BURNED - Living Through the 80s and 90s as a Rock Guitarist

by Bobby DeVito

  I remember waking up in my hospital room in a drug-induced haze. I could hear voices from across the room, and two doctors were conferring on my case. They thought I was still unconscious, and I strained my eyes to try and see the two of them. As they began to appear in a blurred image, I heard one of the doctors say to the other one “What a DUMBASS!”

  Yep, I thought. He was completely right. I was a dumbass, and now look where I had ended up – in the hospital paralyzed and near death. All this from one night of “research and development”.

  As the days passed, it was becoming very apparent to me that these were indeed some serious consequences. My right arm continued to be completely paralyzed and useless. I was facing a life of not being able to play guitar ever again. Luckily for me, I was prescribed an Ativan shot PRN (as needed) every four hours. I had it down pat, and the nurses station knew they would be receiving my call on that fourth hour for my shot. That kept me in a somewhat pleasant daze, but could not entirely mask out the reality of my situation. I spoke to the neurologist and neurosurgeon that were my doctors, and their prognosis was very iffy. They told me I had about a 50/50 shot that my arm would work again in the future. There had been a severe stroke in my brain, an explosion of too much blood pressure rupturing arteries and spreading blood throughout a section of my left lobe.

  Friends came to see me, including members of my AA men’s group, who were stunned to see me in that condition. And that’s one of the benefits of being a member – you get to see the other members screw up, and it reminds you that you don’t want to make the same mistakes. Jen called me and chewed me out, saying that she was going to keep me out of my daughter’s life and that she never wanted to see me again, sinking me into an even deeper depression. There seemed to be no light at the end of this tunnel. My only respite during this part of my ideal was once again a very cute RN who spent a lot of time with me during her shifts at the hospital. But even with her friendship and attentions, I was sinking deeper into a pit of despondency. What if I was never able to play guitar again? Would I be an invalid for life? How could I possibly bounce back from this screwup? I was tortured for weeks trying to recover, and eventually the doctors told me that they had done everything they could do, and it was up to my body and whatever God I believed in as to whether I would recover.

  One night I could not seem to sleep, and tossed and turned until 3 am that morning. Something was not letting me sleep, and I finally arose and walked the halls of the hospital late at night. I love the quiet and sterile environment of a hospital ward late at night, when the nurses are huddled at their stations watching the glowing screens of the monitoring equipment while the patients sleep through another night. Somehow, I had made my way down to the first floor of the hospital and came face to face with the door to the chapel.

  It had been a long time since I had been in a church for spiritual reasons. I had basically denounced Christianity as a young man, and studied as many other world religions as I could. I had spent a great deal of time within the Buddhist faith, and had done a decade’s worth of work and study in the occult arts. But with all my studies and all my experiences, I was faced with a situation that only a power greater than myself could cure. I entered the door quietly, checking both ways down the hall to see if anyone was watching me. The small chapel at Hollywood Memorial has 6 rows of small pews, and a small altar in a very non-denominational style. At first I merely sat with my head down at one of the pews, and meditated upon my situation. Paralyzed from a drug overdose, I couldn’t even hold my head in my hands. I felt like I had truly reached the bottom, and could go no further other than death. I was led to kneel down at the altar, and I remembered my experience at the church in San Severino Italy years before. As I bended my knees, I felt the presence of that strong brilliant white light, although it was much more attenuated this time. I attempted to clasp my hands together to pray, and I remember laughing at my feeble attempts to hold up my paralyzed arm. I began to pray, and thanked God for all the great things he had done for me, the gifts he had given me, and all of the previous stuff he had gotten me through. I begged for another chance, a chance to recover and be whole again. Tears streamed down the side of my face, as I prayed like I have never prayed before. I apologized for making the mistakes I had made, which were many. And I asked for one more chance to make it through.

  After a couple of house there in the chapel, day was breaking and I stumbled back to my room on the sixth floor. I felt that I had just experienced another touch of the divine, but nothing had changed – my arm was still dead, and I was still in the hospital. I knew my prayer had been heard, but id not know if it would be answered. I made up my mind then and there that I would radically change my life if I was given another chance.

  I still managed to drag my IV tower, head down the elevator 6 floors, and walk all the way to the smoking area in my condition. It was a sad sight to see all the patients like myself putting forth such Herculean efforts just to go smoke cigarettes outside in the small garden area that has been disdainfully provided by the hospital. I would make my way down, sit on a bench, and watch the disapproving doctors stroll by. But I was at a standstill, and did not know what to do. The doctors had exhausted all of their possibilities for my recovery, barring major brain surgery. And they were getting ready to send me home, as an invalid. I made the mistake of confiding in one of the nurses that I felt lost, and that I thought I had no reason to live if I could not play guitar anymore and was to be paralyzed for the rest of my life. “I should just go ahead and end it as soon as possible”, I said to her as she checked my chart. Within 10 minutes, I was greeted by a special group of nurses and aides from the “Behavioral Health” section of the hospital. “Behavioral Health” is a very nice way of saying Mental Ward. I was quickly ushered into a wheelchair and taken to a separate secured building on hospital grounds. One again, I was led into a locked down facility, and all of my things were confiscated. I was somehow able to conceal my cellphone and a pack of cigarettes and a lighter in a deft move I made transferring them to a bag that had already gone through the search process. After processing and a whole new set of paperwork, I was locked up in the mental ward and given a shared room with a sleeping older male room mate. This is just classic, I thought to myself. Now I have finally ended up in the mental ward. My sister and I had always been fascinated with mental wards when we were younger, and had tried to get into them at hospitals we had visited when our mother or one of our relatives were in the hospital. And now I finally got to see one from the inside. I can check THAT off on my list of things to do in this life finally. My first day in the mental ward was a daze. They had stuffed me full of pills, but had stopped with the every 4 hour Ativan shot, and I was experiencing some serious withdrawals from that.The ward was populated with all sorts of cases; from serious criminally insane people on their way to the state mental hospital, to sad suicide victims and alzheimer’s patients. Life in the mental ward reminded me quite a lot of kindergarten. We started our day with breakfast, then would have a very rudimentary group counseling session. Then we would have art class, where we would “draw our feelings”. That exercise brought some rather disturbing artworks out of some of the residents. We would have lunch, then be let go to watch TV in the group room, and eat cookies and drink juice out of boxes before our afternoon nap. I spent much of my free time in my room alone, as I was somewhat afraid of being around some of the other mental patients. I had really done it this time, here I was locked up with some of the craziest and most dangerous people around. How had I become one of them?

  Bob G arrived the second day I was in the ward, and he brought me some clothes. He immediately burst out in laughter when he saw me, saying “well, you’ve really done it now!”. We sat for a couple of hours in the group room, talking about how crazy it was that I was in there. “But of course, you EARNED your way here” said Bob. “They usually don’t let you into this club unless you deserve it”.

  I had to admit he was right. Look
ing at my surroundings, I had truly reached the lowest point of my life, paralyzed and crazy locked up in a mental ward. And what’s worse, I was locked up the week of my birthday!

  Life in the ward was pretty routine. The only outside contact I had was with a beautiful young occupational therapist that was sent in from the hospital to work with me on my arm. I began to work hard at doing the simple exercises she taught me. My fingers still miraculously worked, but my arm was still dead and just hung there like an Italian sausage in a meat market window. I persevered with the exercises, doing them as much as I could during the boring days in the ward.There was very little sunlight that entered the ward, but we did have a small caged in porch that we were allowed to visit for one hour a day.

  On September 15th, I had a meeting with my psychologist. He was a large round island man, with a huge smile and a big bald head. We discussed my case and progress, and I knew that I was at the end of the time that he could legally hold me at the facility. I wanted out of there, and I wanted it that very day. He wanted me to stay for another couple of weeks to keep me under observation, but I was insistent. “Look, Dr. Peon”, I pleaded. “It’s my birthday, and I want to watch Monday Night Football at my apartment watching my TV sitting on my futon. PLEASE let me out, I promise I won’t hurt myself ”.

  He looked at me intently, and said “Robert, it’s up to you. You can leave today if you wish, and I will set up some follow-up appointments for you. Just please promise me you will follow my after-care instructions, and will stay away from drugs”

  I assured him that I would, and the staff processed me to leave. Bob G came to pick me up, and he took me back to my apartment. I had not been back there since the morning I had left for the ER. The place looked like a hurricane had hit it, things were all over the place. I noticed the baggie from the cocaine that had out me in the hospital, an immediately threw it away. I spent some time that day trying to clean up the place, and settled down to finally watch my football game.

  Later that week, I started attending an outpatient occupational therapy program sponsored by the hospital. It was slow going, but my arm had started to come alive again my last day at the mental ward. Within a month, I was able to use it more regularly, and I saw steady improvement with the therapy. At the end of my therapy, I was able to bring in my guitar and play and sing for the staff at the facility. And it was miraculous, I had been granted the use of my arm again. My brain had healed itself slowly, and I was able to play again. My prayers had indeed been answered, and here I was being given yet another chance at life. It was a life-changing experience for me, and any words I try to use make it seem more trite than it was.

  The hospital had sent me a bill for nearly $40,000. I had received a lot of medical care, and had absolutely no insurance of any kind. That’s one of the typical risks of the music biz – you are basically on your own. After some paperwork and some meetings with the hospital staff, they decided to forego the hospital bill and give me the care free as an indigent case. I was quite impressed with the care I had been given at the hospital, and immediately decided to work there a few days a week as a volunteer. I wanted to try and at least pay them back something for saving my life, and I ended up working in Radiology and in the hospital library for a few months. It was a great experience, and I loved being around the staff and patients. I considered going back to college and getting my RN degree, but did not look forward to three more years of college. So, I continued to volunteer at the hospital, and recovered one day at a time.

  Of course, the guys from my men’s meeting gave me an idiot’s welcome when I finally got back to the meeting. They had all been briefed on my progress, and one of the amazing things was this – when I was in the mental ward in a drug-induced stupor, I noticed a familiar face among the orderlies. This face came over to me, looked me in the eyes, and said “remember me?” It was my friend Scott from the men’s meeting. It’s funny how this recovery stuff works.

  ePiLoGue

  This was all written in Key West, where I was performing solo acoustic for a few years during 2003-2005. At the urging of fellow author Randy Wayne White, I decided to finally release this book.

  I continue to write, play music for a living, and have great fun doing demos of effects pedals.

  I am always willing to talk or chat with other people who are going through the things I have in life.

  My music continues to sell well at Magnatune.com

  Magnatune.com/artists/Stargarden Magnatune.com/artists/lvxnova

  I am also quite active on facebook and twitter:

  @bobbydevito

  rrdevitojr@gmail.com