The detox center was at the intersection of 13th and Island, right next to the trolley tracks. This was a seedy part of San Diego, but I was a seedy individual. Sam, a short, powerfully built man, about 60 years old, signed the necessary admission forms.
“Okay, do you go by Robert, Bob, or what?”
“Rob,” I said.
“OK, Rob. This place is pretty unique. Some people come here voluntarily for a three-day detox. Like you. If you’re lucky, you get one of the rooms. Each has four beds, but there are...
It was Friday morning, and I’d been out of the intensive care unit since Wednesday. Once again, I’d mixed my psych meds with a fifth of vodka and several beers and wound up back in the ICU, tethered to a ventilator. To my mind, it wasn’t technically a suicide attempt; it was just another case of let’s do this and see what happens.
Since I came off the ventilator and arrived in the psych ward, I’d endured the typical, albeit extremely uncomfortable, symptoms of alcohol detox. For the last few...