11/27/23
Newsletter #519
The Crack of Dawn
I have tried, without complete success, to avoid the subjects of politics and addiction in this newsletter because they are extremely well-covered in many other places. Nevertheless, here’s an absurd drunk story.
I don’t know if most non-alcoholics know about this – I certainly didn’t before I began to drink heavily, at the age of 46 – but if you’re drinking hard and heavy all the time, occasionally you manage to drink yourself into a coma. I believe that it’s alcohol poisoning. Not only did several people find me in this condition, call an ambulance, and have me taken to the hospital, but once I could feel that it was about to happen and called the ambulance myself. Although my memory during this period is a tad foggy, I think this little ritual occurred to me four times in 14 years of drinking – from the ages of 46 to 60.
Just as a note to anyone who might be considering quitting alcohol, since I stopped drinking on January 3, 2020, I have written more than at any previous time in my life. I’m not attesting to the quality of the writing, only the volume. So, if you’re searching for some kind of clear numerical proof that human brains function more efficiently without alcohol, there it is. This silly newsletter is just about to reach 1,000 pages, single-spaced (with pictures), which is 430,000 words. The length of the book, Gone With the Wind. I may not have anything to say, but I’m using a lot of words to not say it.
OK. Whenever the hell this was, maybe eight years ago, I drank myself into McLaren Hospital right near here in downtown Pontiac. All I know is an ambulance took me there. I would assume that this particular malady of over-drinking is occurring in emergency rooms all over the world at this very second. They run some IVs into your arms, give you some drugs, strap you to a gurney and push you off to the side. You are now at the bottom of the triage list and they’re not even going to think about you for at least a few hours. This put me in the unenviable position of getting to watch an inner-city emergency room function all night long – four times – as I went in and out of consciousness. And the strapped-down, dumbass drunk, can always be moved anywhere, except to a room. They never admitted me, and I’m sure they never admit any of the other drunks. Then after about 6-8 hours, when I appeared reasonably sober, they let me go.
Except this one time when they demanded that I call somebody and have them pick me up. That didn’t seem like an absurd request, except that I didn’t have my cell phone, and without that I didn’t have anybody’s phone number. And they wouldn’t let me go. Oh, by the way, there is no such thing as “information” on phones anymore, so you can’t get anyone’s number, nor is anyone’s number listed in any kind of phone book. Yet these doctors and nurses were demanding of me – a 60-year-old, gray-haired, drunk, strapped down to a gurney having just O.D.ed on booze – that I must remember somebody’s phone number. They stubbornly stuck to this position. Hours went by. Day became night. What the fuck? Was this some new form of hell? Nobody remembers phone numbers anymore, particularly alcoholics.
But I was backed into a corner. All I could remember was that my family’s home phone number was 851-3132. We also had 851-3133, which was my dad’s business line. And then I remembered that the Raimi’s phone number was 851-3533. Whenever the hell this happened, eight years ago, both Mr. and Mrs. Raimi were still alive and still living in the same house around the corner from where I grew up. So I called them.
It wasn’t late, but it was dark. Mr. Raimi, Larry, answered the phone. I said something along the lines of, “Hello, Mr. Raimi, it’s Josh.” He hollered out to his wife, Celia, “Celia. It’s Josh.” Celia called out, Hello, Josh.” Then Larry said to me, “Josh old boy, it’s good to hear your voice.” I said, “Yes, well, I need you to do me a favor and pick me up at McLaren Hospital in downtown Pontiac.” Then I, of course, had to explain how I’d gotten there, and how it came to be that I had called them. Thankfully, both of them found it highly amusing and said that they would be right over to get me. Larry did remind me that, “We’re in our late-80s and we can’t see or hear anything.”
Somehow, Mr. and Mrs. Raimi did make it to the hospital, and they got me released. It was night. Sadly, however, I now found that I didn’t have my glasses, either (the ambulance personnel don’t pick up your shit for you). This made seeing anything more than 3-4 feet away difficult. Then began the long, long drive home, in their van. Larry was driving, very, very slowly, as Celia yelled at him from the passenger seat. I was in the back, now sadly sober, with a headache, and half-blind. It’s only a mile from McLaren Hospital to my house, but it took an hour, or what seemed like an hour. Once we were in my neighborhood, none of the three of us could see well enough to actually get us to my house.
I finally had to say, “Larry, just stop.” He stopped. I said, “I’ll find my house. Can you two find your way home?” Larry assured me that he could. I got out of the van, and off they slowly drove into the night.
I was just a few blocks from my house and had no trouble finding it once I was out of the van. I had no doubt that Larry and Celia would find their way back to their own house, as they had innumerable times before, and apparently, they did.
That really happened.
Mr. and Mrs. Raimi were lovely people. They were my other parents around the block, the ones who encouraged me. What is your first language?
It's a very touching anecdote. I had a few setbacks with that in my youth and it's very lonely when you end up in hospital for that reason. It makes me want to hug you...it's silly, I know. Anyway, Mr and Mrs Raimi must have been really lovely people. English not being my first language, I hope I haven't made too many mistakes. Take care :)