sometimes people who are getting off the juice have hallucinations. spiders crawling up the walls. worms coming out of the ceiling. gila monsters sitting on the dresser drinking jamba juice and making calls on your cell phone to bali when you don’t have an unlimited calling plan. me? i hallucinated a rabbit. it was big and had a blue bow tie and sat at the end of my bed. no fears, no worries, just what the hell is this rabbit all about and did he bring cadbury cream eggs?
i had the shakes, the sweats, and at various times mr. pinot grigio (maybe he’s a rabbit when he’s not in a glass?) came to me with some words of wisdom. his kind of wisdom.
“you’re not that bad,” he said. ”but you’ve never had a d.u.i. you’ve never been in the pokey. you’re just a fun girl. you like a good time. you know everybody’s name at Rick’s Cafe. you know everybody’s name at half a dozen other restaurants.”
“that’s because i’m a drunk.”
“you also know everybody’s name at caribou coffee. at the village toy shop. at the grocery store. you even know everybody at the book store on a first name basis. does that make you an intellectual?”
“that isn’t a question that helps your cause.”
“okay, but the point is dry out. get all of me out of your system. you can always come back. i’ll always be here when everything, everyone else fails you. didn’t i hold your hand when your marriage blew apart? don’t i comfort you when you’re lonely? don’t i tell you you’re pretty when you feel ten pounds heavier? which, by the way, you are right now because of the i.v. you’re really not looking your best.”
i was so lucky yesterday. i had visitors. the sound engineer from a show i worked on three years ago. a co-author on a book i wrote about kearney, missouri. a friend i hadn’t seen in over a year arrived bearing flowers. and my mom: suzanne isn’t actually my mom but i like to believe she is since i don’t have one and the fact that i call her mom isn’t part of any hallucination. my ex-husband maximillian. who hates hospitals. but brought me flowers and encouragement and news from my children and offered the use of his apartment and, most importantly, his loyalty and love regardless of what fresh hell i have been living in.
i have some work obligations and wrote from my laptop to a friend begging for help. even explaining that i am detoxing.
at ten thirty, one of my friends blew right through hospital security with a late night snack. i have no idea how because evanston is a pretty tight ship at that hour. but my friend, like elwood and jake blues, was on a mission from God.
i was also blessed by some emails and texts and phone calls from facebook friends and fellow bloggers. i am blessed because so far nobody has said “what a damn train wreck — or rather, what a 1971 ford pinto — you are”. . . there’s a phrase “just a facebook friend” i think it’s an honorable honorable honorable phrase.
i haven’t had a shower or washed my hair in two days. i haven’t gotten out of this hospital gown in two days. my i.v. drip came out of my arm and i bled all over the sheets i’ve been laying on for two days (at least i got sheets changed out of the deal). i’m still shaking although i can now pick up a coffee with one hand for the first time in two days. i have gained nearly ten pounds in fluids from the i.v. in these past two days. i have cried a lot in the past two days, enough so that i’m wondering if dior showgirl mascara comes in waterproof. i haven’t smelled like myself–or, actually, thierry mugler angel perfume–for two days.
but my name is arlynn and i’ve been sober for two days. i’m not sure what i’m doing today, tomorrow, the rest of my life, the next half hour. i’m not sold on rehab, a.a., that weird treatment mickey rourke and carre otis did to sober up where they had all their blood taken out of their bodies, cleansed, and then transfused back in. but i’m eight hours and twenty minutes into the third day.
p.s. if you have a problem, no matter what it is, and you think it’s a secret that you must hide from the world like adam and eve covering their nakedness before God after eating from the tree of knowledge of good and evil, open yourself to saying what you are. own it. own yourself. and if somebody gives you grief, call me or email me or text me and i’ll come beat them up. except i have to bring along my i.v. drip and if the needle gets pulled out again i’m going to shoot blood across the room like i’m auditioning for wes craven. good visual.
then we’ll go out for a whopper junior with cheese no mayonnaise.