nothing to do. The people in here are all obnoxious. And the television is on 24 hours a day. It’s driving me crazy.”

“Eddy, just hang in there. I know it’s hard. But it will be worth it. It’s only three days. Maybe you can ask for a room farther away from the TV?”

He didn’t call again that night, but the following morning, he sounded worse. “Mom!” He was crying. “I can’t stay here!” His voice alarmed me.

“What’s the matter, Honey? Why are you crying? What’s wrong?”

“I can’t do it,” he sobbed. I envisioned him in the phone booth on the patio, his head hung over his chest, as it had been at Santa Cruz. I could see the snot stringing out of his nose. Is this the come down? Does this always happen when he comes off of crystal meth?

“Eddy, I’m so sorry you feel bad,” I concentrated all my energy on the receiver. “I know it’s terribly hard. I can hear it in your voice. And I wish I could help you, but I don’t think there’s anything anyone can do. You just have to bear it. You just have to get through it. It’s only two more days.”

“This isn’t right! This isn’t working,” he blurted before hanging up the phone.

An hour or so later, Jason knocked at the front door. “How’s it going?” he asked casually, as if nothing had happened — as if I hadn’t embarrassed us both at the beach by referring to our flirtation, a flirtation he was pretending didn’t exist.

“It’s going all right, I guess. Did you know Eddy is in a detox center?”

Jason nodded. “I know. He’s been calling me. I made a phone date with him. I’m calling him back at three o’clock.”

I felt relieved that I wasn’t the only one getting Eddy’s desperate calls. “Listen, Jason. I’m sorry about what I said at the beach. I…”

He held up his hand. “You don’t have to apologize, Jo. We’ve all been acting a little crazy lately. I’m sorry I haven’t been coming around more often.” My heart rate accelerated. Then the phone rang. I picked it up with foreboding.

“Mom? Can you come get me?”

“What? Why? Where are you?”

“On the sidewalk. A block from the center. I’m using someone’s cell phone.”

“Goddammit Eddy! Why did you leave there? It was so hard to get in!”

He didn’t offer an explanation. And even knowing where he was, it took a long time for Jason and me to find him, crouched down between two parked cars, sitting on the curb, his head dropped between his shoulders, nearly invisible from the street.

That was the twentieth chapter of my novel, Count All This. To continue, follow the free chapter links below or buy a digital copy of the whole book on Amazon, where leaving a rating or review will help others find my story.

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