And Away I go. . . .

I can't make up my mind about whether or not I will go to detox. I have said yes, and the hospital personnel have been working hard to get my stay covered by insurance. When it comes time to sign the dotted line, I am alone, well my roommie is with me begging for methadone, but my husband is in the waiting room.  I beg for them to let him in while I sign the papers. One last chance to reassure myself this is the right decision. To make sure everything at home will be taken care of, to make sure he will visit me.  They tell me no.  They scold me.  I am a grown adult and why do I need him to make the decision for me. If I really wanted to get better I wouldn't need him to be there with me.  I am hopeless and I wont get better if I lean on him to help me with this decision. They lady who has spent an hour or so finding a bed for me and getting the insurance approval is pissed off. I tell her I am not sure if I want to sign, but if I could please see my husband I would make up my mind one way or another.  She takes the paper that I am supposed to sign and storms off, mumbling something to herself about wasting her time on all the paperwork.  Finally, a doctor comes in to talk to me. He understand me and he tells the nurses to let my husband in for 10 minutes. The nurse reminds me how my husband was sneaking me my cell phone, like drugs, and we were rule breakers. Please! As soon as the doctor leaves, the nurses disappear and my husband is not let inside. I ask the nurse to go into the waiting area to get him so I can check out and go the hell home already. After that whole shindig I am not going. They are making it too difficult. F it.  The nurse goes and looks for Brad.  She comes in and thrilled to tell me, your husband left. He's gone.  I can sense her feelings of joy at my having been abandoned. She delivered the news as if to say, no one wants you, your pathetic.  I decide to take matters into my own hands and I use the patient phone. I call my father in law. Not what I want to be doing. He knows about my drinking problem. He knows about the past weekend. He knows I am in the emergency room from drinking too much. He has been watching my kids all weekend.  He is kind and cordial and I ask him to call Brad's cell phone. It is out of state and I am not allowed to dial out of state on the patient phone. He tracks him down, Brad comes to see me, and swears he has been in the waiting room the entire time. Take that, mean nurse. No one abandoned me.  It felt good.  

And finally, finally, a clinician pulled me and Brad into her office and explained to me the dangers ahead if I were to go home.  My blood alcohol content was .25% 4-5 hours AFTER my last drink.   That is dangerously high.  I must have been at least .3, likely higher throughout the last few days.  She explains the dangers of shocking your central nervous system after a binge like mine. Seizures, cardiac arrest, insomnia. She explains kindly, in a non-judgemental way, that this is the best decision for my health and my family. When I agree, she continues to be kind, and tells me she is proud of me and she means it.  They need more people like her in that hospital unit. 

I ask if Brad can drive me to detox, and they tell me no he cannot, I have to go via ambulance.  I clinch his hand while waiting for my stretcher. I get on, strapped on, and away I go. . . . Detox or bust.