Some Are Sicker Than Others

by Andrew Seaward

  “GOOD MORNING DEXTER!”

  The reply was so loud it nearly knocked Monty right out of his chair.

  “Now, that’s more like it,” Dexter said, nodding with conviction and pumping his fist in the air. “That’s what I like to hear. Yeah.” He whipped his chair around and sat in it backwards, resting his pointy elbows on the top of the metal back. He smiled and nodded as he pointed his finger, counting the patients off around the room. “I see a lot of new faces out there this morning. That’s wonderful, just wonderful.” He got to the end of the row and paused at Monty then gave him a smile and a wink. “I’m so glad you all could make it. For those of you who don’t know me, my name is Dexter and I am a grateful, recovering heroine addict.”

  “Hi Dexter,” the room chimed.

  “Hi everybody.” Dexter laughed and threw his bald head backward, arching like a bow and arrow in his seat. “Before we begin today’s group, I want to ask you all a question. How many of you, by show of hands, got down on your knees and prayed this morning?”

  About half the hands in the room went up.

  “You,” Dexter said as he stood up and pointed to a kid who didn’t have his hand raised. “What’s your name?”

  Monty leaned forward to get a better look. It was a Hispanic kid, with wild tattoos scrawled across his neck and forearms, and a black wool beanie pulled over the top of his head.

  “Me?” the kid said, indignantly, his finger pressed against his chest.

  “Yes, you. What’s your name?”

  “Miguel.”

  “Miguel, let me ask you something.” Dexter paused and looked down at the carpet, folding his hands behind his back. “Do you believe in God?”

  The Hispanic kid scoffed and slouched backward, like a kid getting reprimanded in Sunday school. “Yeah, I believe in him.”

  “But you chose not to pray to him this morning? Why?”

  “Man, I pray. I just don’t pray how ya’ll want me to pray.”

  “And why not?”

  “I don’t get down on my knees for nobody. I ain’t no fucking punta, man.”

  Sniggers eked out from around the circle.

  Dexter quickly put up his hand to shush them. “Miguel, let me ask you this. Do you want to get sober?”

  “Yeah, I’m here, ain’t I?”

  “Yes, you most certainly are. But I’ll tell you this, Miguel…I guarantee you—guarantee you—that you will not get sober unless you get down on your knees and submit to God. And that goes for all of you. If you want to get sober and stay sober, you must get down on your knees every morning and submit to God.”

  “But what if you don’t believe in God?” a voice blurted from somewhere in the back.

  Dexter’s eyes went wide and his neck craned forward. He looked like a perturbed owl peering out into the center of the room. “Who…who said that?”

  Monty turned his body and leaned forward, trying to get a better view so he could see who it was. A small, unsure hand slowly surfaced from beneath the sea of people’s faces. The hand was a girl’s, petite with black nail polish and silver rings on all the fingers except for her thumb and her pinky. “Uh…I did,” the girl said with shy hesitation as if she wished she could take it back.

  Dexter’s face relaxed and his eyes softened—he went from a perturbed owl to an amused raccoon. “Ah, young, Jenny,” he said. “You bring up an excellent question.”

  “I do?”

  “Absolutely, you do. And you already know the answer. You just don’t realize it yet.”

  “I do?”

  “Of course you do. It’s in your literature. Who has their Big Book? Anyone?”

  “I do,” Jenny said, as she bent underneath her folding chair then pulled out her Big Book and waved it in the air.

  “Ah excellent,” Dexter said. “How ‘bout flipping to page fifty nine and reading what it says on the top?”

  “Okay.” Jenny brought the book down and cracked it open, then cleared her throat and began: “Step one—”

  “On second thought,” Dexter interrupted, “why don’t you come up here and read? That way we can all hear you.”

  “Up there?”

  “Yeah, come on. You got your first step coming up. This’ll be good practice for you.”

  “Um…ok.”

  “That’s the spirit. Come on up here, girl. Front and center.”

  The girl stood up and made her way out of the folding chair horseshoe, clutching her book against her chest. She was young, probably a little younger than Monty, wearing dark rings of purple eye shadow and a dark brown ponytail that seemed to bounce as she walked. Her hips seemed to wag like the tail of a puppy, her butt perfectly curved against a pair of skinny blue jeans. As she planted her feet a few steps behind Dexter, she smiled anxiously at the patients around the room. Monty could tell she was nervous. She was blushing and rocking back and forth on her tiptoes, her hands tightly clutching the book pressed against her lap.

  “Alright, Ms. Jenny,” Dexter said, as he put his long arm around her and guided her forward to the center of the stage. “I want you to read steps one through three for us, okay?”

  Jenny nodded and cracked the book open, her eyes focused intently on the words on the page. “Step one,” she said softly, her voice no louder than the chirp of a cricket.

  “Louder,” Dexter interjected. “Like you mean it.”

  She smiled and Monty smiled with her. He felt himself pulling for her, but didn’t know why.

  She took a deep breath and pulled back her shoulders—her shirt came up just enough so that Monty could see some belly skin. “Step one,” she said with a little more volume, “we admitted we were powerless over alcohol, that our lives had become unmanageable.”

  “Good,” Dexter said, pacing behind her. “Go on. Step two?”

  “Step two. We came to believe that a power greater than ourselves could restore us to sanity.”

  “Okay, and the last one?”

  “Step three. We made a decision to turn our will and our lives over to the care of God as we understood him.”

  Jenny looked up, beaming with confidence as if she was the Valedictorian giving her class’s graduation speech.

  “Good,” Dexter said, beaming with her. “Thank you, Jenny. Thank you very, very much. You may go sit down now.”

  Jenny smiled and did a little curtsy then returned to her seat in the back of the room. As she walked back to her chair, Monty’s eyes followed her, watching as her ponytail bobbed up and down. She must have felt his gaze, because she looked right at him and gave him a cute, endearing smile. Monty smiled back then quickly looked away from her, turning his eyes back towards the front of the room.

  Dexter now had his jacket off—laid across the back of his folding chair—and was rolling his sleeves up to his elbows. “Did you all hear that?” he said, nodding emphatically, his eyes the size of two white golf balls. “Step three says, we made a decision to turn our will and our lives over to the care of God as we understood him. What does that mean? Does it mean you have to be a Christian to stay sober? No. Does it mean you have to be a Muslim to stay sober? No. It says God, as we understood him. That means whatever higher power you choose to believe in—some thing or some force beyond the realm of human understanding—a supreme creator, an infallible entity. It doesn’t have to be a Christian God or a Muslim God or a Hindu God. God can be anything you want him to be. Okay?”

  Dexter paused for a moment and reached into his front pocket then pulled out a white hanky and used it to wipe his sweaty brow. “Okay,” he said, as he stuffed the hanky back in his pocket, “before we go any further I’d like to go over some of the ground rules.”

  A couple groans eked out from around the horseshoe.

  “I know, I know,” Dexter said. “You are all sick and tired of hearing me harp on this stuff, but I need to go over it for the benefit of the new folks.” He glanced in Monty and Dave’s direction. “It’s pretty simple really. It’s all about respect. Respect for
the staff, respect for each other, and respect for this disease.” He pulled a magic marker from his pocket and walked over to a white board parked against the back window. He wheeled it forward to the center of the horseshoe then flipped it over and wrote RESPECT in all caps. He underlined it then wrote STAFF directly beneath it and then ONE ANOTHER directly beneath STAFF.

  He turned back around and glared at the patients while screwing the cap back on the marker. “Respect,” he said, pointing to the whiteboard. “Respect for the staff. We have a lot of qualified counselors here who are trained to conduct your group therapy sessions in a well-organized and controlled manner. Please remember, that they are the professionals, and you”—he pointed his finger in a stabbing motion toward Dave and Monty—“are the patients. That means if your counselor tells you to do something, I don’t want you to argue. Just do it. I don’t care how smart you think you are. You are not a psychiatrist and you are not qualified to play doctor. Everyone will get a chance to share their feelings, but only one person should be talking at a time, and whoever that person may be, I want you to give them your full, undivided attention. That means if someone else is talking during group, you shouldn’t be. Okay? That’s respect for one another.”

  He put a check mark next to STAFF and ONE ANOTHER then wrote DISEASE right beneath ONE ANOTHER.

  “Now, respect for the disease. What does that mean? Well, right now, every single one of you is going through chemical withdrawal. Your brain is confused and your body is in a state of complete and utter panic. This is the first time in a long time that you’ve been without drugs and alcohol, and your body is still trying to figure it all out. You’ve spent the last several years of your life suppressing your emotions and dulling down your true feelings with massive amounts of booze, drugs, and pills, and whatever else you could get your grubby, little addict hands on. But now that those poisons are leaving your body, those emotions, those raw, uninhibited feelings are bubbling back up to the surface. And believe me when I tell you that once those emotions begin to resurface, they will erupt, and they will be razor sharp. I’ve been doing this a long, long time, and I can tell you that the very first emotion that comes bubbling up to your brain with the force of that raging Colorado river out there, is gonna be your sex drive. Hell, some of you are probably already feeling it. You’ve been without those poisons for a couple weeks now, you’re starting to feel a little better, you’ve gotten your appetite back, a little spring in your step, and you’re starting to feel that tingle in your loins.”

  The room filled with a couple of giggles.

  “See, you all know what I’m talking about. You’re starting to notice your fellow patients and their perky breasts and their cute little behinds.”

  Even more giggles.

  “Am I right? Then, before you know it, this gal or guy you’ve been noticing is pouring out their guts in group therapy, going on and on about their innermost, personal feelings and you think to yourself, oh my god, I’m in love.”

  More chuckles…more giggles.

  “But please, believe me when I tell you, that it is most certainly not love. It is your disease. It is your disease tricking you. It wants you to take attention away from your recovery. It wants you to think you’ve found your true love here in rehab and are ready to go away, get married, quit the program, and start having babies. But that’s not true. That’s not reality. You cannot have a normal relationship until you first learn how to live without drugs and alcohol. And you cannot love somebody else until you first learn how to love yourself.”

  Dexter paused and looked directly at Monty, as if what he’d just said was supposed to have some kind of special meaning. But it wasn’t new, it wasn’t special—it was the same bullshit he’d been hearing the past year from Robby…how he and Vicky shouldn’t have been together…how they were too young, too early in their own recoveries…how they needed to wait at least a year before they started seeing each other, otherwise they might relapse and leave the program. But, was Robby right? Did any of that happen? Hell no. Nothing could take away what he felt for Vicky—no drugs, no alcohol, no sponsors, nothing. Their love was stronger than this so-called disease. And if it hadn’t been for the accident, they’d still be together, engaged, in love, clean and sober. If he would’ve just pulled over and spent the night in Boulder, none of this would’ve happened—she’d still be here.

  Monty sighed and took a deep breath inward while rubbing his forehead with the tips of his fingers. When he looked back up, he noticed that Dexter had switched from evangelical preacher to traveling salesman and was talking about how wonderful a rehab this was to be in. “Now, this facility,” he said, pacing in front of the horseshoe, “is the only one of its kind in the entire nation. In other places, they keep the men and women completely segregated. But, I and the other counselors here believe that severely limits what you are able to learn in here. We believe it is tremendously valuable to learn from one another, including members of the opposite sex. We believe that quantum leaps can be made in recovery by listening to one another, and I would never, ever, ever, wanna take that away from any of you. But, for your safety and the safety of your fellow patients, there shall be no touching, flirting, petting, hugging, kissing, or anything even remotely close to it. If one of your fellow patients is going through some trauma, please do not be a shoulder for them to cry on. Give them a tissue and let your counselor know that someone is having a problem. Let the counselors handle it. They are the professionals. That goes back to respect for the staff.”

  He pointed back up to the word STAFF.

  “You are here to learn about your disease and work on your own personal recovery. You are not here to work on each other’s recovery. Each and every one of you is sick. Some are sicker than others, but we’ve all got to work on our own personal recovery. And under no circumstance, should the men be on the women’s floor and the women on the men’s floor. In fact, no one should be upstairs during the day at all, unless you have first gotten your counselor’s permission. If you are caught upstairs, where you aren’t supposed to be, without your counselor’s approval, you will be asked to leave Sanctuary. No refund. You will be kicked out of here faster than you can zip up your jeans and put your thingy back where it belongs. Then you can explain to your family why you wasted their money and abused their trust just so you could satisfy a little tingling in your loins. Are there any questions about this?”

  He paused and waited for any questions, but no one’s hand went up.

  “No questions?” he said. “Going once…twice…okay, gone. Thank you for your time everybody and I will see you back here after lunch for your break-out groups.” Dexter smiled and pulled on his double-breasted jacket then trotted up the steps and disappeared into the kitchen. The patients all stood up and pulled on their winter coats and beanies then wandered out the door onto the back porch.

  Dave let out a groan then leaned forward and stacked up his empty cups of coffee. “Well kid,” he said, as he pulled his right leg out in front of him, “I guess we’re outta luck. It sounds like we’re not gonna get to do too much fooling around in here. That sucks. There sure are a lot of good-looking girls in here. Did you see that one up there who was reading? What was her name, Jenny?” He drew out a long whistle. “She was pretty cute, wasn’t she?”

  “I guess.”

  “Hell yeah she was. Better be careful though. I bet most of these girls in here are nut jobs.” Dave smirked and reached into his jacket pocket then pulled out his lighter and a pack of cigarettes. “Come on,” he said to Monty, “let’s go get a smoke.”

  “I don’t smoke.”

  “You’re shittin’ me. You don’t smoke?”

  “Nope.”

  “Shit, you’re probably the only one in here who doesn’t.”

  “Yeah, I know. I usually am.”

  “Well, good for you.” Dave patted him on the shoulder. “Shit’s bad for you. Come on outside with me anyway. I don’t wanna be alone with these fucking whac
kos.”

  “What the hell.” Monty pushed himself up and struggled into his black jacket then followed Dave across the meeting hall and out onto the back porch. The sun was out and the snow was melting, turning the yard into a giant, vanilla Slurpee.

  “Hey, look at that,” Dave said, pointing across the yard. “It looks like it’s actually starting to warm up for a change.”

  “Yeah, finally. I can’t stand this cold.”

  “Ah, it’s not that bad once you get used to it. So, where you wanna sit?”

  Monty shrugged. “I don’t care.”

  “How ‘bout up there?”

  Monty looked to where Dave was pointing. There was a small, white veranda looking out over the backyard picnic tables. “You think we’re allowed to go up there?”

  “I don’t see why not. Come on, let’s check it out.”

  “Okay.”

  They walked through the backyard and ascended the spiral staircase. The steps were icy and a bit narrow. Monty had to concentrate. He was still a little woozy from all those Benzos.

  When he got to the top, he went to the railing and looked out over the stretch of snow-covered forest. There was nothing but miles and miles of evergreens in every direction—it looked like something out of a Robert Frost poem. No towns, no cars, no bars, no traffic…no drugs, no dealers, no liquor stores, no nothing. He took a deep breath and placed his hands on the railing then closed his eyes and soaked in the warm sun. “It’s nice up here.”

  “Yeah, it sure beats being down there with all those nut jobs.”

  Monty opened his eyes then turned away from the railing. Dave was sitting at a glass table underneath the house’s overhang. “You wanna sit down?” he said, as he lit his cigarette then took a drag and let the smoke curl away from his lips.

  “Sure.”

  Monty pulled up a chair and sat down next to him. The seat was wet from the snow melting and dripping off the overhang.

  “Careful,” Dave said. “It’s a little wet.”