Six Days in Detox

By Dianne Corbeau

This memoir is a compelling story about a woman who picks up alcohol after twenty-six years of sobriety. And returns to a mental institution to begin her journey back into the beginnings of recovery. The story is a hard look at what goes on internally and externally inside of Dianne as she gives it her all to survive the battle for her life. The fast-paced read is relentless and unforgiving at times, yet it brings you the fragility of the human spirit.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Page Publishing, Inc.
• Release date: Feb 14, 2023
• ISBN: 9798886542141

Book preview

cover.jpg

Six Days in Detox

Dianne Corbeau

Copyright © 2023 Dianne Corbeau

All rights reserved

First Edition

PAGE PUBLISHING

Conneaut Lake, PA

First originally published by Page Publishing 2023

ISBN 979-8-88654-202-8 (pbk)

ISBN 979-8-88654-214-1 (digital)

Printed in the United States of America

Table of Contents

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

About the Author

Chapter 1

Introduction

The EMTs were frantically running into the room as they were kicking away the nips of whiskey, vodka, and wine bottles—some still had fluid inside of them.

As I lay lifeless on the bed, overhearing a parametric saying, Dianne, can you hear me? barely was I able to open my alcohol-induced, swollen eye slits, and could not respond to his voice.

Her vitals are not looking so good and neither is she, I faintly overheard the EMTs talking frantically to one another over me.

I glanced up at my friend's bedroom door and saw his face. That was filled with fright. Through my haze, he must have called the EMTs because there was no one else around.

Fading in and out of consciousness, and I close my eyes, feeling this will be the last time I will see my small, minute world again.

Dianne, come back to us. We're not going to lose you, this time. Of course, this was not the first time they saw me this way. I had hit many bottoms before. Neither the EMTs nor I knew which one would be my last one.

It was apparent this time would very well be the end.

Gasping for air, the rescuer put an oxygen mask around my nose and mouth to help me breathe. Trying to stabilize me in bed seemed to take hours while I was continually going in and out of consciousness. If I could open my eyes and see them, through the poisonous, venomous cycle of my organs failing, their expressions would have probably been as hopeless and helpless as I felt. The allergy of alcohol in my system now affected my esophagus, preventing me from breathing while going in and out of life-threatening seizures.

There were not many thoughts in my mind; just a visual—Live ~ Die. Which way would this go? As a drenched, dying alcoholic, I had no control over myself or what was happening on all levels. My life rested completely in the hands of professionals. Surely looking like another statistic, the EMTs gave it their all to stabilize me. My absolute was that I had no power in my hands to stop drinking.

Utterly powerless and at death's door.

Through the mist of my vision and muddled thoughts, they must have brought me back to life.

The next memory I have was the oxygen mask over my face, vital equipment on top of my lap as they picked me up, and placed me on the stretcher to take me into the ambulance for the all-too-familiar ride to the Cape Cod Hospital Emergency Room.

During the ride to the hospital, I felt that this time was going to be different. I was done. The OUI was my bottom, or so I thought. Now the pain and suffering for the last drop of any type of alcohol profounded me into the next orbit, this Dimension of Hell, both physically and mentally, I have never felt before.

The whole previous week was spent locked in that dark bedroom, gasping for air, while still every few minutes shaking and drinking, along with my tremors, to prevent me from having seizures. I knew for sure, this time, my organs were going to give out or I was going to completely lose my mind.

Once we arrived at the Emergency Room, they kept me stabilized. Already the staff knew who I was, and I felt the more ashamed and embarrassed than ever before.

My bed was waiting for me in the Emergency Room, until I could be stabilized enough and a bed opened up in the Purple Room.

The Purple Room was infamous and known by the mentally ill on Cape Cod, as patients await their fate to which mental hospital was either best suited for them or where the first available bed opened up.

Weakly attached to the hospital machines, I was still shaking like a leaf on a hurricane day—even my cheeks were vibrating. The staff said my vitals were way above normal even though they were trying to help me with the acute withdrawal.

As the alcohol was still in my system, withdrawal had already begun to take its toll. At this point, I would withdraw from alcohol, if I did not drink every half an hour, even if I would have to force it down while getting sick. The physical and psychological withdrawal that was already beginning were beyond torturous.

My dear friend, Alexander, walked into the room. He placed his coat on a chair beside the bed and sat down. Automatically, he folded his hands, as if a pupil ready to study a professor's lecture, but crossed his legs, as if closed off to this lecturer's experience. His eyes were not in judgment, but of concern.

The background he had was as a professional counselor and caseworker, and he stood by the dying patients who had AIDS back in the 1980s and 1990s in San Francisco, California. Most of the time, he was their only confidant. After they passed, he went to their apartments and packed up their belongings. He was, then as he is now, a unique soul.

My experience echoed in his expressions and mannerisms as he faced me and simply stated, I will not leave your side.

The Emergency Room doctor came and gone to check my vitals and make his rounds.

Now, the nurse came in and gave me the protocol medication.

She explained with a professional but kind tone, These are your prescribed medications, from us and your psychiatrist, Dr. Holden. You will start feeling better with these medications back in your system as well.

She handed me the cup filled with my manic-depressive cocktail, which I stopped taking for a while, along with and the hospital medication to help me, as much as it could, through the withdrawal process.

Without hesitation, I took the cup of pills, followed by the water.

Thank you, I said gratefully to the nurse.

Your welcome, she said, then added, You should feel somewhat better soon, and now Dr. Holden is involved too. We will also keep an eye on you until a bed opens up in the Purple Room. She smiled and walked away.

Now I was relieved that Dr. Holden has been informed; I felt he was someone I could trust. After swallowing the pills, I sat back in the hospital bed, preparing for the fight to live. The agony of insufferable pain of withdrawing to the never-ending cycling of mental illness.

There was no strength left inside of me. I completely surrendered.

The smell came from my unwashed self—alcohol stench seething through my pores was accompanied by my rotting organs. The idea of a shower or water hitting any part of my skin would not only sound but feel like razor blades scraping against my existing cells.

A bed finally opened up in the Purple Room. As I continued in my worsening of agony, a staff member brought a wheelchair over to the side of my bed and placed me gently into the wheelchair himself because he knew, by the looks of me, I could not do it.

He wheeled me to the Purple Room and, again, helped my exhausted bag of skeletal decay into the bed. This generous staff member cradled me like a baby and placed me onto the clean linens of the daunting bed. Upon thanking him, he shook his head and walked away slowly. I could tell this affected him and he was a kind soul. I was placed in one of the high-on-call-watch beds, closest to the nurses' station.

Instead of walls, there were curtains, which separated me between the other patients awaiting their new destination. Immediately, a male nurse came in and gave me a pill. Alexander automatically took upon the role to be my advocate. He professionally and sincerely explained to the staff my need to stay at the Cape Cod Psychiatric Unit. But my heart knew it was the luck of the draw, and in being in there two previous times, chances were that they were not going to take me in for another time.

The nurse came into my draped room, and politely explained, We will try our best to get Dianne into our psychiatric unit, but honestly, they do not treat dual-diagnosed patients and chances are you will be going off Cape Cod.

The nurse took his breath as he must have seen the fear in my eyes. He assured me by saying, But don't worry, we will find you a good place to take care of you and will meet your specific needs. I will be back to check on you, and your meal will here soon.

I turned my head to Alexander who now sitting on the right side of my bed. We looked at each other both thinking the same thing: We are up the creek.

Alexander rose up from his chair and went directly to the nurses' station, once again trying not to make a fuss but letting them know that I was comfortable there, and I needed to stay on Cape Cod.

They reassured him by explaining, We will do the best we can, with her best interest and health at heart.

As the day progressed, so did my withdrawal symptoms, and as soon as I thought I have seen the worst, the worst was yet to come.

The previous minute of body and mind hell pain was tripled by the following minute-to-minute all-encompassing hell of pain. I gave the staff credit as they continuously kept in touch with me and Dr. Holden.

We worked as a team on both diseases. As my mind got better on some levels, I would hallucinate from the alcohol withdrawal. They would keep me on Dr. Holden's strict medication regimen, along with their hospital's withdrawal center medications for the seizures and keep me out of the danger zone.

Second-by-second day then grew into minute-by-minute nighttime. I was checked in and helped with the embarrassing, ongoing bathroom visits. In the bed, I lay in unwavering silence. Alexander sat there by my side, with only the occasional movement.

Throughout the night, the other patients were sleeping, and even with all this help, I was alone. But without their help from Cape Cod Hospital, I would have gone mad and/or killed myself.

Breakfast came and the other patients began to wake up. We took morning medications along with getting our vitals checked.

Chances were the longer it took them to find me a bed, the worse possible place I would be going. My friend did not speak many words throughout this period, as we knew, subconsciously, that we were on the same page. Knowing that he could, should, and would never know what I was going through, it meant the world to me that he bore witness to such a horrific human experience.

As time moved forward, my paranoia and suspicions grew stronger. I was afraid to reveal myself outside the curtain as my body needed to use the restroom from the constant withdrawal. They tried more medications already on top of what I was given to just keep me from laying on the bathroom floor. I was very much appreciative of them saving me from embarrassment. Still, the withdrawal symptoms mounted, and the bathroom assistance became more and more frequent.

Every second of every minute, I was obsessed with getting a bed to open up, and at this point, I did not care if it was in China. I just wanted to be well.

Alexander stood up from his torture chambers and told me, I am going to see what is going on, and if anything is happening, you need to get somewhere fast.

In minutes, Alexander returned with answers—concrete answers.

He began very excitedly, but his tone was mixed with disappointment, Dianne, they did find a bed for you. It will be an hour off Cape.

He saw my look of disappointment, but continued to try to be positive, It is a newer place, and the nurse reassured me this place could and would take care of you and have specifically designed units to help people with a dual diagnosis.

He added, They are coming to pick you up by an ambulance, and transport you, in one hour.

I responded, Okay, then asked him, But why did they not come in and tell us when they found out? Do you know about this place?

He quickly answered, Because they just found out. And no, I have never heard of them, but they sound good. The nurse explained it's a place specifically designed to treat manic depression along with severe withdraws from alcoholism and addictions.

Something still did not feel right. I looked at him, and stated, If this staff took such good care of me, then they must be trusting this place to be one of the best.

Desperately, since I needed and wanted help on every level, I complied.

He reassured me again, I will come to visit you every night, and when you are finished there, you can come back to my cottage. You can sleep downstairs, and I will go sleep upstairs. He continued, It will get better and work out, I promise.

Alexander finalized the news by explaining, They are now getting your paperwork ready to transfer you and letting Dr. Holden know all the details, so he will be completely involved in your recovery.

Our conversation ended, as the nurse flew in with a clipboard and paperwork, for me to sign before my release.

As I was signing the release papers, she informed me, We have your final dose of medication. This will get you to Southcoast Behavioral Health Hospital and will help you get to them safely. Once in their facility, they are instructed to give you proper medication protocol from Dr. Holden, adding their treatment for alcohol withdraws.

Weakly, I said, Thank you for your help.

She compassionately looked upon me and said, Hang in there, Dianne. I will be right back with your final medications, and they will be here soon.

When she returned, I took my medications, visited the restroom, and hoped I would survive the trip.

Alexander gently suggested, Can you try to get into your clothes?

I had no choice but to go through the motions.

My free will now be the use of chronic willpower, at the lowest, bottom alcoholic, and the mind of a mad person. The feeling of being completely brain-damaged from my alcoholic state, I had no coordination; the quick and swift movements of my body and brain were a thing of the past. I wondered for a moment if any of these qualities I once inhabited would come back, but had to refocus any energy on calming down my tremors and getting clothed. This massive undertaking needed to happen quickly, so I could collapse back into the bed.

Alexander saw my struggle trying to clothe myself, and as an infant, he clothed me—pants, shirt, socks, shoes, and done.

Finally, I was done, and he helped me back into my coffin of a bed as I slid back into the withdrawal-stained sheets.

He placed my duffel bag in the wheelchair next to my bed to give to the EMTs who were going to transport me. Everything I owned was in this bag, which only depressed me more.

When Southcoast