I am suffering. The withdrawals from drinking listerine are excruciating. My blood pressure dropped to the lowest it has been and my breaths are short as well as rapid. I can’t breathe. The stomach pains weaken me to the point of moving around becomes almost impossible. I awake throughout the night. Nurses come and go keeping an eye on me. Occasionally I crawl to the bathroom to find my porcelain friend and throw up some more. The pain…unbearable. I lay on the cold tiles of the bathroom and grasp onto the shower curtain in an attempt to get warm. I weep. “Meds!” I yell. My roommate Joyce who is withdrawing from coke understands my torment and rushes into the bathroom. “Hey, you alright in there?” She asks. “Help…I need meds” I whimper. “I’ll go get a nurse…I need to get me some meds too” Joyce replies with her thick Rhode Island accent.
As she leaves I keep whispering to myself my son’s name over and over again. I wonder, in that moment, what kind of mother does Jonah think I am. I am going against everything I believed a good mother should be. I wanted to be that role model mother. Show him to right way and set a good example but, alas, I am failing. I hope someday he will understand why mommy was sick. I pray that he’ll comprehend that I have a disease. And this disease, this alcoholism, it’s killing me. A thought crosses my mind…maybe Jonah will be better off. But no…not this time. No pity party. Time to tighten my boot straps and walk into recovery. For Jonah.
A nurse returns. She helps me off the bathroom floor and gets me back into bed. Of course I am given my withdrawal medicine and the pain dissipates. I thank her repeatedly. As I drift off to sleep I am filled with motivation. I’m going to get better this time…Right?