Running with Monsters

I doing here? My mind snapped back to the present. I was on my way to Hazelden, a rehabilitation center planted squarely in a bucolic and serene setting in the generic-sounding town of Center City, Minnesota, where alcoholics, pill heads, junkies, blow monkeys, and every other type of drug funneler, drinker, miscreant, and fuckup known to man or beast could start that long, unsteady walk toward sobriety and what I had been told was a better life. I wasn’t half convinced. I felt I had been conned. Now, up here in the clear blue sky, above the clouds, it all seemed like such a ridiculous situation. I was on a two-and-a-half-hour flight by myself, so it gave me some time to think, but I really only needed five minutes to formulate my plan: Forget Hazelden, forget rehab, and forget any half-assed reformation. I would connect at the airport in Minnesota and go on to New York City. Sure, everyone I knew would be mad at me, but it was my life and no one pressured me into anything I didn’t want to do or didn’t believe in. This whole flight had been a mistake and I needed to move forward. I’d go to New York, where things were cool and where I could be myself and avoid people who wanted to hassle me about how I chose to live my life. They’d get over it.

I was still working out my plan when the plane swooped out of the sky and touched down in Saint Paul. All airports are the same: You leave the placental safety of the plane and get squeezed out into an explosion of sound, light, and shiny surfaces. I felt like my feet were moving through heavy syrup. I really needed to find a connecting flight and get to New York … now.

But as I craned my neck and ran down my options, out of place in this Midwest bustle where people said “Excuse me” and “Pardon me, sir,” I saw an odd little gnome of an old dude who was holding up a sign that read BOB FORREST. I had so much on my mind that it took me a second to realize that he was there for me. He was such an unusual sight, standing there in his shirtsleeves and suspenders when outside the cocoon of the terminal it was well below freezing. He intrigued me. I walked up and introduced myself. “Hi. I’m Bob.”

“Are you ready to begin the greatest adventure of your life, young man?” he said through a completely sincere and friendly grin. Had I just stepped into a cartoon? I felt like I was on acid.

I thought to myself, What the fuck is this? but I had to admit, I felt comfortable around this little guy and walked out with him to the official Hazelden patient delivery mobile in the parking lot. It was absolutely nondescript, like something an undercover cop would drive. I got in and the little guy, Sonny, was a ball of positive energy. He had done this enough that he knew the minds of the clients almost better than they knew them themselves.

“So, before you saw me, you were planning to run, weren’t you?”

“New York,” I answered. “I was going to go to New York.”

“You need money to be bad,” he told me.

We drove on through the countryside for a number of silent, wintry miles. It was peaceful. I enjoyed studying Sonny and his calm demeanor. He was a unique specimen. We drove through a gate at the edge of the property and I felt like I had been delivered to a college campus. Hazelden was far from the type of grimy prison my worst nightmares had conjured. It was pleasant and nonthreatening, even though I still had no idea what to expect. Sonny parked and brought me to the detox unit, which was also the check-in area. They were expecting me. I took one look around and thought, This is how things are supposed to be done. Presentation is everything, and the spotlessly clean lobby and my orderly room put me at ease. There were a nurse and a doctor who were friendly, kind, and professional. They knew what they were doing. They took my vitals, checked me out, and got my medical history.

“Surgeries?” asked the nurse.

“I lost part of my finger,” I said, and held up the stump so she could see. I had been on a bike when I was eight years old and a parked car’s door suddenly opened. I slammed into it at thirty miles per hour and my finger was caught in the hand brake. It was damaged beyond repair, never to return. She winced when she saw it.

“History of mental illness?” she read off the sheet attached to her clipboard.

“Is drug addiction a mental illness?” I joked. She smiled. At least they’ve got a sense of humor around here, I thought.

“Any allergies to medication?” the nurse asked.

“Not so far,” I answered. She gave me a quizzical look. “No,” I said, clarifying.

“Okay, then. We’re ready to get started,” she said, and stood to leave. “A nurse will be in shortly. Just sit tight.”

I had barely shifted in my chair when another nurse brought in some medications. “Bob, this is Librium. It will help with any alcohol withdrawals you may experience.” I swallowed the pill with some water she handed me.

She had a another pill. “Now, this one is chloral hydrate,” she said. “It will help a little with the heroin withdrawal.” I swallowed that one too.

Finally, she handed me something I recognized. “This,” she said, “is Valium. It’ll just keep you calm. You may experience some agitation and this will help with that.” I could feel the Valium kicking in and I was taken to my room, where I went to bed. Someone on staff came in and monitored me at regular intervals.

I stayed there for the next three days and alternated between periods of chills and hot sweats. I didn’t sleep much,