A Letter to the Person in Rehab
You call yourself an addict. I don't.
I care for you as you come in. Your eyelids heavy. Your stomach sick. Your muscles shaking.
Bed-ridden you ask for water and I bring it to you. Anxiety-ridden you ask me to take you out for a cigarette and despite my ever-growing to-do list that almost never gets completed, I do.
I look up from my computer as you approach me. I have not sat down for more than 10 minutes today, sometimes five. And you're cursing and angry and I know it is not at me. As I give you the space to express, to feel, your anger softens to tears. Your frustration cools to grief. You have been through so much. You have carried horrible burdens. The drugs it seems, helped you forget the weight of it all. I hear you. I hug you.
You continue on in your day and like a fly on the wall I check on you.
Every 15 minutes for 12 hours.
Then every 30 minutes for 12 hours.
Then every hour or every 3.
I've heard you share with the group about the horrors of abuse and neglect, of every kind, of depression and anxiety, of homelessness, of death, of fostercare, of the drug that helped you escape it all.
But it didn't really.
I watch you eat and keep the food down. I watch you laugh, cry, contemplate leaving and staying. I've seen you sleep and I wait a couple moments to see your chest rise and fall, to hear you breathe, to ensure the drugs haven't taken you from us. (Yet?)
Many days I go without any breaks at all. And at the end of the day I carry my aching feet to you to check on you one last time before I leave. At least to say good bye. Because I know it could be the last.
And in between all the paperwork, the handling and disposing of your urine, the ceaseless emails and questions from other patients, nurses, therapists, and doctors, all wondering where you are, how you are, and if I can bring you to them, because us techs are the ones who know, the checking and re-checking of your blood pressure, heart rate, temperature, respiratory rate, and oxygenation,
I ask you what you do, what you love, who you love, and where you're from. Because I want to know. And I want you to know you're more than just an addict as you continue to say. You're a mother, father, brother, sister, son, daughter, friend, best friend, like family, business owner, nurse, lawyer, construction worker, food service worker, painter, singer, musician, writer, gym junkie, child of God.
You make me laugh so much it hurts. You make me smile constantly with your wit. And sometimes when you have a guitar, you make me sing. You create paintings, drawings, bracelets, and crafts, all of which I save and display.
And when you're fed up with our hospital and its rules and the people in it, I pull you aside and convince you to stay. Because every day you're in our facility is another day you're not dead.
And after 20 or 40 or 60 or 90 or even 130 days, when it is time for you to leave, I grab your luggage and belongings, your phone and money, and I walk you to the nurse to get the last of your meds.
We step into the elevator and I know you have a plane to catch or someone you love is waiting downstairs to bring you home.
We turn to one another and you embrace me and sometimes you begin to cry. Sometimes I hold back tears too. I tell you I believe in you. That you can do it. And I mean it. I always mean it. And we make each other laugh one last time before you depart from those glass doors.
Most times I never see you again and sometimes I do. A few weeks or months later. Out in the world or back at our facility.
And sometimes word gets to me that you overdosed and died.
I save my tears for when I get home and I remember you. I think of the books we lent each other and what your laugh sounds like, what your tired 7:00 AM and 7:00 PM voice sounds like, what your excited and sad and frustrated tone sounds like, because I've been walking alongside you enough to hear it all.
I think about your spouse, your children, that little niece you adored so much, and your mother who was so excited to see you as she picked you up, and how much pain they must be in.
And even still, I am so proud of you for getting help.
Because too many don't. And never try.
And I am so blessed to have known you if even for a little while.
And I will go back to work and care even more deeply, savor even more moments, and pray that the others will live.
From,
Your Behavioral Health Technician
Katie Donohue Tona
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