by Sierra Hill
Ainsley held out her arms and guided me over to the block of seats lining the wall.
“I’m just going to come right out and tell you this. I’m sorry to be the messenger and I want you to know I adamantly disagree with his decision. But Lance…he, um…he doesn’t think seeing you is a good idea right now…for either of you.”
Something in my brain doesn’t compute what she’s saying. I try to get up and walk toward his door, but Carver’s tall, imposing form blocks me and he shakes his head. It’s a protective gesture, but I don’t know who he’s trying to protect. Me or his best friend.
I look over my shoulder at Ainsley again and she pats the chair beside her.
“No,” I whisper. “This doesn’t make sense. I need to be with him! Why would he do this to me?”
Ainsley stands and wraps me in a hug. My tears fall down my face and soak her hair.
“Shh, it’s okay, Mica. Just give him some time. He’ll come around, I’m sure of it. But right now, he needs to get help. He’s going to check into a rehab program. While it’s voluntary, it’s also a requirement laid out by his coaches if he wants to remain on the team.”
Ainsley then escorts me out of the hospital and we drive to her house. The drive over is a blur and I now sit on her couch, wrapped in a blanket; wet, used tissues balled up on the floor around me making it look like it snowed. I sniff and rub my eyes, red and stinging from all the tears I’ve shed.
“I don’t understand why I can’t see him. He must know how much I love him and want to be there for him.”
The tough part about all of this is that Ainsley and I have studied addictions and the affects they have on users in our nursing program. I know the signs of addiction and yet none of that clicked with me the closer I got to Lance.
It’s exactly as they say it is. Something can be right under your nose and you can’t see it. You’re blinded by love. Misdirected by the addict’s will and need to manipulate the one’s that love them into believing the lies. And I fell for it while falling for him.
Obviously, I knew he liked to drink and party. I’d witnessed that over the last year, as did all his friends. And I had the niggling feeling that he was hiding something from me, but I had no idea it was an addiction. That he was covering it up from me. From everyone.
I should’ve seen the signs. Noticed how he’d become sullen and down over the last month or so. It was this roller coaster of emotion. He’d be happy and light-hearted one day and the next be moody and almost anxious.
And I was blind to it all. I thought it was just his nerves over starting his final year of school and basketball.
I’m so angry with myself for being so oblivious. Why didn’t I notice the changes in his behavior?
The man I love is an addict. Was depressed. Was hurting and I did nothing to help him.
I’m a shit girlfriend.
It’s obvious why he doesn’t want to see me or talk to me. I let him down. I lied to myself and he lied to me about what was going on. It was smoke and mirrors. A house of cards.
And now he’s checked into a rehab program and I’m alone with the knowledge that he probably hates me.
“Mica, you know he loves you. He just needs time to heal and deal with this. It’s life altering.”
I shake my head. “He never said he loved me. I mean nothing to him.”
Ainsley scoots next to me on the couch and places a hand on my leg.
“Don’t you dare do that to yourself. We all know he is head over heels for you. And maybe he didn’t say it outright, but we saw it. He does love you. And if I had to make a guess, he’s trying to protect you from whatever he’s going through right now. I’m sure of it.”
My eyes latch onto hers, searching for the truth. “Do you know what happened exactly? Did he tell Cade?”
She sighs. “He may have told Cade, but I don’t know any more than what I told you. I’m sorry, honey. I know this is so hard and unfair to you. But maybe you just need to give him time and space for him to get clean and deal with whatever he’s burdened with.”
I know she’s right. He does need to get well. To get clean and sober. To figure things out. I know it must be hard and he’s in a bad place right now.
But I’m scared.
Scared of what will happen to us. Scared of losing him. Scared of the ‘what ifs.’
What if during rehab he decides I’m not good for him anymore? Or he meets someone else who understands him better than me.
It’s not unheard of when spouses or partners return from rehab for them to look at their lives differently. The changes they need to make are not just within themselves, but who they have around them
The way he’s pushed me away indicates he’s already made up his mind about me and our relationship. And while it crushes me to know he doesn’t want to see me and I may never again get to be with him, it’s still a beautiful miracle that he’s still alive. I’m so thankful for that.
That night, when Lance OD’d, and I called and heard all the commotion in the background, I was inconsolable. Thank God someone at the party had the wherewithal to call an ambulance and get him to the hospital. I can’t even imagine the possibility of what might have happened if they had left him there to die.
From Cade’s account, the hospital administrative staff called Lance’s emergency contact, which still happened to be his father. I know their relationship is strained and estranged, but at least his dad made sure Lance got the medical attention he needed. Mr. Britton then called Cade to let him know what was going on.
Whatever secrets Lance has harbored about his past and the estrangement that exists between he and his father, I hope he’ll find a way to deal with it through counseling. He’ll need someone to equip him with better coping mechanisms, so he doesn’t fall back into drugs and alcohol when he’s out of rehab.
Ainsley and I sit on the couch and talk for a while until we hear the door open and Cade steps in looking haggard and defeated.
“Hey babe,” Ainsley greets, as he walks over and places a chaste kiss on the top of her head.
Cade scrubs a hand over his face. I’m sure he hasn’t gotten much sleep between work and being at the hospital the last three days.
“How’d it go?”
He sits down on the edge of the coffee table, bending at the waist and places his elbows on his knees, chin in his hand.
“They got him checked into the rehab center. He didn’t say much, which worries me. But then again, he’s going through detox and was in rough shape there for a while.”
Through our nursing program courses, I’m very familiar with the effects of withdrawal on a body and the excruciating pain and agony that opiate addicts experience when they quit. The medical staff constantly monitor their vitals and pain levels to manage the process.
Withdrawal from pain killers generally starts with body sweats, fevers, chills, and flu-like symptoms such as vomiting and diarrhea. Depending on the level of detox required, they may also administer some medications to help ease the transition to avoid the cold-turkey health risks such as heart attack or organ shut-downs.
I cringe internally, praying that Lance didn’t get to that level of discomfort. God, my heart hurts for him and I wish I could be there to offer my support
But he doesn’t want you there.
Fearful of the answer I might get, but having to know, I finally get up the nerve to ask Cade the question that’s been on my mind all day.
“Do you think he’ll stay in rehab? Does he want to get better?”
Regardless of our broken relationship status, I still love Lance and want him to get well. This is only the first step in what I’m sure will be a long road to recovery and sobriety.
Cade shrugs, his broad shoulders indicating a true uncertainty about his friend’s position.
“This is so fucked up,” he laments, running his hand through his hair. “I feel like we’ve failed him. He wouldn’t be in this position had we noticed and done something about it sooner.
We could have prevented this whole thing if we’d been better friends to him. He wouldn’t be where he’s at now if we’d done something.”
He stands suddenly and paces the floor, as Ainsley and I exchange worried looks. We know Carver and Cade are beating themselves up for not seeing Lance’s addictive behaviors, just like me.
It’s easy to punish ourselves for our negligence and to forget that we’re not responsible for the choices Lance made.
Ainsley stands up and encircles her arms around Cade’s back. “Baby, none of us did. We couldn’t have known. Plus, he got drug tested pre-season, didn’t they? How did they not catch it?”
Cade shakes his head as if it’s a mystery to him, too.
She continues to offer him soothing words to placate him, while I interrogate myself in my head.
Why didn’t you see it? Why didn’t you say something? You had a gut feeling, but were too scared to speak up. You were afraid to lose him and now you’ve gone and done it anyway.
I’m sobbing loudly and don’t even realize it until Ainsley is holding me and rocking me in her arms.
“It’s not your fault either, Mica,” she coos, gently running a hand down my head and stroking my hair. “It’s nobody’s fault. So, let’s move past the blame game and figure out how best to help him when he returns. We are going to need to change some things, too.”
She’s right. I know she is. But it still doesn’t help matters that I overlooked so many things because I was blinded by love.
My mother was right all along. I wasn’t meant to be with Lance.
27
Lance
Three months later
I keep having the same recurring dream.
The sunshine is bright, reflecting off the water. All I see is the shape of someone, a woman. Long dark hair flows down her back. She’s holding a child in her arms. Even though I can’t see her face, I know she’s smiling.
And I know it’s because her life is good and the way it’s meant to be. I’m not in her life to ruin it for her.
It doesn’t take a rocket scientist or Freud to deduct that the dream is about Mica and her future. It doesn’t make it any easier, but I know I’ve done the right thing by keeping my distance from her.
A lot has happened since I went through my harrowing life and death experience and got clean. It hasn’t been easy. Not one single part of it has been easy. Sometimes I look back at those first three days of detox and it seems like a breeze compared to my itchy desire to get high that I deal with every single day.
My doctors and therapists, and other addicts in NA all tell me that the need may never go away but will lessen over time. And that on days where it consumes my thoughts, I need to focus on my future and the way I want my life to be; and attend a meeting or call my sponsor.
Today, that need has mellowed to a dull, chronic ache and isn’t as sharp as it was back then.
Sometimes it feels like I’m floating up on the top of the ocean and that itchy need to get high is the sand beneath my feet. I feel its presence around me, but it doesn’t have to consume me.
All I know is that I don’t ever want to sink back to the bottom again of the amount of effort it takes to continue floating on the top is exhausting, but it’s a much better existence. There’s more freedom and beauty in life when I’m up on the surface and not drowning with the habitual need to get wasted.
My only regret – well, I have many regrets – but the biggest is that I had to let Mica go. I constantly remind myself that it was for her own good. But in all honesty, it was for myself, too.
I haven’t seen Mica in over ninety days. Haven’t spoken to her or texted with her. Haven’t witnessed that beautiful and playful smile of hers that lights her up like a Goddess.
It kills me to keep my distance, but it’s the only way I know how to deal with all the shit eating me up inside and staying sober one day at a time. I know I couldn’t be good for her in the state of chaos I’ve been in.
My counselor advised me that it’s best to deal with my demons first, work through the steps of the program and get myself right before I try to forge ahead in any relationship.
That doesn’t mean I don’t miss her every single moment of the day or dream about her at night. I fell in love with her.
But rehab taught me that I need to learn to love myself first, before I can love someone else.
I know I hurt her in more ways than one. I have read and reread all the letters she sent me while I was in rehab, each one ripping my heart out word by word. For twenty-eight-days I cherished Mica’s written words.
She kept me up-to-date on her life, what was going on with school, her family, her schedule. Nothing out of the ordinary but she did mention updates about Ainsley and their wedding dress shopping and working out details for their upcoming wedding.
I want so badly to ask her to be my date to the wedding, which is only three months from now. But I’m scared. Worried that I won’t be strong enough yet. Worried she won’t want me anymore. Worried she’ll find someone else to love.
Of course, I’ve asked Cade how she’s doing. I’m relieved to hear she’s currently single, and finally told her family that she wouldn’t marry Alberto. Thank God for that.
Even if I can’t have her, and she deserves someone better than a recovering addict, I still don’t want to think about her marrying a guy like Alberto.
I smile as I can envision my sweet angel going off on a rampage in Spanish, her words flying fast and furious, as she tells her family off. That little pipsqueak can really pack a punch and is a fiery hell-on-wheels girl when she wants to be.
God, I miss her. I miss her so much.
My heart aches constantly for her. The need to hold her in my arms is so great. To touch her. Feel her warm embrace. To be buried deep inside her where everything is right in the world.
My memories are littered with all the moments we were together. All the playful flirting we did as friends, when she was keeping her distance from me. All the times in bed together, her body laid out before me, open to me; so beautiful and filled with promise.
And I broke every promise I made to her.
It’s a far climb back to the top when you’ve hit rock bottom. I’ve had to work had at earning back the trust I’d lost from everyone close to me, starting with my team and coaches.
When I was in the hospital right after the incident, Head Coach Welby and Assistant Coach Parker gave me an ultimatum. I could remain on the team and finish out the year on the bench, with maybe some play if we made it to the championships, if and only if, I voluntarily checked into rehab and committed to weekly drug testing afterwards.
It was no easy decision, but I wasn’t going to let my college basketball career go down the drain over drugs. Just yesterday, Coach Parker and I were talking after a pretty grueling practice.
“I’m really proud of you, Britton,” he said, clasping me on the shoulder with his wide palm. “You’ve made a comeback that many people don’t make. You’ve worked hard, and I know it’s gotta suck watching from the sidelines and not being able to play during games. But I’ve seen your leadership blossom from the bench and you’ve been a great mentor to the younger guys.”
I think I actually blushed at his compliment, which is something I’ve never done before.
“Thanks, Coach. Thanks for giving me the opportunity to do it.”
He flicks his hand. “Didn’t give you anything you weren’t ready for. You’ve earned it.”
Looking back, I realize that I needed someone outside my circle of friends to tell me they saw the good in me, because it never came from my dad. It was something missing in my life for years and I hadn’t realized how much it affected my self-confidence and self-worth.
It’s going to be a long road, but one I’m now equipped to travel with the tools my new counselor has provided me. Coach Parker is the one who referred me to Dr. Carson.
Coach Parker is one of the first people I apologized to during my NA recovery steps
. I’ve slowly been working my way through the list and I’m now ready to talk to Mica, having checked off all my close friends over the last three months. Whether she wants to hear from me at this point is another story, but I can’t let that stop me.
With shaky hands, I pick up the phone and dial her number.
The phone rings twice and then her sweet voice fills my ear.
“Hola?”
She greets me in Spanish, which tells me she’s either too busy to check the phone display or she’s deleted my number from her contacts. Maybe I’m now just an Unknown number to her.
I clear my throat, swallowing down the emotion blocking my airwaves. A frisson of worry runs through my blood stream and I can scarcely breathe.
“Mica, it’s me. Lance.”
A gasp.
Then silence.
I expect her to hang up, but she doesn’t. I thank God she doesn’t.
“Hi,” she says, her voice tremulous. But it’s hard to interpret what she feels about me calling after all this time. After all that’s happened.
“How are you?”
Dumb thing to ask, but I don’t know how else to start the conversation. I’ve practiced it a thousand times and it all sounds stupid to my own ears.
“Estoy bien,” she responds in Spanish, leading me to wonder if this is her mechanism to keep things civil. To create a barrier between us again. To hold me at a distance, even though I understand what she says.
“That’s good. I’m glad to hear it,” I take a cleansing breath and continue. “Mica, lo siento. I’m so sorry. I need to talk to you. To see you. I need to explain and tell you in person how sorry I am for everything I’ve put you through. Can I see you?”
I expect her to say no. To tell me to fuck off for hurting her and not responding to any of her letters. For cutting her off and out of my life completely.
But instead, she does what only Mica would do.
“Of course. I had hoped…” There’s a hiccup on the other end of the line and I wonder if she’s crying. She sounds so dubious.
Fuck, I’ve made her cry.
